"DUBLINERS\n\nBy James Joyce\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n     The Sisters\n     An Encounter\n     Araby\n     Eveline\n     After the Race\n     Two Gallants\n     The Boarding House\n     A Little Cloud\n     Counterparts\n     Clay\n     A Painful Case\n     Ivy Day in the Committee Room\n     A Mother\n     Grace\n     The Dead\n\n\n\n\nDUBLINERS\n\n\n\n\nTHE SISTERS\n\nTHERE was no hope for him this time: it was the third stroke. Night\nafter night I had passed the house (it was vacation time) and studied\nthe lighted square of window: and night after night I had found it\nlighted in the same way, faintly and evenly. If he was dead, I thought,\nI would see the reflection of candles on the darkened blind for I knew\nthat two candles must be set at the head of a corpse. He had often said\nto me: \"I am not long for this world,\" and I had thought his words idle.\nNow I knew they were true. Every night as I gazed up at the window\nI said softly to myself the word paralysis. It had always sounded\nstrangely in my ears, like the word gnomon in the Euclid and the word\nsimony in the Catechism. But now it sounded to me like the name of some\nmaleficent and sinful being. It filled me with fear, and yet I longed to\nbe nearer to it and to look upon its deadly work.\n\nOld Cotter was sitting at the fire, smoking, when I came downstairs\nto supper. While my aunt was ladling out my stirabout he said, as if\nreturning to some former remark of his:\n\n\"No, I wouldn't say he was exactly... but there was something queer...\nthere was something uncanny about him. I'll tell you my opinion....\"\n\nHe began to puff at his pipe, no doubt arranging his opinion in his\nmind. Tiresome old fool! When we knew him first he used to be rather\ninteresting, talking of faints and worms; but I soon grew tired of him\nand his endless stories about the distillery.\n\n\"I have my own theory about it,\" he said. \"I think it was one of\nthose... peculiar cases.... But it's hard to say....\"\n\nHe began to puff again at his pipe without giving us his theory. My\nuncle saw me staring and said to me:\n\n\"Well, so your old friend is gone, you'll be sorry to hear.\"\n\n\"Who?\" said I.\n\n\"Father Flynn.\"\n\n\"Is he dead?\"\n\n\"Mr. Cotter here has just told us. He was passing by the house.\"\n\nI knew that I was under observation so I continued eating as if the news\nhad not interested me. My uncle explained to old Cotter.\n\n\"The youngster and he were great friends. The old chap taught him a\ngreat deal, mind you; and they say he had a great wish for him.\"\n\n\"God have mercy on his soul,\" said my aunt piously.\n\nOld Cotter looked at me for a while. I felt that his little beady black\neyes were examining me but I would not satisfy him by looking up from my\nplate. He returned to his pipe and finally spat rudely into the grate.\n\n\"I wouldn't like children of mine,\" he said, \"to have too much to say to\na man like that.\"\n\n\"How do you mean, Mr. Cotter?\" asked my aunt.\n\n\"What I mean is,\" said old Cotter, \"it's bad for children. My idea is:\nlet a young lad run about and play with young lads of his own age and\nnot be... Am I right, Jack?\"\n\n\"That's my principle, too,\" said my uncle. \"Let him learn to box his\ncorner. That's what I'm always saying to that Rosicrucian there: take\nexercise. Why, when I was a nipper every morning of my life I had a cold\nbath, winter and summer. And that's what stands to me now. Education\nis all very fine and large.... Mr. Cotter might take a pick of that leg\nmutton,\" he added to my aunt.\n\n\"No, no, not for me,\" said old Cotter.\n\nMy aunt brought the dish from the safe and put it on the table.\n\n\"But why do you think it's not good for children, Mr. Cotter?\" she\nasked.\n\n\"It's bad for children,\" said old Cotter, \"because their minds are so\nimpressionable. When children see things like that, you know, it has an\neffect....\"\n\nI crammed my mouth with stirabout for fear I might give utterance to my\nanger. Tiresome old red-nosed imbecile!\n\nIt was late when I fell asleep. Though I was angry with old Cotter for\nalluding to me as a child, I puzzled my head to extract meaning from his\nunfinished sentences. In the dark of my room I imagined that I saw again\nthe heavy grey face of the paralytic. I drew the blankets over my head\nand tried to think of Christmas. But the grey face still followed me. It\nmurmured; and I understood that it desired to confess something. I felt\nmy soul receding into some pleasant and vicious region; and there again\nI found it waiting for me. It began to confess to me in a murmuring\nvoice and I wondered why it smiled continually and why the lips were so\nmoist with spittle. But then I remembered that it had died of paralysis\nand I felt that I too was smiling feebly as if to absolve the simoniac\nof his sin.\n\nThe next morning after breakfast I went down to look at the little house\nin Great Britain Street. It was an unassuming shop, registered under\nthe vague name of Drapery. The drapery consisted mainly of children's\nbootees and umbrellas; and on ordinary days a notice used to hang in the\nwindow, saying: Umbrellas Re-covered. No notice was visible now for\nthe shutters were up. A crape bouquet was tied to the doork-nocker with\nribbon. Two poor women and a telegram boy were reading the card pinned\non the crape. I also approached and read:\n\n    July 1st, 1895\n    The Rev. James Flynn (formerly of\n    S. Catherine's Church, Meath Street),\n    aged sixty-five years.\n    R. I. P.\n\nThe reading of the card persuaded me that he was dead and I was\ndisturbed to find myself at check. Had he not been dead I would have\ngone into the little dark room behind the shop to find him sitting in\nhis arm-chair by the fire, nearly smothered in his great-coat. Perhaps\nmy aunt would have given me a packet of High Toast for him and this\npresent would have roused him from his stupefied doze. It was always I\nwho emptied the packet into his black snuff-box for his hands trembled\ntoo much to allow him to do this without spilling half the snuff about\nthe floor. Even as he raised his large trembling hand to his nose little\nclouds of smoke dribbled through his fingers over the front of his coat.\nIt may have been these constant showers of snuff which gave his ancient\npriestly garments their green faded look for the red handkerchief,\nblackened, as it always was, with the snuff-stains of a week, with which\nhe tried to brush away the fallen grains, was quite inefficacious.\n\nI wished to go in and look at him but I had not the courage to knock. I\nwalked away slowly along the sunny side of the street, reading all the\ntheatrical advertisements in the shopwindows as I went. I found it\nstrange that neither I nor the day seemed in a mourning mood and I felt\neven annoyed at discovering in myself a sensation of freedom as if I had\nbeen freed from something by his death. I wondered at this for, as my\nuncle had said the night before, he had taught me a great deal. He had\nstudied in the Irish college in Rome and he had taught me to pronounce\nLatin properly. He had told me stories about the catacombs and about\nNapoleon Bonaparte, and he had explained to me the meaning of the\ndifferent ceremonies of the Mass and of the different vestments worn\nby the priest. Sometimes he had amused himself by putting difficult\nquestions to me, asking me what one should do in certain circumstances\nor whether such and such sins were mortal or venial or only\nimperfections. His questions showed me how complex and mysterious were\ncertain institutions of the Church which I had always regarded as\nthe simplest acts. The duties of the priest towards the Eucharist and\ntowards the secrecy of the confessional seemed so grave to me that I\nwondered how anybody had ever found in himself the courage to undertake\nthem; and I was not surprised when he told me that the fathers of the\nChurch had written books as thick as the Post Office Directory and as\nclosely printed as the law notices in the newspaper, elucidating all\nthese intricate questions. Often when I thought of this I could make\nno answer or only a very foolish and halting one upon which he used\nto smile and nod his head twice or thrice. Sometimes he used to put me\nthrough the responses of the Mass which he had made me learn by heart;\nand, as I pattered, he used to smile pensively and nod his head, now and\nthen pushing huge pinches of snuff up each nostril alternately. When he\nsmiled he used to uncover his big discoloured teeth and let his tongue\nlie upon his lower lip--a habit which had made me feel uneasy in the\nbeginning of our acquaintance before I knew him well.\n\nAs I walked along in the sun I remembered old Cotter's words and tried\nto remember what had happened afterwards in the dream. I remembered\nthat I had noticed long velvet curtains and a swinging lamp of antique\nfashion. I felt that I had been very far away, in some land where the\ncustoms were strange--in Persia, I thought.... But I could not remember\nthe end of the dream.\n\nIn the evening my aunt took me with her to visit the house of mourning.\nIt was after sunset; but the window-panes of the houses that looked\nto the west reflected the tawny gold of a great bank of clouds. Nannie\nreceived us in the hall; and, as it would have been unseemly to have\nshouted at her, my aunt shook hands with her for all. The old woman\npointed upwards interrogatively and, on my aunt's nodding, proceeded to\ntoil up the narrow staircase before us, her bowed head being scarcely\nabove the level of the banister-rail. At the first landing she stopped\nand beckoned us forward encouragingly towards the open door of the\ndead-room. My aunt went in and the old woman, seeing that I hesitated to\nenter, began to beckon to me again repeatedly with her hand.\n\nI went in on tiptoe. The room through the lace end of the blind was\nsuffused with dusky golden light amid which the candles looked like pale\nthin flames. He had been coffined. Nannie gave the lead and we three\nknelt down at the foot of the bed. I pretended to pray but I could not\ngather my thoughts because the old woman's mutterings distracted me. I\nnoticed how clumsily her skirt was hooked at the back and how the heels\nof her cloth boots were trodden down all to one side. The fancy came to\nme that the old priest was smiling as he lay there in his coffin.\n\nBut no. When we rose and went up to the head of the bed I saw that he\nwas not smiling. There he lay, solemn and copious, vested as for the\naltar, his large hands loosely retaining a chalice. His face was very\ntruculent, grey and massive, with black cavernous nostrils and circled\nby a scanty white fur. There was a heavy odour in the room--the flowers.\n\nWe blessed ourselves and came away. In the little room downstairs we\nfound Eliza seated in his arm-chair in state. I groped my way towards my\nusual chair in the corner while Nannie went to the sideboard and brought\nout a decanter of sherry and some wine-glasses. She set these on the\ntable and invited us to take a little glass of wine. Then, at her\nsister's bidding, she filled out the sherry into the glasses and passed\nthem to us. She pressed me to take some cream crackers also but I\ndeclined because I thought I would make too much noise eating them. She\nseemed to be somewhat disappointed at my refusal and went over quietly\nto the sofa where she sat down behind her sister. No one spoke: we all\ngazed at the empty fireplace.\n\nMy aunt waited until Eliza sighed and then said:\n\n\"Ah, well, he's gone to a better world.\"\n\nEliza sighed again and bowed her head in assent. My aunt fingered the\nstem of her wine-glass before sipping a little.\n\n\"Did he... peacefully?\" she asked.\n\n\"Oh, quite peacefully, ma'am,\" said Eliza. \"You couldn't tell when the\nbreath went out of him. He had a beautiful death, God be praised.\"\n\n\"And everything...?\"\n\n\"Father O'Rourke was in with him a Tuesday and anointed him and prepared\nhim and all.\"\n\n\"He knew then?\"\n\n\"He was quite resigned.\"\n\n\"He looks quite resigned,\" said my aunt.\n\n\"That's what the woman we had in to wash him said. She said he just\nlooked as if he was asleep, he looked that peaceful and resigned. No one\nwould think he'd make such a beautiful corpse.\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed,\" said my aunt.\n\nShe sipped a little more from her glass and said:\n\n\"Well, Miss Flynn, at any rate it must be a great comfort for you to\nknow that you did all you could for him. You were both very kind to him,\nI must say.\"\n\nEliza smoothed her dress over her knees.\n\n\"Ah, poor James!\" she said. \"God knows we done all we could, as poor as\nwe are--we wouldn't see him want anything while he was in it.\"\n\nNannie had leaned her head against the sofa-pillow and seemed about to\nfall asleep.\n\n\"There's poor Nannie,\" said Eliza, looking at her, \"she's wore out. All\nthe work we had, she and me, getting in the woman to wash him and then\nlaying him out and then the coffin and then arranging about the Mass in\nthe chapel. Only for Father O'Rourke I don't know what we'd have done at all.\nIt was him brought us all them flowers and them two candlesticks out of\nthe chapel and wrote out the notice for the Freeman's General and took\ncharge of all the papers for the cemetery and poor James's insurance.\"\n\n\"Wasn't that good of him?\" said my aunt.\n\nEliza closed her eyes and shook her head slowly.\n\n\"Ah, there's no friends like the old friends,\" she said, \"when all is\nsaid and done, no friends that a body can trust.\"\n\n\"Indeed, that's true,\" said my aunt. \"And I'm sure now that he's gone to\nhis eternal reward he won't forget you and all your kindness to him.\"\n\n\"Ah, poor James!\" said Eliza. \"He was no great trouble to us. You\nwouldn't hear him in the house any more than now. Still, I know he's\ngone and all to that....\"\n\n\"It's when it's all over that you'll miss him,\" said my aunt.\n\n\"I know that,\" said Eliza. \"I won't be bringing him in his cup of\nbeef-tea any more, nor you, ma'am, sending him his snuff. Ah, poor James!\"\n\nShe stopped, as if she were communing with the past and then said\nshrewdly:\n\n\"Mind you, I noticed there was something queer coming over him latterly.\nWhenever I'd bring in his soup to him there I'd find him with his\nbreviary fallen to the floor, lying back in the chair and his mouth\nopen.\"\n\nShe laid a finger against her nose and frowned: then she continued:\n\n\"But still and all he kept on saying that before the summer was over\nhe'd go out for a drive one fine day just to see the old house again\nwhere we were all born down in Irishtown and take me and Nannie with\nhim. If we could only get one of them new-fangled carriages that makes\nno noise that Father O'Rourke told him about--them with the rheumatic\nwheels--for the day cheap--he said, at Johnny Rush's over the way there\nand drive out the three of us together of a Sunday evening. He had his\nmind set on that.... Poor James!\"\n\n\"The Lord have mercy on his soul!\" said my aunt.\n\nEliza took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes with it. Then she put\nit back again in her pocket and gazed into the empty grate for some time\nwithout speaking.\n\n\"He was too scrupulous always,\" she said. \"The duties of the priesthood\nwas too much for him. And then his life was, you might say, crossed.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said my aunt. \"He was a disappointed man. You could see that.\"\n\nA silence took possession of the little room and, under cover of it, I\napproached the table and tasted my sherry and then returned quietly to\nmy chair in the comer. Eliza seemed to have fallen into a deep revery.\nWe waited respectfully for her to break the silence: and after a long\npause she said slowly:\n\n\"It was that chalice he broke.... That was the beginning of it. Of\ncourse, they say it was all right, that it contained nothing, I mean.\nBut still.... They say it was the boy's fault. But poor James was so\nnervous, God be merciful to him!\"\n\n\"And was that it?\" said my aunt. \"I heard something....\"\n\nEliza nodded.\n\n\"That affected his mind,\" she said. \"After that he began to mope by\nhimself, talking to no one and wandering about by himself. So one night\nhe was wanted for to go on a call and they couldn't find him anywhere.\nThey looked high up and low down; and still they couldn't see a sight\nof him anywhere. So then the clerk suggested to try the chapel. So\nthen they got the keys and opened the chapel and the clerk and Father\nO'Rourke and another priest that was there brought in a light for to\nlook for him.... And what do you think but there he was, sitting up by\nhimself in the dark in his confession-box, wide-awake and laughing-like\nsoftly to himself?\"\n\nShe stopped suddenly as if to listen. I too listened; but there was no\nsound in the house: and I knew that the old priest was lying still in\nhis coffin as we had seen him, solemn and truculent in death, an idle\nchalice on his breast.\n\nEliza resumed:\n\n\"Wide-awake and laughing-like to himself.... So then, of course, when\nthey saw that, that made them think that there was something gone wrong\nwith him....\"\n\n\n\n\nAN ENCOUNTER\n\nIT WAS Joe Dillon who introduced the Wild West to us. He had a little\nlibrary made up of old numbers of The Union Jack, Pluck and The\nHalfpenny Marvel. Every evening after school we met in his back garden\nand arranged Indian battles. He and his fat young brother Leo, the\nidler, held the loft of the stable while we tried to carry it by storm;\nor we fought a pitched battle on the grass. But, however well we fought,\nwe never won siege or battle and all our bouts ended with Joe Dillon's\nwar dance of victory. His parents went to eight-o'clock mass every\nmorning in Gardiner Street and the peaceful odour of Mrs. Dillon was\nprevalent in the hall of the house. But he played too fiercely for us\nwho were younger and more timid. He looked like some kind of an Indian\nwhen he capered round the garden, an old tea-cosy on his head, beating a\ntin with his fist and yelling:\n\n\"Ya! yaka, yaka, yaka!\"\n\nEveryone was incredulous when it was reported that he had a vocation for\nthe priesthood. Nevertheless it was true.\n\nA spirit of unruliness diffused itself among us and, under its\ninfluence, differences of culture and constitution were waived. We\nbanded ourselves together, some boldly, some in jest and some almost in\nfear: and of the number of these latter, the reluctant Indians who\nwere afraid to seem studious or lacking in robustness, I was one. The\nadventures related in the literature of the Wild West were remote from\nmy nature but, at least, they opened doors of escape. I liked better\nsome American detective stories which were traversed from time to time\nby unkempt fierce and beautiful girls. Though there was nothing wrong\nin these stories and though their intention was sometimes literary\nthey were circulated secretly at school. One day when Father Butler was\nhearing the four pages of Roman History clumsy Leo Dillon was discovered\nwith a copy of The Halfpenny Marvel.\n\n\"This page or this page? This page Now, Dillon, up! 'Hardly had the\nday'... Go on! What day? 'Hardly had the day dawned'... Have you studied\nit? What have you there in your pocket?\"\n\nEveryone's heart palpitated as Leo Dillon handed up the paper and\neveryone assumed an innocent face. Father Butler turned over the pages,\nfrowning.\n\n\"What is this rubbish?\" he said. \"The Apache Chief! Is this what you\nread instead of studying your Roman History? Let me not find any more\nof this wretched stuff in this college. The man who wrote it, I suppose,\nwas some wretched fellow who writes these things for a drink. I'm\nsurprised at boys like you, educated, reading such stuff. I could\nunderstand it if you were... National School boys. Now, Dillon, I advise\nyou strongly, get at your work or...\"\n\nThis rebuke during the sober hours of school paled much of the glory of\nthe Wild West for me and the confused puffy face of Leo Dillon awakened\none of my consciences. But when the restraining influence of the school\nwas at a distance I began to hunger again for wild sensations, for the\nescape which those chronicles of disorder alone seemed to offer me. The\nmimic warfare of the evening became at last as wearisome to me as the\nroutine of school in the morning because I wanted real adventures to\nhappen to myself. But real adventures, I reflected, do not happen to\npeople who remain at home: they must be sought abroad.\n\nThe summer holidays were near at hand when I made up my mind to break\nout of the weariness of school-life for one day at least. With Leo Dillon\nand a boy named Mahony I planned a day's miching. Each of us saved up\nsixpence. We were to meet at ten in the morning on the Canal Bridge.\nMahony's big sister was to write an excuse for him and Leo Dillon was to\ntell his brother to say he was sick. We arranged to go along the Wharf\nRoad until we came to the ships, then to cross in the ferryboat and walk\nout to see the Pigeon House. Leo Dillon was afraid we might meet Father\nButler or someone out of the college; but Mahony asked, very sensibly,\nwhat would Father Butler be doing out at the Pigeon House. We were\nreassured: and I brought the first stage of the plot to an end by\ncollecting sixpence from the other two, at the same time showing them\nmy own sixpence. When we were making the last arrangements on the eve we\nwere all vaguely excited. We shook hands, laughing, and Mahony said:\n\n\"Till tomorrow, mates!\"\n\nThat night I slept badly. In the morning I was first-comer to the bridge\nas I lived nearest. I hid my books in the long grass near the ashpit at\nthe end of the garden where nobody ever came and hurried along the canal\nbank. It was a mild sunny morning in the first week of June. I sat up\non the coping of the bridge admiring my frail canvas shoes which I had\ndiligently pipeclayed overnight and watching the docile horses pulling\na tramload of business people up the hill. All the branches of the tall\ntrees which lined the mall were gay with little light green leaves and\nthe sunlight slanted through them on to the water. The granite stone of\nthe bridge was beginning to be warm and I began to pat it with my hands\nin time to an air in my head. I was very happy.\n\nWhen I had been sitting there for five or ten minutes I saw Mahony's\ngrey suit approaching. He came up the hill, smiling, and clambered\nup beside me on the bridge. While we were waiting he brought out\nthe catapult which bulged from his inner pocket and explained some\nimprovements which he had made in it. I asked him why he had brought it\nand he told me he had brought it to have some gas with the birds. Mahony\nused slang freely, and spoke of Father Butler as Old Bunser. We waited\non for a quarter of an hour more but still there was no sign of Leo\nDillon. Mahony, at last, jumped down and said:\n\n\"Come along. I knew Fatty'd funk it.\"\n\n\"And his sixpence...?\" I said.\n\n\"That's forfeit,\" said Mahony. \"And so much the better for us--a bob and\na tanner instead of a bob.\"\n\nWe walked along the North Strand Road till we came to the Vitriol Works\nand then turned to the right along the Wharf Road. Mahony began to play\nthe Indian as soon as we were out of public sight. He chased a crowd\nof ragged girls, brandishing his unloaded catapult and, when two ragged\nboys began, out of chivalry, to fling stones at us, he proposed that we\nshould charge them. I objected that the boys were too small and so we\nwalked on, the ragged troop screaming after us: \"Swaddlers!\nSwaddlers!\" thinking that we were Protestants because Mahony, who was\ndark-complexioned, wore the silver badge of a cricket club in his cap.\nWhen we came to the Smoothing Iron we arranged a siege; but it was a\nfailure because you must have at least three. We revenged ourselves on\nLeo Dillon by saying what a funk he was and guessing how many he would\nget at three o'clock from Mr. Ryan.\n\nWe came then near the river. We spent a long time walking about the\nnoisy streets flanked by high stone walls, watching the working of\ncranes and engines and often being shouted at for our immobility by the\ndrivers of groaning carts. It was noon when we reached the quays and, as\nall the labourers seemed to be eating their lunches, we bought two big\ncurrant buns and sat down to eat them on some metal piping beside the\nriver. We pleased ourselves with the spectacle of Dublin's commerce--the\nbarges signalled from far away by their curls of woolly smoke, the brown\nfishing fleet beyond Ringsend, the big white sailing-vessel which was\nbeing discharged on the opposite quay. Mahony said it would be right\nskit to run away to sea on one of those big ships and even I, looking at\nthe high masts, saw, or imagined, the geography which had been scantily\ndosed to me at school gradually taking substance under my eyes. School\nand home seemed to recede from us and their influences upon us seemed to\nwane.\n\nWe crossed the Liffey in the ferryboat, paying our toll to be\ntransported in the company of two labourers and a little Jew with a bag.\nWe were serious to the point of solemnity, but once during the short\nvoyage our eyes met and we laughed. When we landed we watched the\ndischarging of the graceful threemaster which we had observed from the\nother quay. Some bystander said that she was a Norwegian vessel. I went\nto the stern and tried to decipher the legend upon it but, failing to do\nso, I came back and examined the foreign sailors to see had any of them\ngreen eyes for I had some confused notion.... The sailors' eyes were\nblue and grey and even black. The only sailor whose eyes could have been\ncalled green was a tall man who amused the crowd on the quay by calling\nout cheerfully every time the planks fell:\n\n\"All right! All right!\"\n\nWhen we were tired of this sight we wandered slowly into Ringsend. The\nday had grown sultry, and in the windows of the grocers' shops musty\nbiscuits lay bleaching. We bought some biscuits and chocolate which\nwe ate sedulously as we wandered through the squalid streets where the\nfamilies of the fishermen live. We could find no dairy and so we went\ninto a huckster's shop and bought a bottle of raspberry lemonade each.\nRefreshed by this, Mahony chased a cat down a lane, but the cat escaped\ninto a wide field. We both felt rather tired and when we reached the\nfield we made at once for a sloping bank over the ridge of which we\ncould see the Dodder.\n\nIt was too late and we were too tired to carry out our project of\nvisiting the Pigeon House. We had to be home before four o'clock lest\nour adventure should be discovered. Mahony looked regretfully at his\ncatapult and I had to suggest going home by train before he regained\nany cheerfulness. The sun went in behind some clouds and left us to our\njaded thoughts and the crumbs of our provisions.\n\nThere was nobody but ourselves in the field. When we had lain on the\nbank for some time without speaking I saw a man approaching from the far\nend of the field. I watched him lazily as I chewed one of those green\nstems on which girls tell fortunes. He came along by the bank slowly. He\nwalked with one hand upon his hip and in the other hand he held a stick\nwith which he tapped the turf lightly. He was shabbily dressed in a suit\nof greenish-black and wore what we used to call a jerry hat with a high\ncrown. He seemed to be fairly old for his moustache was ashen-grey. When\nhe passed at our feet he glanced up at us quickly and then continued his\nway. We followed him with our eyes and saw that when he had gone on for\nperhaps fifty paces he turned about and began to retrace his steps. He\nwalked towards us very slowly, always tapping the ground with his stick,\nso slowly that I thought he was looking for something in the grass.\n\nHe stopped when he came level with us and bade us good-day. We answered\nhim and he sat down beside us on the slope slowly and with great care.\nHe began to talk of the weather, saying that it would be a very hot\nsummer and adding that the seasons had changed greatly since he was a\nboy--a long time ago. He said that the happiest time of one's life was\nundoubtedly one's school-boy days and that he would give anything to be\nyoung again. While he expressed these sentiments which bored us a little\nwe kept silent. Then he began to talk of school and of books. He asked\nus whether we had read the poetry of Thomas Moore or the works of Sir\nWalter Scott and Lord Lytton. I pretended that I had read every book he\nmentioned so that in the end he said:\n\n\"Ah, I can see you are a bookworm like myself. Now,\" he added, pointing\nto Mahony who was regarding us with open eyes, \"he is different; he goes\nin for games.\"\n\nHe said he had all Sir Walter Scott's works and all Lord Lytton's works\nat home and never tired of reading them. \"Of course,\" he said, \"there\nwere some of Lord Lytton's works which boys couldn't read.\" Mahony asked\nwhy couldn't boys read them--a question which agitated and pained me\nbecause I was afraid the man would think I was as stupid as Mahony. The\nman, however, only smiled. I saw that he had great gaps in his mouth\nbetween his yellow teeth. Then he asked us which of us had the most\nsweethearts. Mahony mentioned lightly that he had three totties. The man\nasked me how many had I. I answered that I had none. He did not believe\nme and said he was sure I must have one. I was silent.\n\n\"Tell us,\" said Mahony pertly to the man, \"how many have you yourself?\"\n\nThe man smiled as before and said that when he was our age he had lots\nof sweethearts.\n\n\"Every boy,\" he said, \"has a little sweetheart.\"\n\nHis attitude on this point struck me as strangely liberal in a man\nof his age. In my heart I thought that what he said about boys and\nsweethearts was reasonable. But I disliked the words in his mouth and I\nwondered why he shivered once or twice as if he feared something or felt\na sudden chill. As he proceeded I noticed that his accent was good. He\nbegan to speak to us about girls, saying what nice soft hair they had\nand how soft their hands were and how all girls were not so good as they\nseemed to be if one only knew. There was nothing he liked, he said, so\nmuch as looking at a nice young girl, at her nice white hands and her\nbeautiful soft hair. He gave me the impression that he was repeating\nsomething which he had learned by heart or that, magnetised by some\nwords of his own speech, his mind was slowly circling round and round in\nthe same orbit. At times he spoke as if he were simply alluding to some\nfact that everybody knew, and at times he lowered his voice and spoke\nmysteriously as if he were telling us something secret which he did not\nwish others to overhear. He repeated his phrases over and over again,\nvarying them and surrounding them with his monotonous voice. I continued\nto gaze towards the foot of the slope, listening to him.\n\nAfter a long while his monologue paused. He stood up slowly, saying\nthat he had to leave us for a minute or so, a few minutes, and, without\nchanging the direction of my gaze, I saw him walking slowly away from us\ntowards the near end of the field. We remained silent when he had gone.\nAfter a silence of a few minutes I heard Mahony exclaim:\n\n\"I say! Look what he's doing!\"\n\nAs I neither answered nor raised my eyes Mahony exclaimed again:\n\n\"I say... He's a queer old josser!\"\n\n\"In case he asks us for our names,\" I said, \"let you be Murphy and I'll\nbe Smith.\"\n\nWe said nothing further to each other. I was still considering whether\nI would go away or not when the man came back and sat down beside us\nagain. Hardly had he sat down when Mahony, catching sight of the cat\nwhich had escaped him, sprang up and pursued her across the field. The\nman and I watched the chase. The cat escaped once more and Mahony began\nto throw stones at the wall she had escaladed. Desisting from this, he\nbegan to wander about the far end of the field, aimlessly.\n\nAfter an interval the man spoke to me. He said that my friend was a very\nrough boy and asked did he get whipped often at school. I was going to\nreply indignantly that we were not National School boys to be whipped,\nas he called it; but I remained silent. He began to speak on the subject\nof chastising boys. His mind, as if magnetised again by his speech,\nseemed to circle slowly round and round its new centre. He said that\nwhen boys were that kind they ought to be whipped and well whipped. When\na boy was rough and unruly there was nothing would do him any good but a\ngood sound whipping. A slap on the hand or a box on the ear was no good:\nwhat he wanted was to get a nice warm whipping. I was surprised at this\nsentiment and involuntarily glanced up at his face. As I did so I met\nthe gaze of a pair of bottle-green eyes peering at me from under a\ntwitching forehead. I turned my eyes away again.\n\nThe man continued his monologue. He seemed to have forgotten his recent\nliberalism. He said that if ever he found a boy talking to girls or\nhaving a girl for a sweetheart he would whip him and whip him; and that\nwould teach him not to be talking to girls. And if a boy had a girl\nfor a sweetheart and told lies about it then he would give him such\na whipping as no boy ever got in this world. He said that there was\nnothing in this world he would like so well as that. He described to\nme how he would whip such a boy as if he were unfolding some elaborate\nmystery. He would love that, he said, better than anything in this\nworld; and his voice, as he led me monotonously through the mystery,\ngrew almost affectionate and seemed to plead with me that I should\nunderstand him.\n\nI waited till his monologue paused again. Then I stood up abruptly. Lest\nI should betray my agitation I delayed a few moments pretending to fix\nmy shoe properly and then, saying that I was obliged to go, I bade him\ngood-day. I went up the slope calmly but my heart was beating quickly\nwith fear that he would seize me by the ankles. When I reached the top\nof the slope I turned round and, without looking at him, called loudly\nacross the field:\n\n\"Murphy!\"\n\nMy voice had an accent of forced bravery in it and I was ashamed of my\npaltry stratagem. I had to call the name again before Mahony saw me\nand hallooed in answer. How my heart beat as he came running across the\nfield to me! He ran as if to bring me aid. And I was penitent; for in my\nheart I had always despised him a little.\n\n\n\n\nARABY\n\nNORTH RICHMOND STREET, being blind, was a quiet street except at the hour\nwhen the Christian Brothers' School set the boys free. An uninhabited\nhouse of two storeys stood at the blind end, detached from its\nneighbours in a square ground The other houses of the street,\nconscious of decent lives within them, gazed at one another with brown\nimperturbable faces.\n\nThe former tenant of our house, a priest, had died in the back\ndrawing-room. Air, musty from having been long enclosed, hung in all\nthe rooms, and the waste room behind the kitchen was littered with old\nuseless papers. Among these I found a few paper-covered books, the pages\nof which were curled and damp: The Abbot, by Walter Scott, The Devout\nCommunicant and The Memoirs of Vidocq. I liked the last best because\nits leaves were yellow. The wild garden behind the house contained a\ncentral apple-tree and a few straggling bushes under one of which\nI found the late tenant's rusty bicycle-pump. He had been a very\ncharitable priest; in his will he had left all his money to institutions\nand the furniture of his house to his sister.\n\nWhen the short days of winter came dusk fell before we had well eaten\nour dinners. When we met in the street the houses had grown sombre. The\nspace of sky above us was the colour of ever-changing violet and towards\nit the lamps of the street lifted their feeble lanterns. The cold air\nstung us and we played till our bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed in the\nsilent street. The career of our play brought us through the dark muddy\nlanes behind the houses where we ran the gauntlet of the rough tribes\nfrom the cottages, to the back doors of the dark dripping gardens where\nodours arose from the ashpits, to the dark odorous stables where a\ncoachman smoothed and combed the horse or shook music from the buckled\nharness. When we returned to the street light from the kitchen windows\nhad filled the areas. If my uncle was seen turning the corner we hid in\nthe shadow until we had seen him safely housed. Or if Mangan's sister\ncame out on the doorstep to call her brother in to his tea we watched\nher from our shadow peer up and down the street. We waited to see\nwhether she would remain or go in and, if she remained, we left our\nshadow and walked up to Mangan's steps resignedly. She was waiting\nfor us, her figure defined by the light from the half-opened door. Her\nbrother always teased her before he obeyed and I stood by the railings\nlooking at her. Her dress swung as she moved her body and the soft rope\nof her hair tossed from side to side.\n\nEvery morning I lay on the floor in the front parlour watching her door.\nThe blind was pulled down to within an inch of the sash so that I could\nnot be seen. When she came out on the doorstep my heart leaped. I ran\nto the hall, seized my books and followed her. I kept her brown figure\nalways in my eye and, when we came near the point at which our ways\ndiverged, I quickened my pace and passed her. This happened morning\nafter morning. I had never spoken to her, except for a few casual words,\nand yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood.\n\nHer image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to romance. On\nSaturday evenings when my aunt went marketing I had to go to carry\nsome of the parcels. We walked through the flaring streets, jostled\nby drunken men and bargaining women, amid the curses of labourers, the\nshrill litanies of shop-boys who stood on guard by the barrels of pigs'\ncheeks, the nasal chanting of street-singers, who sang a come-all-you\nabout O'Donovan Rossa, or a ballad about the troubles in our native\nland. These noises converged in a single sensation of life for me: I\nimagined that I bore my chalice safely through a throng of foes. Her\nname sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I\nmyself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I could not\ntell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out\ninto my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not know whether I\nwould ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell\nher of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words\nand gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.\n\nOne evening I went into the back drawing-room in which the priest had\ndied. It was a dark rainy evening and there was no sound in the house.\nThrough one of the broken panes I heard the rain impinge upon the earth,\nthe fine incessant needles of water playing in the sodden beds. Some\ndistant lamp or lighted window gleamed below me. I was thankful that I\ncould see so little. All my senses seemed to desire to veil themselves\nand, feeling that I was about to slip from them, I pressed the palms of\nmy hands together until they trembled, murmuring: \"O love! O love!\" many\ntimes.\n\nAt last she spoke to me. When she addressed the first words to me I was\nso confused that I did not know what to answer. She asked me was I going\nto Araby. I forgot whether I answered yes or no. It would be a splendid\nbazaar, she said;s she would love to go.\n\n\"And why can't you?\" I asked.\n\nWhile she spoke she turned a silver bracelet round and round her wrist.\nShe could not go, she said, because there would be a retreat that week\nin her convent. Her brother and two other boys were fighting for their\ncaps and I was alone at the railings. She held one of the spikes, bowing\nher head towards me. The light from the lamp opposite our door caught\nthe white curve of her neck, lit up her hair that rested there and,\nfalling, lit up the hand upon the railing. It fell over one side of her\ndress and caught the white border of a petticoat, just visible as she\nstood at ease.\n\n\"It's well for you,\" she said.\n\n\"If I go,\" I said, \"I will bring you something.\"\n\nWhat innumerable follies laid waste my waking and sleeping thoughts\nafter that evening! I wished to annihilate the tedious intervening days.\nI chafed against the work of school. At night in my bedroom and by day\nin the classroom her image came between me and the page I strove to\nread. The syllables of the word Araby were called to me through the\nsilence in which my soul luxuriated and cast an Eastern enchantment over\nme. I asked for leave to go to the bazaar on Saturday night. My aunt\nwas surprised and hoped it was not some Freemason affair. I answered few\nquestions in class. I watched my master's face pass from amiability to\nsternness; he hoped I was not beginning to idle. I could not call my\nwandering thoughts together. I had hardly any patience with the serious\nwork of life which, now that it stood between me and my desire, seemed\nto me child's play, ugly monotonous child's play.\n\nOn Saturday morning I reminded my uncle that I wished to go to the\nbazaar in the evening. He was fussing at the hallstand, looking for the\nhat-brush, and answered me curtly:\n\n\"Yes, boy, I know.\"\n\nAs he was in the hall I could not go into the front parlour and lie at\nthe window. I left the house in bad humour and walked slowly towards the\nschool. The air was pitilessly raw and already my heart misgave me.\n\nWhen I came home to dinner my uncle had not yet been home. Still it was\nearly. I sat staring at the clock for some time and, when its ticking\nbegan to irritate me, I left the room. I mounted the staircase and\ngained the upper part of the house. The high cold empty gloomy rooms\nliberated me and I went from room to room singing. From the front window\nI saw my companions playing below in the street. Their cries reached me\nweakened and indistinct and, leaning my forehead against the cool glass,\nI looked over at the dark house where she lived. I may have stood\nthere for an hour, seeing nothing but the brown-clad figure cast by my\nimagination, touched discreetly by the lamplight at the curved neck, at\nthe hand upon the railings and at the border below the dress.\n\nWhen I came downstairs again I found Mrs. Mercer sitting at the fire.\nShe was an old garrulous woman, a pawnbroker's widow, who collected\nused stamps for some pious purpose. I had to endure the gossip of the\ntea-table. The meal was prolonged beyond an hour and still my uncle did\nnot come. Mrs. Mercer stood up to go: she was sorry she couldn't wait\nany longer, but it was after eight o'clock and she did not like to be\nout late as the night air was bad for her. When she had gone I began to\nwalk up and down the room, clenching my fists. My aunt said:\n\n\"I'm afraid you may put off your bazaar for this night of Our Lord.\"\n\nAt nine o'clock I heard my uncle's latchkey in the halldoor. I heard him\ntalking to himself and heard the hallstand rocking when it had received\nthe weight of his overcoat. I could interpret these signs. When he was\nmidway through his dinner I asked him to give me the money to go to the\nbazaar. He had forgotten.\n\n\"The people are in bed and after their first sleep now,\" he said.\n\nI did not smile. My aunt said to him energetically:\n\n\"Can't you give him the money and let him go? You've kept him late\nenough as it is.\"\n\nMy uncle said he was very sorry he had forgotten. He said he believed in\nthe old saying: \"All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.\" He asked\nme where I was going and, when I had told him a second time he asked me\ndid I know The Arab's Farewell to his Steed. When I left the kitchen he\nwas about to recite the opening lines of the piece to my aunt.\n\nI held a florin tightly in my hand as I strode down Buckingham Street\ntowards the station. The sight of the streets thronged with buyers and\nglaring with gas recalled to me the purpose of my journey. I took my\nseat in a third-class carriage of a deserted train. After an intolerable\ndelay the train moved out of the station slowly. It crept onward among\nruinous houses and over the twinkling river. At Westland Row Station a\ncrowd of people pressed to the carriage doors; but the porters moved\nthem back, saying that it was a special train for the bazaar. I remained\nalone in the bare carriage. In a few minutes the train drew up beside an\nimprovised wooden platform. I passed out on to the road and saw by the\nlighted dial of a clock that it was ten minutes to ten. In front of me\nwas a large building which displayed the magical name.\n\nI could not find any sixpenny entrance and, fearing that the bazaar\nwould be closed, I passed in quickly through a turnstile, handing a\nshilling to a weary-looking man. I found myself in a big hall girdled at\nhalf its height by a gallery. Nearly all the stalls were closed and the\ngreater part of the hall was in darkness. I recognised a silence like\nthat which pervades a church after a service. I walked into the centre\nof the bazaar timidly. A few people were gathered about the stalls which\nwere still open. Before a curtain, over which the words Cafe Chantant\nwere written in coloured lamps, two men were counting money on a salver.\nI listened to the fall of the coins.\n\nRemembering with difficulty why I had come I went over to one of the\nstalls and examined porcelain vases and flowered tea-sets. At the\ndoor of the stall a young lady was talking and laughing with two young\ngentlemen. I remarked their English accents and listened vaguely to\ntheir conversation.\n\n\"O, I never said such a thing!\"\n\n\"O, but you did!\"\n\n\"O, but I didn't!\"\n\n\"Didn't she say that?\"\n\n\"Yes. I heard her.\"\n\n\"O, there's a... fib!\"\n\nObserving me the young lady came over and asked me did I wish to buy\nanything. The tone of her voice was not encouraging; she seemed to have\nspoken to me out of a sense of duty. I looked humbly at the great jars\nthat stood like eastern guards at either side of the dark entrance to\nthe stall and murmured:\n\n\"No, thank you.\"\n\nThe young lady changed the position of one of the vases and went back to\nthe two young men. They began to talk of the same subject. Once or twice\nthe young lady glanced at me over her shoulder.\n\nI lingered before her stall, though I knew my stay was useless, to make\nmy interest in her wares seem the more real. Then I turned away slowly\nand walked down the middle of the bazaar. I allowed the two pennies to\nfall against the sixpence in my pocket. I heard a voice call from one\nend of the gallery that the light was out. The upper part of the hall\nwas now completely dark.\n\nGazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and\nderided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger.\n\n\n\n\nEVELINE\n\nSHE sat at the window watching the evening invade the avenue. Her head\nwas leaned against the window curtains and in her nostrils was the odour\nof dusty cretonne. She was tired.\n\nFew people passed. The man out of the last house passed on his way\nhome; she heard his footsteps clacking along the concrete pavement and\nafterwards crunching on the cinder path before the new red houses. One\ntime there used to be a field there in which they used to play every\nevening with other people's children. Then a man from Belfast bought\nthe field and built houses in it--not like their little brown houses but\nbright brick houses with shining roofs. The children of the avenue used\nto play together in that field--the Devines, the Waters, the Dunns,\nlittle Keogh the cripple, she and her brothers and sisters. Ernest,\nhowever, never played: he was too grown up. Her father used often to\nhunt them in out of the field with his blackthorn stick; but usually\nlittle Keogh used to keep nix and call out when he saw her father\ncoming. Still they seemed to have been rather happy then. Her father was\nnot so bad then; and besides, her mother was alive. That was a long time\nago; she and her brothers and sisters were all grown up; her mother\nwas dead. Tizzie Dunn was dead, too, and the Waters had gone back to\nEngland. Everything changes. Now she was going to go away like the\nothers, to leave her home.\n\nHome! She looked round the room, reviewing all its familiar objects\nwhich she had dusted once a week for so many years, wondering where on\nearth all the dust came from. Perhaps she would never see again those\nfamiliar objects from which she had never dreamed of being divided.\nAnd yet during all those years she had never found out the name of the\npriest whose yellowing photograph hung on the wall above the broken\nharmonium beside the coloured print of the promises made to Blessed\nMargaret Mary Alacoque. He had been a school friend of her father.\nWhenever he showed the photograph to a visitor her father used to pass\nit with a casual word:\n\n\"He is in Melbourne now.\"\n\nShe had consented to go away, to leave her home. Was that wise? She\ntried to weigh each side of the question. In her home anyway she had\nshelter and food; she had those whom she had known all her life about\nher. Of course she had to work hard, both in the house and at business.\nWhat would they say of her in the Stores when they found out that she\nhad run away with a fellow? Say she was a fool, perhaps; and her place\nwould be filled up by advertisement. Miss Gavan would be glad. She\nhad always had an edge on her, especially whenever there were people\nlistening.\n\n\"Miss Hill, don't you see these ladies are waiting?\"\n\n\"Look lively, Miss Hill, please.\"\n\nShe would not cry many tears at leaving the Stores.\n\nBut in her new home, in a distant unknown country, it would not be like\nthat. Then she would be married--she, Eveline. People would treat her\nwith respect then. She would not be treated as her mother had been. Even\nnow, though she was over nineteen, she sometimes felt herself in danger\nof her father's violence. She knew it was that that had given her the\npalpitations. When they were growing up he had never gone for her like\nhe used to go for Harry and Ernest, because she was a girl; but latterly\nhe had begun to threaten her and say what he would do to her only for\nher dead mother's sake. And now she had nobody to protect her. Ernest was\ndead and Harry, who was in the church decorating business, was nearly\nalways down somewhere in the country. Besides, the invariable squabble\nfor money on Saturday nights had begun to weary her unspeakably. She\nalways gave her entire wages--seven shillings--and Harry always sent up\nwhat he could but the trouble was to get any money from her father.\nHe said she used to squander the money, that she had no head, that\nhe wasn't going to give her his hard-earned money to throw about the\nstreets, and much more, for he was usually fairly bad of a Saturday night.\nIn the end he would give her the money and ask her had she any intention\nof buying Sunday's dinner. Then she had to rush out as quickly as she\ncould and do her marketing, holding her black leather purse tightly in\nher hand as she elbowed her way through the crowds and returning home\nlate under her load of provisions. She had hard work to keep the house\ntogether and to see that the two young children who had been left to her\ncharge went to school regularly and got their meals regularly. It was\nhard work--a hard life--but now that she was about to leave it she did\nnot find it a wholly undesirable life.\n\nShe was about to explore another life with Frank. Frank was very kind,\nmanly, open-hearted. She was to go away with him by the night-boat to\nbe his wife and to live with him in Buenos Ayres where he had a home\nwaiting for her. How well she remembered the first time she had seen\nhim; he was lodging in a house on the main road where she used to visit.\nIt seemed a few weeks ago. He was standing at the gate, his peaked cap\npushed back on his head and his hair tumbled forward over a face of\nbronze. Then they had come to know each other. He used to meet her\noutside the Stores every evening and see her home. He took her to see\nThe Bohemian Girl and she felt elated as she sat in an unaccustomed part\nof the theatre with him. He was awfully fond of music and sang a little.\nPeople knew that they were courting and, when he sang about the lass\nthat loves a sailor, she always felt pleasantly confused. He used to\ncall her Poppens out of fun. First of all it had been an excitement for\nher to have a fellow and then she had begun to like him. He had tales of\ndistant countries. He had started as a deck boy at a pound a month on a\nship of the Allan Line going out to Canada. He told her the names of\nthe ships he had been on and the names of the different services. He had\nsailed through the Straits of Magellan and he told her stories of the\nterrible Patagonians. He had fallen on his feet in Buenos Ayres, he\nsaid, and had come over to the old country just for a holiday. Of\ncourse, her father had found out the affair and had forbidden her to\nhave anything to say to him.\n\n\"I know these sailor chaps,\" he said.\n\nOne day he had quarrelled with Frank and after that she had to meet her\nlover secretly.\n\nThe evening deepened in the avenue. The white of two letters in her lap\ngrew indistinct. One was to Harry; the other was to her father. Ernest\nhad been her favourite but she liked Harry too. Her father was becoming\nold lately, she noticed; he would miss her. Sometimes he could be very\nnice. Not long before, when she had been laid up for a day, he had read\nher out a ghost story and made toast for her at the fire. Another day,\nwhen their mother was alive, they had all gone for a picnic to the Hill\nof Howth. She remembered her father putting on her mother's bonnet to\nmake the children laugh.\n\nHer time was running out but she continued to sit by the window,\nleaning her head against the window curtain, inhaling the odour of dusty\ncretonne. Down far in the avenue she could hear a street organ playing.\nShe knew the air. Strange that it should come that very night to remind\nher of the promise to her mother, her promise to keep the home together\nas long as she could. She remembered the last night of her mother's\nillness; she was again in the close dark room at the other side of the\nhall and outside she heard a melancholy air of Italy. The organ-player\nhad been ordered to go away and given sixpence. She remembered her\nfather strutting back into the sickroom saying:\n\n\"Damned Italians! coming over here!\"\n\nAs she mused the pitiful vision of her mother's life laid its spell on\nthe very quick of her being--that life of commonplace sacrifices closing\nin final craziness. She trembled as she heard again her mother's voice\nsaying constantly with foolish insistence:\n\n\"Derevaun Seraun! Derevaun Seraun!\"\n\nShe stood up in a sudden impulse of terror. Escape! She must escape!\nFrank would save her. He would give her life, perhaps love, too. But she\nwanted to live. Why should she be unhappy? She had a right to happiness.\nFrank would take her in his arms, fold her in his arms. He would save\nher.\n\nShe stood among the swaying crowd in the station at the North Wall. He\nheld her hand and she knew that he was speaking to her, saying something\nabout the passage over and over again. The station was full of soldiers\nwith brown baggages. Through the wide doors of the sheds she caught a\nglimpse of the black mass of the boat, lying in beside the quay wall,\nwith illumined portholes. She answered nothing. She felt her cheek pale\nand cold and, out of a maze of distress, she prayed to God to direct\nher, to show her what was her duty. The boat blew a long mournful\nwhistle into the mist. If she went, tomorrow she would be on the sea\nwith Frank, steaming towards Buenos Ayres. Their passage had been\nbooked. Could she still draw back after all he had done for her? Her\ndistress awoke a nausea in her body and she kept moving her lips in\nsilent fervent prayer.\n\nA bell clanged upon her heart. She felt him seize her hand:\n\n\"Come!\"\n\nAll the seas of the world tumbled about her heart. He was drawing her\ninto them: he would drown her. She gripped with both hands at the iron\nrailing.\n\n\"Come!\"\n\nNo! No! No! It was impossible. Her hands clutched the iron in frenzy.\nAmid the seas she sent a cry of anguish!\n\n\"Eveline! Evvy!\"\n\nHe rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to follow. He was shouted\nat to go on but he still called to her. She set her white face to him,\npassive, like a helpless animal. Her eyes gave him no sign of love or\nfarewell or recognition.\n\n\n\n\nAFTER THE RACE\n\nTHE cars came scudding in towards Dublin, running evenly like pellets\nin the groove of the Naas Road. At the crest of the hill at Inchicore\nsightseers had gathered in clumps to watch the cars careering homeward\nand through this channel of poverty and inaction the Continent sped its\nwealth and industry. Now and again the clumps of people raised the cheer\nof the gratefully oppressed. Their sympathy, however, was for the blue\ncars--the cars of their friends, the French.\n\nThe French, moreover, were virtual victors. Their team had finished\nsolidly; they had been placed second and third and the driver of the\nwinning German car was reported a Belgian. Each blue car, therefore,\nreceived a double measure of welcome as it topped the crest of the hill\nand each cheer of welcome was acknowledged with smiles and nods by those\nin the car. In one of these trimly built cars was a party of four\nyoung men whose spirits seemed to be at present well above the level\nof successful Gallicism: in fact, these four young men were almost\nhilarious. They were Charles Segouin, the owner of the car; Andre\nRiviere, a young electrician of Canadian birth; a huge Hungarian named\nVillona and a neatly groomed young man named Doyle. Segouin was in good\nhumour because he had unexpectedly received some orders in advance (he\nwas about to start a motor establishment in Paris) and Riviere was in\ngood humour because he was to be appointed manager of the establishment;\nthese two young men (who were cousins) were also in good humour because\nof the success of the French cars. Villona was in good humour because he\nhad had a very satisfactory luncheon; and besides he was an optimist by\nnature. The fourth member of the party, however, was too excited to be\ngenuinely happy.\n\nHe was about twenty-six years of age, with a soft, light brown moustache\nand rather innocent-looking grey eyes. His father, who had begun life as\nan advanced Nationalist, had modified his views early. He had made his\nmoney as a butcher in Kingstown and by opening shops in Dublin and in\nthe suburbs he had made his money many times over. He had also been\nfortunate enough to secure some of the police contracts and in the end\nhe had become rich enough to be alluded to in the Dublin newspapers as a\nmerchant prince. He had sent his son to England to be educated in a big\nCatholic college and had afterwards sent him to Dublin University to\nstudy law. Jimmy did not study very earnestly and took to bad courses\nfor a while. He had money and he was popular; and he divided his time\ncuriously between musical and motoring circles. Then he had been sent\nfor a term to Cambridge to see a little life. His father, remonstrative,\nbut covertly proud of the excess, had paid his bills and brought him\nhome. It was at Cambridge that he had met Segouin. They were not much\nmore than acquaintances as yet but Jimmy found great pleasure in the\nsociety of one who had seen so much of the world and was reputed to\nown some of the biggest hotels in France. Such a person (as his father\nagreed) was well worth knowing, even if he had not been the charming\ncompanion he was. Villona was entertaining also--a brilliant\npianist--but, unfortunately, very poor.\n\nThe car ran on merrily with its cargo of hilarious youth. The two\ncousins sat on the front seat; Jimmy and his Hungarian friend sat\nbehind. Decidedly Villona was in excellent spirits; he kept up a deep\nbass hum of melody for miles of the road. The Frenchmen flung their\nlaughter and light words over their shoulders and often Jimmy had\nto strain forward to catch the quick phrase. This was not altogether\npleasant for him, as he had nearly always to make a deft guess at the\nmeaning and shout back a suitable answer in the face of a high wind.\nBesides Villona's humming would confuse anybody; the noise of the car,\ntoo.\n\nRapid motion through space elates one; so does notoriety; so does\nthe possession of money. These were three good reasons for Jimmy's\nexcitement. He had been seen by many of his friends that day in the\ncompany of these Continentals. At the control Segouin had presented him\nto one of the French competitors and, in answer to his confused murmur\nof compliment, the swarthy face of the driver had disclosed a line of\nshining white teeth. It was pleasant after that honour to return to the\nprofane world of spectators amid nudges and significant looks. Then as\nto money--he really had a great sum under his control. Segouin, perhaps,\nwould not think it a great sum but Jimmy who, in spite of temporary\nerrors, was at heart the inheritor of solid instincts knew well with\nwhat difficulty it had been got together. This knowledge had previously\nkept his bills within the limits of reasonable recklessness, and, if he\nhad been so conscious of the labour latent in money when there had been\nquestion merely of some freak of the higher intelligence, how much more\nso now when he was about to stake the greater part of his substance! It\nwas a serious thing for him.\n\nOf course, the investment was a good one and Segouin had managed to give\nthe impression that it was by a favour of friendship the mite of Irish\nmoney was to be included in the capital of the concern. Jimmy had a\nrespect for his father's shrewdness in business matters and in this case\nit had been his father who had first suggested the investment; money to\nbe made in the motor business, pots of money. Moreover Segouin had the\nunmistakable air of wealth. Jimmy set out to translate into days' work\nthat lordly car in which he sat. How smoothly it ran. In what style they\nhad come careering along the country roads! The journey laid a magical\nfinger on the genuine pulse of life and gallantly the machinery of human\nnerves strove to answer the bounding courses of the swift blue animal.\n\nThey drove down Dame Street. The street was busy with unusual\ntraffic, loud with the horns of motorists and the gongs of impatient\ntram-drivers. Near the Bank Segouin drew up and Jimmy and his friend\nalighted. A little knot of people collected on the footpath to pay\nhomage to the snorting motor. The party was to dine together that\nevening in Segouin's hotel and, meanwhile, Jimmy and his friend, who was\nstaying with him, were to go home to dress. The car steered out slowly\nfor Grafton Street while the two young men pushed their way through\nthe knot of gazers. They walked northward with a curious feeling of\ndisappointment in the exercise, while the city hung its pale globes of\nlight above them in a haze of summer evening.\n\nIn Jimmy's house this dinner had been pronounced an occasion. A certain\npride mingled with his parents' trepidation, a certain eagerness, also,\nto play fast and loose for the names of great foreign cities have at\nleast this virtue. Jimmy, too, looked very well when he was dressed and,\nas he stood in the hall giving a last equation to the bows of his dress\ntie, his father may have felt even commercially satisfied at having\nsecured for his son qualities often unpurchaseable. His father,\ntherefore, was unusually friendly with Villona and his manner expressed\na real respect for foreign accomplishments; but this subtlety of his\nhost was probably lost upon the Hungarian, who was beginning to have a\nsharp desire for his dinner.\n\nThe dinner was excellent, exquisite. Segouin, Jimmy decided, had a very\nrefined taste. The party was increased by a young Englishman named Routh\nwhom Jimmy had seen with Segouin at Cambridge. The young men supped in\na snug room lit by electric candle-lamps. They talked volubly and with\nlittle reserve. Jimmy, whose imagination was kindling, conceived the\nlively youth of the Frenchmen twined elegantly upon the firm framework\nof the Englishman's manner. A graceful image of his, he thought, and a\njust one. He admired the dexterity with which their host directed the\nconversation. The five young men had various tastes and their tongues\nhad been loosened. Villona, with immense respect, began to discover to\nthe mildly surprised Englishman the beauties of the English madrigal,\ndeploring the loss of old instruments. Riviere, not wholly ingenuously,\nundertook to explain to Jimmy the triumph of the French mechanicians.\nThe resonant voice of the Hungarian was about to prevail in ridicule of\nthe spurious lutes of the romantic painters when Segouin shepherded his\nparty into politics. Here was congenial ground for all. Jimmy, under\ngenerous influences, felt the buried zeal of his father wake to life\nwithin him: he aroused the torpid Routh at last. The room grew doubly\nhot and Segouin's task grew harder each moment: there was even danger\nof personal spite. The alert host at an opportunity lifted his glass\nto Humanity and, when the toast had been drunk, he threw open a window\nsignificantly.\n\nThat night the city wore the mask of a capital. The five young men\nstrolled along Stephen's Green in a faint cloud of aromatic smoke. They\ntalked loudly and gaily and their cloaks dangled from their shoulders.\nThe people made way for them. At the corner of Grafton Street a short\nfat man was putting two handsome ladies on a car in charge of another\nfat man. The car drove off and the short fat man caught sight of the\nparty.\n\n\"Andre.\"\n\n\"It's Farley!\"\n\nA torrent of talk followed. Farley was an American. No one knew very\nwell what the talk was about. Villona and Riviere were the noisiest,\nbut all the men were excited. They got up on a car, squeezing themselves\ntogether amid much laughter. They drove by the crowd, blended now into\nsoft colours, to a music of merry bells. They took the train at Westland\nRow and in a few seconds, as it seemed to Jimmy, they were walking out\nof Kingstown Station. The ticket-collector saluted Jimmy; he was an old\nman:\n\n\"Fine night, sir!\"\n\nIt was a serene summer night; the harbour lay like a darkened mirror at\ntheir feet. They proceeded towards it with linked arms, singing Cadet\nRoussel in chorus, stamping their feet at every:\n\n\"Ho! Ho! Hohe, vraiment!\"\n\nThey got into a rowboat at the slip and made out for the American's\nyacht. There was to be supper, music, cards. Villona said with\nconviction:\n\n\"It is delightful!\"\n\nThere was a yacht piano in the cabin. Villona played a waltz for Farley\nand Riviere, Farley acting as cavalier and Riviere as lady. Then\nan impromptu square dance, the men devising original figures. What\nmerriment! Jimmy took his part with a will; this was seeing life, at\nleast. Then Farley got out of breath and cried \"Stop!\" A man brought in\na light supper, and the young men sat down to it for form's sake. They\ndrank, however: it was Bohemian. They drank Ireland, England, France,\nHungary, the United States of America. Jimmy made a speech, a long\nspeech, Villona saying: \"Hear! hear!\" whenever there was a pause. There\nwas a great clapping of hands when he sat down. It must have been a good\nspeech. Farley clapped him on the back and laughed loudly. What jovial\nfellows! What good company they were!\n\nCards! cards! The table was cleared. Villona returned quietly to his\npiano and played voluntaries for them. The other men played game after\ngame, flinging themselves boldly into the adventure. They drank the\nhealth of the Queen of Hearts and of the Queen of Diamonds. Jimmy felt\nobscurely the lack of an audience: the wit was flashing. Play ran very\nhigh and paper began to pass. Jimmy did not know exactly who was\nwinning but he knew that he was losing. But it was his own fault for\nhe frequently mistook his cards and the other men had to calculate his\nI.O.U.'s for him. They were devils of fellows but he wished they would\nstop: it was getting late. Someone gave the toast of the yacht The Belle\nof Newport and then someone proposed one great game for a finish.\n\nThe piano had stopped; Villona must have gone up on deck. It was a\nterrible game. They stopped just before the end of it to drink for\nluck. Jimmy understood that the game lay between Routh and Segouin. What\nexcitement! Jimmy was excited too; he would lose, of course. How much\nhad he written away? The men rose to their feet to play the last tricks.\ntalking and gesticulating. Routh won. The cabin shook with the young\nmen's cheering and the cards were bundled together. They began then to\ngather in what they had won. Farley and Jimmy were the heaviest losers.\n\nHe knew that he would regret in the morning but at present he was glad\nof the rest, glad of the dark stupor that would cover up his folly. He\nleaned his elbows on the table and rested his head between his hands,\ncounting the beats of his temples. The cabin door opened and he saw the\nHungarian standing in a shaft of grey light:\n\n\"Daybreak, gentlemen!\"\n\n\n\n\nTWO GALLANTS\n\nTHE grey warm evening of August had descended upon the city and a mild\nwarm air, a memory of summer, circulated in the streets. The streets,\nshuttered for the repose of Sunday, swarmed with a gaily coloured crowd.\nLike illumined pearls the lamps shone from the summits of their tall\npoles upon the living texture below which, changing shape and hue\nunceasingly, sent up into the warm grey evening air an unchanging\nunceasing murmur.\n\nTwo young men came down the hill of Rutland Square. One of them was just\nbringing a long monologue to a close. The other, who walked on the verge\nof the path and was at times obliged to step on to the road, owing to\nhis companion's rudeness, wore an amused listening face. He was squat\nand ruddy. A yachting cap was shoved far back from his forehead and the\nnarrative to which he listened made constant waves of expression break\nforth over his face from the corners of his nose and eyes and mouth.\nLittle jets of wheezing laughter followed one another out of his\nconvulsed body. His eyes, twinkling with cunning enjoyment, glanced at\nevery moment towards his companion's face. Once or twice he rearranged\nthe light waterproof which he had slung over one shoulder in toreador\nfashion. His breeches, his white rubber shoes and his jauntily slung\nwaterproof expressed youth. But his figure fell into rotundity at the\nwaist, his hair was scant and grey and his face, when the waves of\nexpression had passed over it, had a ravaged look.\n\nWhen he was quite sure that the narrative had ended he laughed\nnoiselessly for fully half a minute. Then he said:\n\n\"Well!... That takes the biscuit!\"\n\nHis voice seemed winnowed of vigour; and to enforce his words he added\nwith humour:\n\n\"That takes the solitary, unique, and, if I may so call it, recherche\nbiscuit!\"\n\nHe became serious and silent when he had said this. His tongue was tired\nfor he had been talking all the afternoon in a public-house in Dorset\nStreet. Most people considered Lenehan a leech but, in spite of this\nreputation, his adroitness and eloquence had always prevented his\nfriends from forming any general policy against him. He had a brave\nmanner of coming up to a party of them in a bar and of holding himself\nnimbly at the borders of the company until he was included in a round.\nHe was a sporting vagrant armed with a vast stock of stories, limericks\nand riddles. He was insensitive to all kinds of discourtesy. No one\nknew how he achieved the stern task of living, but his name was vaguely\nassociated with racing tissues.\n\n\"And where did you pick her up, Corley?\" he asked.\n\nCorley ran his tongue swiftly along his upper lip.\n\n\"One night, man,\" he said, \"I was going along Dame Street and I spotted\na fine tart under Waterhouse's clock and said good-night, you know. So\nwe went for a walk round by the canal and she told me she was a slavey\nin a house in Baggot Street. I put my arm round her and squeezed her a\nbit that night. Then next Sunday, man, I met her by appointment. We went\nout to Donnybrook and I brought her into a field there. She told me she\nused to go with a dairyman.... It was fine, man. Cigarettes every night\nshe'd bring me and paying the tram out and back. And one night she\nbrought me two bloody fine cigars--O, the real cheese, you know, that\nthe old fellow used to smoke.... I was afraid, man, she'd get in the\nfamily way. But she's up to the dodge.\"\n\n\"Maybe she thinks you'll marry her,\" said Lenehan.\n\n\"I told her I was out of a job,\" said Corley. \"I told her I was in\nPim's. She doesn't know my name. I was too hairy to tell her that. But\nshe thinks I'm a bit of class, you know.\"\n\nLenehan laughed again, noiselessly.\n\n\"Of all the good ones ever I heard,\" he said, \"that emphatically takes\nthe biscuit.\"\n\nCorley's stride acknowledged the compliment. The swing of his burly body\nmade his friend execute a few light skips from the path to the roadway\nand back again. Corley was the son of an inspector of police and he had\ninherited his father's frame and gait. He walked with his hands by his\nsides, holding himself erect and swaying his head from side to side. His\nhead was large, globular and oily; it sweated in all weathers; and his\nlarge round hat, set upon it sideways, looked like a bulb which had\ngrown out of another. He always stared straight before him as if he were\non parade and, when he wished to gaze after someone in the street, it\nwas necessary for him to move his body from the hips. At present he was\nabout town. Whenever any job was vacant a friend was always ready to\ngive him the hard word. He was often to be seen walking with policemen\nin plain clothes, talking earnestly. He knew the inner side of all\naffairs and was fond of delivering final judgments. He spoke without\nlistening to the speech of his companions. His conversation was mainly\nabout himself: what he had said to such a person and what such a person\nhad said to him and what he had said to settle the matter. When he\nreported these dialogues he aspirated the first letter of his name after\nthe manner of Florentines.\n\nLenehan offered his friend a cigarette. As the two young men walked on\nthrough the crowd Corley occasionally turned to smile at some of the\npassing girls but Lenehan's gaze was fixed on the large faint moon\ncircled with a double halo. He watched earnestly the passing of the grey\nweb of twilight across its face. At length he said:\n\n\"Well... tell me, Corley, I suppose you'll be able to pull it off all\nright, eh?\"\n\nCorley closed one eye expressively as an answer.\n\n\"Is she game for that?\" asked Lenehan dubiously. \"You can never know\nwomen.\"\n\n\"She's all right,\" said Corley. \"I know the way to get around her, man.\nShe's a bit gone on me.\"\n\n\"You're what I call a gay Lothario,\" said Lenehan. \"And the proper kind\nof a Lothario, too!\"\n\nA shade of mockery relieved the servility of his manner. To save himself\nhe had the habit of leaving his flattery open to the interpretation of\nraillery. But Corley had not a subtle mind.\n\n\"There's nothing to touch a good slavey,\" he affirmed. \"Take my tip for\nit.\"\n\n\"By one who has tried them all,\" said Lenehan.\n\n\"First I used to go with girls, you know,\" said Corley, unbosoming;\n\"girls off the South Circular. I used to take them out, man, on the\ntram somewhere and pay the tram or take them to a band or a play at the\ntheatre or buy them chocolate and sweets or something that way. I used\nto spend money on them right enough,\" he added, in a convincing tone, as\nif he was conscious of being disbelieved.\n\nBut Lenehan could well believe it; he nodded gravely.\n\n\"I know that game,\" he said, \"and it's a mug's game.\"\n\n\"And damn the thing I ever got out of it,\" said Corley.\n\n\"Ditto here,\" said Lenehan.\n\n\"Only off of one of them,\" said Corley.\n\nHe moistened his upper lip by running his tongue along it. The\nrecollection brightened his eyes. He too gazed at the pale disc of the\nmoon, now nearly veiled, and seemed to meditate.\n\n\"She was... a bit of all right,\" he said regretfully.\n\nHe was silent again. Then he added:\n\n\"She's on the turf now. I saw her driving down Earl Street one night\nwith two fellows with her on a car.\"\n\n\"I suppose that's your doing,\" said Lenehan.\n\n\"There was others at her before me,\" said Corley philosophically.\n\nThis time Lenehan was inclined to disbelieve. He shook his head to and\nfro and smiled.\n\n\"You know you can't kid me, Corley,\" he said.\n\n\"Honest to God!\" said Corley. \"Didn't she tell me herself?\"\n\nLenehan made a tragic gesture.\n\n\"Base betrayer!\" he said.\n\nAs they passed along the railings of Trinity College, Lenehan skipped\nout into the road and peered up at the clock.\n\n\"Twenty after,\" he said.\n\n\"Time enough,\" said Corley. \"She'll be there all right. I always let her\nwait a bit.\"\n\nLenehan laughed quietly.\n\n\"Ecod! Corley, you know how to take them,\" he said.\n\n\"I'm up to all their little tricks,\" Corley confessed.\n\n\"But tell me,\" said Lenehan again, \"are you sure you can bring it off\nall right? You know it's a ticklish job. They're damn close on that\npoint. Eh?... What?\"\n\nHis bright, small eyes searched his companion's face for reassurance.\nCorley swung his head to and fro as if to toss aside an insistent\ninsect, and his brows gathered.\n\n\"I'll pull it off,\" he said. \"Leave it to me, can't you?\"\n\nLenehan said no more. He did not wish to ruffle his friend's temper, to\nbe sent to the devil and told that his advice was not wanted. A little\ntact was necessary. But Corley's brow was soon smooth again. His\nthoughts were running another way.\n\n\"She's a fine decent tart,\" he said, with appreciation; \"that's what she\nis.\"\n\nThey walked along Nassau Street and then turned into Kildare Street. Not\nfar from the porch of the club a harpist stood in the roadway, playing\nto a little ring of listeners. He plucked at the wires heedlessly,\nglancing quickly from time to time at the face of each new-comer and\nfrom time to time, wearily also, at the sky. His harp, too, heedless\nthat her coverings had fallen about her knees, seemed weary alike of the\neyes of strangers and of her master's hands. One hand played in the\nbass the melody of Silent, O Moyle, while the other hand careered in the\ntreble after each group of notes. The notes of the air sounded deep and\nfull.\n\nThe two young men walked up the street without speaking, the mournful\nmusic following them. When they reached Stephen's Green they crossed the\nroad. Here the noise of trams, the lights and the crowd released them\nfrom their silence.\n\n\"There she is!\" said Corley.\n\nAt the corner of Hume Street a young woman was standing. She wore a blue\ndress and a white sailor hat. She stood on the curbstone, swinging a\nsunshade in one hand. Lenehan grew lively.\n\n\"Let's have a look at her, Corley,\" he said.\n\nCorley glanced sideways at his friend and an unpleasant grin appeared on\nhis face.\n\n\"Are you trying to get inside me?\" he asked.\n\n\"Damn it!\" said Lenehan boldly, \"I don't want an introduction. All I\nwant is to have a look at her. I'm not going to eat her.\"\n\n\"O... A look at her?\" said Corley, more amiably. \"Well... I'll tell you\nwhat. I'll go over and talk to her and you can pass by.\"\n\n\"Right!\" said Lenehan.\n\nCorley had already thrown one leg over the chains when Lenehan called\nout:\n\n\"And after? Where will we meet?\"\n\n\"Half ten,\" answered Corley, bringing over his other leg.\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"Corner of Merrion Street. We'll be coming back.\"\n\n\"Work it all right now,\" said Lenehan in farewell.\n\nCorley did not answer. He sauntered across the road swaying his head\nfrom side to side. His bulk, his easy pace, and the solid sound of his\nboots had something of the conqueror in them. He approached the young\nwoman and, without saluting, began at once to converse with her. She\nswung her umbrella more quickly and executed half turns on her heels.\nOnce or twice when he spoke to her at close quarters she laughed and\nbent her head.\n\nLenehan observed them for a few minutes. Then he walked rapidly along\nbeside the chains at some distance and crossed the road obliquely. As he\napproached Hume Street corner he found the air heavily scented and his\neyes made a swift anxious scrutiny of the young woman's appearance. She\nhad her Sunday finery on. Her blue serge skirt was held at the waist by\na belt of black leather. The great silver buckle of her belt seemed to\ndepress the centre of her body, catching the light stuff of her white\nblouse like a clip. She wore a short black jacket with mother-of-pearl\nbuttons and a ragged black boa. The ends of her tulle collarette had\nbeen carefully disordered and a big bunch of red flowers was pinned\nin her bosomm stems upwards. Lenehan's eyes noted approvingly her stout\nshort muscular body. Frank rude health glowed in her face, on her fat red\ncheeks and in her unabashed blue eyes. Her features were blunt. She had\nbroad nostrils, a straggling mouth which lay open in a contented leer,\nand two projecting front teeth. As he passed Lenehan took off his cap\nand, after about ten seconds, Corley returned a salute to the air. This\nhe did by raising his hand vaguely and pensively changing the angle of\nposition of his hat.\n\nLenehan walked as far as the Shelbourne Hotel where he halted and\nwaited. After waiting for a little time he saw them coming towards him\nand, when they turned to the right, he followed them, stepping lightly\nin his white shoes, down one side of Merrion Square. As he walked on\nslowly, timing his pace to theirs, he watched Corley's head which turned\nat every moment towards the young woman's face like a big ball revolving\non a pivot. He kept the pair in view until he had seen them climbing the\nstairs of the Donnybrook tram; then he turned about and went back the\nway he had come.\n\nNow that he was alone his face looked older. His gaiety seemed to\nforsake him and, as he came by the railings of the Duke's Lawn, he\nallowed his hand to run along them. The air which the harpist had played\nbegan to control his movements. His softly padded feet played the melody\nwhile his fingers swept a scale of variations idly along the railings\nafter each group of notes.\n\nHe walked listlessly round Stephen's Green and then down Grafton Street.\nThough his eyes took note of many elements of the crowd through which\nhe passed they did so morosely. He found trivial all that was meant to\ncharm him and did not answer the glances which invited him to be bold.\nHe knew that he would have to speak a great deal, to invent and to amuse,\nand his brain and throat were too dry for such a task. The problem of\nhow he could pass the hours till he met Corley again troubled him a\nlittle. He could think of no way of passing them but to keep on walking.\nHe turned to the left when he came to the corner of Rutland Square and\nfelt more at ease in the dark quiet street, the sombre look of which\nsuited his mood. He paused at last before the window of a poor-looking\nshop over which the words Refreshment Bar were printed in white letters.\nOn the glass of the window were two flying inscriptions: Ginger Beer and\nGinger Ale. A cut ham was exposed on a great blue dish while near it\non a plate lay a segment of very light plum-pudding. He eyed this food\nearnestly for some time and then, after glancing warily up and down the\nstreet, went into the shop quickly.\n\nHe was hungry for, except some biscuits which he had asked two grudging\ncurates to bring him, he had eaten nothing since breakfast-time. He\nsat down at an uncovered wooden table opposite two work-girls and a\nmechanic. A slatternly girl waited on him.\n\n\"How much is a plate of peas?\" he asked.\n\n\"Three halfpence, sir,\" said the girl.\n\n\"Bring me a plate of peas,\" he said, \"and a bottle of ginger beer.\"\n\nHe spoke roughly in order to belie his air of gentility for his entry\nhad been followed by a pause of talk. His face was heated. To appear\nnatural he pushed his cap back on his head and planted his elbows on the\ntable. The mechanic and the two work-girls examined him point by point\nbefore resuming their conversation in a subdued voice. The girl brought\nhim a plate of grocer's hot peas, seasoned with pepper and vinegar, a\nfork and his ginger beer. He ate his food greedily and found it so good\nthat he made a note of the shop mentally. When he had eaten all the peas\nhe sipped his ginger beer and sat for some time thinking of Corley's\nadventure. In his imagination he beheld the pair of lovers walking along\nsome dark road; he heard Corley's voice in deep energetic gallantries\nand saw again the leer of the young woman's mouth. This vision made\nhim feel keenly his own poverty of purse and spirit. He was tired\nof knocking about, of pulling the devil by the tail, of shifts and\nintrigues. He would be thirty-one in November. Would he never get a good\njob? Would he never have a home of his own? He thought how pleasant it\nwould be to have a warm fire to sit by and a good dinner to sit down to.\nHe had walked the streets long enough with friends and with girls. He\nknew what those friends were worth: he knew the girls too. Experience\nhad embittered his heart against the world. But all hope had not left\nhim. He felt better after having eaten than he had felt before, less\nweary of his life, less vanquished in spirit. He might yet be able to\nsettle down in some snug corner and live happily if he could only come\nacross some good simple-minded girl with a little of the ready.\n\nHe paid twopence halfpenny to the slatternly girl and went out of the\nshop to begin his wandering again. He went into Capel Street and walked\nalong towards the City Hall. Then he turned into Dame Street. At the\ncorner of George's Street he met two friends of his and stopped to\nconverse with them. He was glad that he could rest from all his walking.\nHis friends asked him had he seen Corley and what was the latest. He\nreplied that he had spent the day with Corley. His friends talked\nvery little. They looked vacantly after some figures in the crowd and\nsometimes made a critical remark. One said that he had seen Mac an hour\nbefore in Westmoreland Street. At this Lenehan said that he had been\nwith Mac the night before in Egan's. The young man who had seen Mac\nin Westmoreland Street asked was it true that Mac had won a bit over\na billiard match. Lenehan did not know: he said that Holohan had stood\nthem drinks in Egan's.\n\nHe left his friends at a quarter to ten and went up George's Street.\nHe turned to the left at the City Markets and walked on into Grafton\nStreet. The crowd of girls and young men had thinned and on his way\nup the street he heard many groups and couples bidding one another\ngood-night. He went as far as the clock of the College of Surgeons: it\nwas on the stroke of ten. He set off briskly along the northern side\nof the Green hurrying for fear Corley should return too soon. When he\nreached the corner of Merrion Street he took his stand in the shadow of\na lamp and brought out one of the cigarettes which he had reserved and\nlit it. He leaned against the lamp-post and kept his gaze fixed on the\npart from which he expected to see Corley and the young woman return.\n\nHis mind became active again. He wondered had Corley managed it\nsuccessfully. He wondered if he had asked her yet or if he would leave\nit to the last. He suffered all the pangs and thrills of his friend's\nsituation as well as those of his own. But the memory of Corley's slowly\nrevolving head calmed him somewhat: he was sure Corley would pull it off\nall right. All at once the idea struck him that perhaps Corley had seen\nher home by another way and given him the slip. His eyes searched the\nstreet: there was no sign of them. Yet it was surely half-an-hour since\nhe had seen the clock of the College of Surgeons. Would Corley do\na thing like that? He lit his last cigarette and began to smoke it\nnervously. He strained his eyes as each tram stopped at the far corner\nof the square. They must have gone home by another way. The paper of his\ncigarette broke and he flung it into the road with a curse.\n\nSuddenly he saw them coming towards him. He started with delight and,\nkeeping close to his lamp-post, tried to read the result in their walk.\nThey were walking quickly, the young woman taking quick short steps,\nwhile Corley kept beside her with his long stride. They did not seem to\nbe speaking. An intimation of the result pricked him like the point of a\nsharp instrument. He knew Corley would fail; he knew it was no go.\n\nThey turned down Baggot Street and he followed them at once, taking the\nother footpath. When they stopped he stopped too. They talked for a few\nmoments and then the young woman went down the steps into the area of\na house. Corley remained standing at the edge of the path, a little\ndistance from the front steps. Some minutes passed. Then the hall-door\nwas opened slowly and cautiously. A woman came running down the front\nsteps and coughed. Corley turned and went towards her. His broad figure\nhid hers from view for a few seconds and then she reappeared running\nup the steps. The door closed on her and Corley began to walk swiftly\ntowards Stephen's Green.\n\nLenehan hurried on in the same direction. Some drops of light rain fell.\nHe took them as a warning and, glancing back towards the house which the\nyoung woman had entered to see that he was not observed, he ran eagerly\nacross the road. Anxiety and his swift run made him pant. He called out:\n\n\"Hallo, Corley!\"\n\nCorley turned his head to see who had called him, and then continued\nwalking as before. Lenehan ran after him, settling the waterproof on his\nshoulders with one hand.\n\n\"Hallo, Corley!\" he cried again.\n\nHe came level with his friend and looked keenly in his face. He could\nsee nothing there.\n\n\"Well?\" he said. \"Did it come off?\"\n\nThey had reached the corner of Ely Place. Still without answering,\nCorley swerved to the left and went up the side street. His features\nwere composed in stern calm. Lenehan kept up with his friend, breathing\nuneasily. He was baffled and a note of menace pierced through his voice.\n\n\"Can't you tell us?\" he said. \"Did you try her?\"\n\nCorley halted at the first lamp and stared grimly before him. Then\nwith a grave gesture he extended a hand towards the light and, smiling,\nopened it slowly to the gaze of his disciple. A small gold coin shone in\nthe palm.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BOARDING HOUSE\n\nMRS. MOONEY was a butcher's daughter. She was a woman who was quite\nable to keep things to herself: a determined woman. She had married her\nfather's foreman and opened a butcher's shop near Spring Gardens. But as\nsoon as his father-in-law was dead Mr. Mooney began to go to the devil.\nHe drank, plundered the till, ran headlong into debt. It was no use\nmaking him take the pledge: he was sure to break out again a few days\nafter. By fighting his wife in the presence of customers and by buying\nbad meat he ruined his business. One night he went for his wife with the\ncleaver and she had to sleep in a neighbour's house.\n\nAfter that they lived apart. She went to the priest and got a separation\nfrom him with care of the children. She would give him neither money\nnor food nor house-room; and so he was obliged to enlist himself as a\nsheriff's man. He was a shabby stooped little drunkard with a white face\nand a white moustache and white eyebrows, pencilled above his little eyes,\nwhich were pink-veined and raw; and all day long he sat in the bailiff's\nroom, waiting to be put on a job. Mrs. Mooney, who had taken what\nremained of her money out of the butcher business and set up a boarding\nhouse in Hardwicke Street, was a big imposing woman. Her house had a\nfloating population made up of tourists from Liverpool and the Isle\nof Man and, occasionally, artistes from the music halls. Its resident\npopulation was made up of clerks from the city. She governed her house\ncunningly and firmly, knew when to give credit, when to be stern and\nwhen to let things pass. All the resident young men spoke of her as The\nMadam.\n\n\nMrs. Mooney's young men paid fifteen shillings a week for board and\nlodgings (beer or stout at dinner excluded). They shared in common\ntastes and occupations and for this reason they were very chummy with\none another. They discussed with one another the chances of favourites\nand outsiders. Jack Mooney, the Madam's son, who was clerk to a\ncommission agent in Fleet Street, had the reputation of being a hard\ncase. He was fond of using soldiers' obscenities: usually he came home\nin the small hours. When he met his friends he had always a good one\nto tell them and he was always sure to be on to a good thing--that is to\nsay, a likely horse or a likely artiste. He was also handy with the mits\nand sang comic songs. On Sunday nights there would often be a reunion in\nMrs. Mooney's front drawing-room. The music-hall artistes would oblige;\nand Sheridan played waltzes and polkas and vamped accompaniments. Polly\nMooney, the Madam's daughter, would also sing. She sang:\n\n           I'm a... naughty girl.\n             You needn't sham:\n             You know I am.\n\nPolly was a slim girl of nineteen; she had light soft hair and a small\nfull mouth. Her eyes, which were grey with a shade of green through\nthem, had a habit of glancing upwards when she spoke with anyone, which\nmade her look like a little perverse madonna. Mrs. Mooney had first\nsent her daughter to be a typist in a corn-factor's office but, as a\ndisreputable sheriff's man used to come every other day to the office,\nasking to be allowed to say a word to his daughter, she had taken her\ndaughter home again and set her to do housework. As Polly was very\nlively the intention was to give her the run of the young men. Besides,\nyoung men like to feel that there is a young woman not very far away.\nPolly, of course, flirted with the young men but Mrs. Mooney, who was a\nshrewd judge, knew that the young men were only passing the time away:\nnone of them meant business. Things went on so for a long time and Mrs.\nMooney began to think of sending Polly back to typewriting when she\nnoticed that something was going on between Polly and one of the young\nmen. She watched the pair and kept her own counsel.\n\nPolly knew that she was being watched, but still her mother's persistent\nsilence could not be misunderstood. There had been no open complicity\nbetween mother and daughter, no open understanding but, though people\nin the house began to talk of the affair, still Mrs. Mooney did not\nintervene. Polly began to grow a little strange in her manner and the\nyoung man was evidently perturbed. At last, when she judged it to be the\nright moment, Mrs. Mooney intervened. She dealt with moral problems as a\ncleaver deals with meat: and in this case she had made up her mind.\n\nIt was a bright Sunday morning of early summer, promising heat, but with\na fresh breeze blowing. All the windows of the boarding house were open\nand the lace curtains ballooned gently towards the street beneath the\nraised sashes. The belfry of George's Church sent out constant peals and\nworshippers, singly or in groups, traversed the little circus before\nthe church, revealing their purpose by their self-contained demeanour\nno less than by the little volumes in their gloved hands. Breakfast\nwas over in the boarding house and the table of the breakfast-room was\ncovered with plates on which lay yellow streaks of eggs with morsels\nof bacon-fat and bacon-rind. Mrs. Mooney sat in the straw arm-chair\nand watched the servant Mary remove the breakfast things. She made Mary\ncollect the crusts and pieces of broken bread to help to make Tuesday's\nbread-pudding. When the table was cleared, the broken bread collected,\nthe sugar and butter safe under lock and key, she began to reconstruct\nthe interview which she had had the night before with Polly. Things were\nas she had suspected: she had been frank in her questions and Polly had\nbeen frank in her answers. Both had been somewhat awkward, of course.\nShe had been made awkward by her not wishing to receive the news in too\ncavalier a fashion or to seem to have connived and Polly had been\nmade awkward not merely because allusions of that kind always made her\nawkward but also because she did not wish it to be thought that in\nher wise innocence she had divined the intention behind her mother's\ntolerance.\n\nMrs. Mooney glanced instinctively at the little gilt clock on the\nmantelpiece as soon as she had become aware through her revery that the\nbells of George's Church had stopped ringing. It was seventeen minutes\npast eleven: she would have lots of time to have the matter out with Mr.\nDoran and then catch short twelve at Marlborough Street. She was sure\nshe would win. To begin with she had all the weight of social opinion\non her side: she was an outraged mother. She had allowed him to live\nbeneath her roof, assuming that he was a man of honour, and he had simply\nabused her hospitality. He was thirty-four or thirty-five years of age,\nso that youth could not be pleaded as his excuse; nor could ignorance\nbe his excuse since he was a man who had seen something of the world. He\nhad simply taken advantage of Polly's youth and inexperience: that was\nevident. The question was: What reparation would he make?\n\nThere must be reparation made in such cases. It is all very well for\nthe man: he can go his ways as if nothing had happened, having had his\nmoment of pleasure, but the girl has to bear the brunt. Some mothers\nwould be content to patch up such an affair for a sum of money; she had\nknown cases of it. But she would not do so. For her only one reparation\ncould make up for the loss of her daughter's honour: marriage.\n\nShe counted all her cards again before sending Mary up to Mr. Doran's room\nto say that she wished to speak with him. She felt sure she would win.\nHe was a serious young man, not rakish or loud-voiced like the others.\nIf it had been Mr. Sheridan or Mr. Meade or Bantam Lyons her task would\nhave been much harder. She did not think he would face publicity. All\nthe lodgers in the house knew something of the affair; details had been\ninvented by some. Besides, he had been employed for thirteen years in a\ngreat Catholic wine-merchant's office and publicity would mean for him,\nperhaps, the loss of his job. Whereas if he agreed all might be well.\nShe knew he had a good screw for one thing and she suspected he had a\nbit of stuff put by.\n\nNearly the half-hour! She stood up and surveyed herself in the\npier-glass. The decisive expression of her great florid face satisfied\nher and she thought of some mothers she knew who could not get their\ndaughters off their hands.\n\nMr. Doran was very anxious indeed this Sunday morning. He had made two\nattempts to shave but his hand had been so unsteady that he had been\nobliged to desist. Three days' reddish beard fringed his jaws and every\ntwo or three minutes a mist gathered on his glasses so that he had\nto take them off and polish them with his pocket-handkerchief. The\nrecollection of his confession of the night before was a cause of acute\npain to him; the priest had drawn out every ridiculous detail of the\naffair and in the end had so magnified his sin that he was almost\nthankful at being afforded a loophole of reparation. The harm was done.\nWhat could he do now but marry her or run away? He could not brazen it\nout. The affair would be sure to be talked of and his employer would\nbe certain to hear of it. Dublin is such a small city: everyone knows\neveryone else's business. He felt his heart leap warmly in his throat as\nhe heard in his excited imagination old Mr. Leonard calling out in his\nrasping voice: \"Send Mr. Doran here, please.\"\n\nAll his long years of service gone for nothing! All his industry and\ndiligence thrown away! As a young man he had sown his wild oats, of\ncourse; he had boasted of his free-thinking and denied the existence of\nGod to his companions in public-houses. But that was all passed and done\nwith... nearly. He still bought a copy of Reynolds's Newspaper every\nweek but he attended to his religious duties and for nine-tenths of the\nyear lived a regular life. He had money enough to settle down on; it was\nnot that. But the family would look down on her. First of all there\nwas her disreputable father and then her mother's boarding house was\nbeginning to get a certain fame. He had a notion that he was being had.\nHe could imagine his friends talking of the affair and laughing. She was\na little vulgar; some times she said \"I seen\" and \"If I had've known.\"\nBut what would grammar matter if he really loved her? He could not make\nup his mind whether to like her or despise her for what she had done. Of\ncourse he had done it too. His instinct urged him to remain free, not to\nmarry. Once you are married you are done for, it said.\n\nWhile he was sitting helplessly on the side of the bed in shirt and\ntrousers she tapped lightly at his door and entered. She told him all,\nthat she had made a clean breast of it to her mother and that her mother\nwould speak with him that morning. She cried and threw her arms round\nhis neck, saying:\n\n\"O Bob! Bob! What am I to do? What am I to do at all?\"\n\nShe would put an end to herself, she said.\n\nHe comforted her feebly, telling her not to cry, that it would be all\nright, never fear. He felt against his shirt the agitation of her bosom.\n\nIt was not altogether his fault that it had happened. He remembered\nwell, with the curious patient memory of the celibate, the first casual\ncaresses her dress, her breath, her fingers had given him. Then late one\nnight as he was undressing for bed she had tapped at his door, timidly. She\nwanted to relight her candle at his for hers had been blown out by a\ngust. It was her bath night. She wore a loose open combing-jacket of\nprinted flannel. Her white instep shone in the opening of her furry\nslippers and the blood glowed warmly behind her perfumed skin. From her\nhands and wrists too as she lit and steadied her candle a faint perfume\narose.\n\nOn nights when he came in very late it was she who warmed up his dinner.\nHe scarcely knew what he was eating, feeling her beside him alone, at\nnight, in the sleeping house. And her thoughtfulness! If the night was\nanyway cold or wet or windy there was sure to be a little tumbler of\npunch ready for him. Perhaps they could be happy together....\n\nThey used to go upstairs together on tiptoe, each with a candle, and on\nthe third landing exchange reluctant good-nights. They used to kiss. He\nremembered well her eyes, the touch of her hand and his delirium....\n\nBut delirium passes. He echoed her phrase, applying it to himself: \"What\nam I to do?\" The instinct of the celibate warned him to hold back. But\nthe sin was there; even his sense of honour told him that reparation\nmust be made for such a sin.\n\nWhile he was sitting with her on the side of the bed Mary came to the\ndoor and said that the missus wanted to see him in the parlour. He stood\nup to put on his coat and waistcoat, more helpless than ever. When he\nwas dressed he went over to her to comfort her. It would be all right,\nnever fear. He left her crying on the bed and moaning softly: \"O my\nGod!\"\n\nGoing down the stairs his glasses became so dimmed with moisture that\nhe had to take them off and polish them. He longed to ascend through the\nroof and fly away to another country where he would never hear again\nof his trouble, and yet a force pushed him downstairs step by step.\nThe implacable faces of his employer and of the Madam stared upon his\ndiscomfiture. On the last flight of stairs he passed Jack Mooney who\nwas coming up from the pantry nursing two bottles of Bass. They saluted\ncoldly; and the lover's eyes rested for a second or two on a thick\nbulldog face and a pair of thick short arms. When he reached the foot of\nthe staircase he glanced up and saw Jack regarding him from the door of\nthe return-room.\n\nSuddenly he remembered the night when one of the music-hall artistes,\na little blond Londoner, had made a rather free allusion to Polly.\nThe reunion had been almost broken up on account of Jack's violence.\nEveryone tried to quiet him. The music-hall artiste, a little paler than\nusual, kept smiling and saying that there was no harm meant: but Jack\nkept shouting at him that if any fellow tried that sort of a game on\nwith his sister he'd bloody well put his teeth down his throat, so he\nwould.\n\nPolly sat for a little time on the side of the bed, crying. Then she\ndried her eyes and went over to the looking-glass. She dipped the end of\nthe towel in the water-jug and refreshed her eyes with the cool water.\nShe looked at herself in profile and readjusted a hairpin above her ear.\nThen she went back to the bed again and sat at the foot. She regarded\nthe pillows for a long time and the sight of them awakened in her mind\nsecret, amiable memories. She rested the nape of her neck against the\ncool iron bed-rail and fell into a reverie. There was no longer any\nperturbation visible on her face.\n\nShe waited on patiently, almost cheerfully, without alarm, her memories\ngradually giving place to hopes and visions of the future. Her hopes and\nvisions were so intricate that she no longer saw the white pillows\non which her gaze was fixed or remembered that she was waiting for\nanything.\n\nAt last she heard her mother calling. She started to her feet and ran to\nthe banisters.\n\n\"Polly! Polly!\"\n\n\"Yes, mamma?\"\n\n\"Come down, dear. Mr. Doran wants to speak to you.\"\n\nThen she remembered what she had been waiting for.\n\n\n\n\nA LITTLE CLOUD\n\nEIGHT years before he had seen his friend off at the North Wall and\nwished him godspeed. Gallaher had got on. You could tell that at once\nby his travelled air, his well-cut tweed suit, and fearless accent. Few\nfellows had talents like his and fewer still could remain unspoiled\nby such success. Gallaher's heart was in the right place and he had\ndeserved to win. It was something to have a friend like that.\n\nLittle Chandler's thoughts ever since lunch-time had been of his meeting\nwith Gallaher, of Gallaher's invitation and of the great city London\nwhere Gallaher lived. He was called Little Chandler because, though\nhe was but slightly under the average stature, he gave one the idea\nof being a little man. His hands were white and small, his frame was\nfragile, his voice was quiet and his manners were refined. He took the\ngreatest care of his fair silken hair and moustache and used perfume\ndiscreetly on his handkerchief. The half-moons of his nails were perfect\nand when he smiled you caught a glimpse of a row of childish white\nteeth.\n\nAs he sat at his desk in the King's Inns he thought what changes those\neight years had brought. The friend whom he had known under a shabby and\nnecessitous guise had become a brilliant figure on the London Press. He\nturned often from his tiresome writing to gaze out of the office window.\nThe glow of a late autumn sunset covered the grass plots and walks. It\ncast a shower of kindly golden dust on the untidy nurses and decrepit\nold men who drowsed on the benches; it flickered upon all the moving\nfigures--on the children who ran screaming along the gravel paths and\non everyone who passed through the gardens. He watched the scene and\nthought of life; and (as always happened when he thought of life) he\nbecame sad. A gentle melancholy took possession of him. He felt how\nuseless it was to struggle against fortune, this being the burden of\nwisdom which the ages had bequeathed to him.\n\nHe remembered the books of poetry upon his shelves at home. He had\nbought them in his bachelor days and many an evening, as he sat in the\nlittle room off the hall, he had been tempted to take one down from the\nbookshelf and read out something to his wife. But shyness had always\nheld him back; and so the books had remained on their shelves. At times\nhe repeated lines to himself and this consoled him.\n\nWhen his hour had struck he stood up and took leave of his desk and of\nhis fellow-clerks punctiliously. He emerged from under the feudal\narch of the King's Inns, a neat modest figure, and walked swiftly down\nHenrietta Street. The golden sunset was waning and the air had grown\nsharp. A horde of grimy children populated the street. They stood or\nran in the roadway or crawled up the steps before the gaping doors or\nsquatted like mice upon the thresholds. Little Chandler gave them no\nthought. He picked his way deftly through all that minute vermin-like\nlife and under the shadow of the gaunt spectral mansions in which the\nold nobility of Dublin had roystered. No memory of the past touched him,\nfor his mind was full of a present joy.\n\nHe had never been in Corless's but he knew the value of the name. He\nknew that people went there after the theatre to eat oysters and drink\nliqueurs; and he had heard that the waiters there spoke French and\nGerman. Walking swiftly by at night he had seen cabs drawn up before the\ndoor and richly dressed ladies, escorted by cavaliers, alight and\nenter quickly. They wore noisy dresses and many wraps. Their faces were\npowdered and they caught up their dresses, when they touched earth,\nlike alarmed Atalantas. He had always passed without turning his head\nto look. It was his habit to walk swiftly in the street even by day and\nwhenever he found himself in the city late at night he hurried on his\nway apprehensively and excitedly. Sometimes, however, he courted the\ncauses of his fear. He chose the darkest and narrowest streets and,\nas he walked boldly forward, the silence that was spread about his\nfootsteps troubled him, the wandering, silent figures troubled him; and\nat times a sound of low fugitive laughter made him tremble like a leaf.\n\nHe turned to the right towards Capel Street. Ignatius Gallaher on the\nLondon Press! Who would have thought it possible eight years before?\nStill, now that he reviewed the past, Little Chandler could remember\nmany signs of future greatness in his friend. People used to say that\nIgnatius Gallaher was wild. Of course, he did mix with a rakish set of\nfellows at that time, drank freely and borrowed money on all sides.\nIn the end he had got mixed up in some shady affair, some money\ntransaction: at least, that was one version of his flight. But nobody\ndenied him talent. There was always a certain... something in Ignatius\nGallaher that impressed you in spite of yourself. Even when he was out\nat elbows and at his wits' end for money he kept up a bold face. Little\nChandler remembered (and the remembrance brought a slight flush of pride\nto his cheek) one of Ignatius Gallaher's sayings when he was in a tight\ncorner:\n\n\"Half time now, boys,\" he used to say light-heartedly. \"Where's my\nconsidering cap?\"\n\nThat was Ignatius Gallaher all out; and, damn it, you couldn't but\nadmire him for it.\n\nLittle Chandler quickened his pace. For the first time in his life he\nfelt himself superior to the people he passed. For the first time his\nsoul revolted against the dull inelegance of Capel Street. There was no\ndoubt about it: if you wanted to succeed you had to go away. You could\ndo nothing in Dublin. As he crossed Grattan Bridge he looked down the\nriver towards the lower quays and pitied the poor stunted houses. They\nseemed to him a band of tramps, huddled together along the riverbanks,\ntheir old coats covered with dust and soot, stupefied by the panorama\nof sunset and waiting for the first chill of night bid them arise, shake\nthemselves and begone. He wondered whether he could write a poem to\nexpress his idea. Perhaps Gallaher might be able to get it into some\nLondon paper for him. Could he write something original? He was not sure\nwhat idea he wished to express but the thought that a poetic moment had\ntouched him took life within him like an infant hope. He stepped onward\nbravely.\n\nEvery step brought him nearer to London, farther from his own sober\ninartistic life. A light began to tremble on the horizon of his mind. He\nwas not so old--thirty-two. His temperament might be said to be just\nat the point of maturity. There were so many different moods and\nimpressions that he wished to express in verse. He felt them within him.\nHe tried weigh to his soul to see if it was a poet's soul. Melancholy\nwas the dominant note of his temperament, he thought, but it was a\nmelancholy tempered by recurrences of faith and resignation and simple\njoy. If he could give expression to it in a book of poems perhaps men\nwould listen. He would never be popular: he saw that. He could not sway\nthe crowd but he might appeal to a little circle of kindred minds.\nThe English critics, perhaps, would recognise him as one of the Celtic\nschool by reason of the melancholy tone of his poems; besides that, he\nwould put in allusions. He began to invent sentences and phrases from\nthe notice which his book would get. \"Mr. Chandler has the gift of easy\nand graceful verse.\"... \"wistful sadness pervades these poems.\"... \"The\nCeltic note.\" It was a pity his name was not more Irish-looking. Perhaps\nit would be better to insert his mother's name before the surname:\nThomas Malone Chandler, or better still: T. Malone Chandler. He would\nspeak to Gallaher about it.\n\nHe pursued his revery so ardently that he passed his street and had\nto turn back. As he came near Corless's his former agitation began to\novermaster him and he halted before the door in indecision. Finally he\nopened the door and entered.\n\nThe light and noise of the bar held him at the doorways for a few\nmoments. He looked about him, but his sight was confused by the shining\nof many red and green wine-glasses The bar seemed to him to be full\nof people and he felt that the people were observing him curiously. He\nglanced quickly to right and left (frowning slightly to make his errand\nappear serious), but when his sight cleared a little he saw that nobody\nhad turned to look at him: and there, sure enough, was Ignatius Gallaher\nleaning with his back against the counter and his feet planted far\napart.\n\n\"Hallo, Tommy, old hero, here you are! What is it to be? What will you\nhave? I'm taking whisky: better stuff than we get across the water.\nSoda? Lithia? No mineral? I'm the same. Spoils the flavour.... Here,\ngarcon, bring us two halves of malt whisky, like a good fellow.... Well,\nand how have you been pulling along since I saw you last? Dear God,\nhow old we're getting! Do you see any signs of aging in me--eh, what? A\nlittle grey and thin on the top--what?\"\n\nIgnatius Gallaher took off his hat and displayed a large closely cropped\nhead. His face was heavy, pale and cleanshaven. His eyes, which were of\nbluish slate-colour, relieved his unhealthy pallor and shone out plainly\nabove the vivid orange tie he wore. Between these rival features the\nlips appeared very long and shapeless and colourless. He bent his head\nand felt with two sympathetic fingers the thin hair at the crown. Little\nChandler shook his head as a denial. Ignatius Galaher put on his hat\nagain.\n\n\"It pulls you down,\" he said. \"Press life. Always hurry and scurry,\nlooking for copy and sometimes not finding it: and then, always to have\nsomething new in your stuff. Damn proofs and printers, I say, for a few\ndays. I'm deuced glad, I can tell you, to get back to the old country.\nDoes a fellow good, a bit of a holiday. I feel a ton better since I\nlanded again in dear dirty Dublin.... Here you are, Tommy. Water? Say\nwhen.\"\n\nLittle Chandler allowed his whisky to be very much diluted.\n\n\"You don't know what's good for you, my boy,\" said Ignatius Gallaher. \"I\ndrink mine neat.\"\n\n\"I drink very little as a rule,\" said Little Chandler modestly. \"An odd\nhalf-one or so when I meet any of the old crowd: that's all.\"\n\n\"Ah well,\" said Ignatius Gallaher, cheerfully, \"here's to us and to old\ntimes and old acquaintance.\"\n\nThey clinked glasses and drank the toast.\n\n\"I met some of the old gang today,\" said Ignatius Gallaher. \"O'Hara\nseems to be in a bad way. What's he doing?\"\n\n\"Nothing,\" said Little Chandler. \"He's gone to the dogs.\"\n\n\"But Hogan has a good sit, hasn't he?\"\n\n\"Yes; he's in the Land Commission.\"\n\n\"I met him one night in London and he seemed to be very flush.... Poor\nO'Hara! Boose, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Other things, too,\" said Little Chandler shortly.\n\nIgnatius Gallaher laughed.\n\n\"Tommy,\" he said, \"I see you haven't changed an atom. You're the very\nsame serious person that used to lecture me on Sunday mornings when I\nhad a sore head and a fur on my tongue. You'd want to knock about a bit\nin the world. Have you never been anywhere even for a trip?\"\n\n\"I've been to the Isle of Man,\" said Little Chandler.\n\nIgnatius Gallaher laughed.\n\n\"The Isle of Man!\" he said. \"Go to London or Paris: Paris, for choice.\nThat'd do you good.\"\n\n\"Have you seen Paris?\"\n\n\"I should think I have! I've knocked about there a little.\"\n\n\"And is it really so beautiful as they say?\" asked Little Chandler.\n\nHe sipped a little of his drink while Ignatius Gallaher finished his\nboldly.\n\n\"Beautiful?\" said Ignatius Gallaher, pausing on the word and on the\nflavour of his drink. \"It's not so beautiful, you know. Of course, it is\nbeautiful.... But it's the life of Paris; that's the thing. Ah, there's\nno city like Paris for gaiety, movement, excitement....\"\n\nLittle Chandler finished his whisky and, after some trouble, succeeded\nin catching the barman's eye. He ordered the same again.\n\n\"I've been to the Moulin Rouge,\" Ignatius Gallaher continued when the\nbarman had removed their glasses, \"and I've been to all the Bohemian\ncafes. Hot stuff! Not for a pious chap like you, Tommy.\"\n\nLittle Chandler said nothing until the barman returned with two glasses:\nthen he touched his friend's glass lightly and reciprocated the former\ntoast. He was beginning to feel somewhat disillusioned. Gallaher's\naccent and way of expressing himself did not please him. There was\nsomething vulgar in his friend which he had not observed before. But\nperhaps it was only the result of living in London amid the bustle and\ncompetition of the Press. The old personal charm was still there under\nthis new gaudy manner. And, after all, Gallaher had lived, he had seen\nthe world. Little Chandler looked at his friend enviously.\n\n\"Everything in Paris is gay,\" said Ignatius Gallaher. \"They believe in\nenjoying life--and don't you think they're right? If you want to enjoy\nyourself properly you must go to Paris. And, mind you, they've a great\nfeeling for the Irish there. When they heard I was from Ireland they\nwere ready to eat me, man.\"\n\nLittle Chandler took four or five sips from his glass.\n\n\"Tell me,\" he said, \"is it true that Paris is so... immoral as they\nsay?\"\n\nIgnatius Gallaher made a catholic gesture with his right arm.\n\n\"Every place is immoral,\" he said. \"Of course you do find spicy bits in\nParis. Go to one of the students' balls, for instance. That's lively, if\nyou like, when the cocottes begin to let themselves loose. You know what\nthey are, I suppose?\"\n\n\"I've heard of them,\" said Little Chandler.\n\nIgnatius Gallaher drank off his whisky and shook his head.\n\n\"Ah,\" he said, \"you may say what you like. There's no woman like the\nParisienne--for style, for go.\"\n\n\"Then it is an immoral city,\" said Little Chandler, with timid\ninsistence--\"I mean, compared with London or Dublin?\"\n\n\"London!\" said Ignatius Gallaher. \"It's six of one and half-a-dozen of\nthe other. You ask Hogan, my boy. I showed him a bit about London when\nhe was over there. He'd open your eye.... I say, Tommy, don't make punch\nof that whisky: liquor up.\"\n\n\"No, really....\"\n\n\"O, come on, another one won't do you any harm. What is it? The same\nagain, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Well... all right.\"\n\n\"Francois, the same again.... Will you smoke, Tommy?\"\n\nIgnatius Gallaher produced his cigar-case. The two friends lit their\ncigars and puffed at them in silence until their drinks were served.\n\n\"I'll tell you my opinion,\" said Ignatius Gallaher, emerging after some\ntime from the clouds of smoke in which he had taken refuge, \"it's a rum\nworld. Talk of immorality! I've heard of cases--what am I saying?--I've\nknown them: cases of... immorality....\"\n\nIgnatius Gallaher puffed thoughtfully at his cigar and then, in a calm\nhistorian's tone, he proceeded to sketch for his friend some pictures\nof the corruption which was rife abroad. He summarised the vices of many\ncapitals and seemed inclined to award the palm to Berlin. Some things he\ncould not vouch for (his friends had told him), but of others he had had\npersonal experience. He spared neither rank nor caste. He revealed many\nof the secrets of religious houses on the Continent and described some\nof the practices which were fashionable in high society and ended by\ntelling, with details, a story about an English duchess--a story which\nhe knew to be true. Little Chandler was astonished.\n\n\"Ah, well,\" said Ignatius Gallaher, \"here we are in old jog-along Dublin\nwhere nothing is known of such things.\"\n\n\"How dull you must find it,\" said Little Chandler, \"after all the other\nplaces you've seen!\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Ignatius Gallaher, \"it's a relaxation to come over here,\nyou know. And, after all, it's the old country, as they say, isn't it?\nYou can't help having a certain feeling for it. That's human nature....\nBut tell me something about yourself. Hogan told me you had... tasted\nthe joys of connubial bliss. Two years ago, wasn't it?\"\n\nLittle Chandler blushed and smiled.\n\n\"Yes,\" he said. \"I was married last May twelve months.\"\n\n\"I hope it's not too late in the day to offer my best wishes,\" said\nIgnatius Gallaher. \"I didn't know your address or I'd have done so at\nthe time.\"\n\nHe extended his hand, which Little Chandler took.\n\n\"Well, Tommy,\" he said, \"I wish you and yours every joy in life, old\nchap, and tons of money, and may you never die till I shoot you. And\nthat's the wish of a sincere friend, an old friend. You know that?\"\n\n\"I know that,\" said Little Chandler.\n\n\"Any youngsters?\" said Ignatius Gallaher.\n\nLittle Chandler blushed again.\n\n\"We have one child,\" he said.\n\n\"Son or daughter?\"\n\n\"A little boy.\"\n\nIgnatius Gallaher slapped his friend sonorously on the back.\n\n\"Bravo,\" he said, \"I wouldn't doubt you, Tommy.\"\n\nLittle Chandler smiled, looked confusedly at his glass and bit his lower\nlip with three childishly white front teeth.\n\n\"I hope you'll spend an evening with us,\" he said, \"before you go\nback. My wife will be delighted to meet you. We can have a little music\nand----\"\n\n\"Thanks awfully, old chap,\" said Ignatius Gallaher, \"I'm sorry we didn't\nmeet earlier. But I must leave tomorrow night.\"\n\n\"Tonight, perhaps...?\"\n\n\"I'm awfully sorry, old man. You see I'm over here with another\nfellow, clever young chap he is too, and we arranged to go to a little\ncard-party. Only for that...\"\n\n\"O, in that case...\"\n\n\"But who knows?\" said Ignatius Gallaher considerately. \"Next year I may\ntake a little skip over here now that I've broken the ice. It's only a\npleasure deferred.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" said Little Chandler, \"the next time you come we must have\nan evening together. That's agreed now, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Yes, that's agreed,\" said Ignatius Gallaher. \"Next year if I come,\nparole d'honneur.\"\n\n\"And to clinch the bargain,\" said Little Chandler, \"we'll just have one\nmore now.\"\n\nIgnatius Gallaher took out a large gold watch and looked at it.\n\n\"Is it to be the last?\" he said. \"Because you know, I have an a.p.\"\n\n\"O, yes, positively,\" said Little Chandler.\n\n\"Very well, then,\" said Ignatius Gallaher, \"let us have another one as a\ndeoc an doruis--that's good vernacular for a small whisky, I believe.\"\n\nLittle Chandler ordered the drinks. The blush which had risen to his\nface a few moments before was establishing itself. A trifle made\nhim blush at any time: and now he felt warm and excited. Three small\nwhiskies had gone to his head and Gallaher's strong cigar had confused\nhis mind, for he was a delicate and abstinent person. The adventure of\nmeeting Gallaher after eight years, of finding himself with Gallaher\nin Corless's surrounded by lights and noise, of listening to Gallaher's\nstories and of sharing for a brief space Gallaher's vagrant and\ntriumphant life, upset the equipoise of his sensitive nature. He felt\nacutely the contrast between his own life and his friend's and it seemed\nto him unjust. Gallaher was his inferior in birth and education. He was\nsure that he could do something better than his friend had ever done, or\ncould ever do, something higher than mere tawdry journalism if he only\ngot the chance. What was it that stood in his way? His unfortunate\ntimidity! He wished to vindicate himself in some way, to assert his\nmanhood. He saw behind Gallaher's refusal of his invitation. Gallaher\nwas only patronising him by his friendliness just as he was patronising\nIreland by his visit.\n\nThe barman brought their drinks. Little Chandler pushed one glass\ntowards his friend and took up the other boldly.\n\n\"Who knows?\" he said, as they lifted their glasses. \"When you come next\nyear I may have the pleasure of wishing long life and happiness to Mr.\nand Mrs. Ignatius Gallaher.\"\n\nIgnatius Gallaher in the act of drinking closed one eye expressively\nover the rim of his glass. When he had drunk he smacked his lips\ndecisively, set down his glass and said:\n\n\"No blooming fear of that, my boy. I'm going to have my fling first and\nsee a bit of life and the world before I put my head in the sack--if I\never do.\"\n\n\"Some day you will,\" said Little Chandler calmly.\n\nIgnatius Gallaher turned his orange tie and slate-blue eyes full upon\nhis friend.\n\n\"You think so?\" he said.\n\n\"You'll put your head in the sack,\" repeated Little Chandler stoutly,\n\"like everyone else if you can find the girl.\"\n\nHe had slightly emphasised his tone and he was aware that he had\nbetrayed himself; but, though the colour had heightened in his cheek, he\ndid not flinch from his friend's gaze. Ignatius Gallaher watched him for\na few moments and then said:\n\n\"If ever it occurs, you may bet your bottom dollar there'll be no\nmooning and spooning about it. I mean to marry money. She'll have a good\nfat account at the bank or she won't do for me.\"\n\nLittle Chandler shook his head.\n\n\"Why, man alive,\" said Ignatius Gallaher, vehemently, \"do you know what\nit is? I've only to say the word and tomorrow I can have the woman\nand the cash. You don't believe it? Well, I know it. There are\nhundreds--what am I saying?--thousands of rich Germans and Jews, rotten\nwith money, that'd only be too glad.... You wait a while my boy. See if\nI don't play my cards properly. When I go about a thing I mean business,\nI tell you. You just wait.\"\n\nHe tossed his glass to his mouth, finished his drink and laughed loudly.\nThen he looked thoughtfully before him and said in a calmer tone:\n\n\"But I'm in no hurry. They can wait. I don't fancy tying myself up to\none woman, you know.\"\n\nHe imitated with his mouth the act of tasting and made a wry face.\n\n\"Must get a bit stale, I should think,\" he said.\n\n * * * * *\n\nLittle Chandler sat in the room off the hall, holding a child in his\narms. To save money they kept no servant but Annie's young sister Monica\ncame for an hour or so in the morning and an hour or so in the evening\nto help. But Monica had gone home long ago. It was a quarter to nine.\nLittle Chandler had come home late for tea and, moreover, he had\nforgotten to bring Annie home the parcel of coffee from Bewley's. Of\ncourse she was in a bad humour and gave him short answers. She said she\nwould do without any tea but when it came near the time at which the\nshop at the corner closed she decided to go out herself for a quarter\nof a pound of tea and two pounds of sugar. She put the sleeping child\ndeftly in his arms and said:\n\n\"Here. Don't waken him.\"\n\nA little lamp with a white china shade stood upon the table and its\nlight fell over a photograph which was enclosed in a frame of crumpled\nhorn. It was Annie's photograph. Little Chandler looked at it, pausing\nat the thin tight lips. She wore the pale blue summer blouse which he\nhad brought her home as a present one Saturday. It had cost him ten and\nelevenpence; but what an agony of nervousness it had cost him! How\nhe had suffered that day, waiting at the shop door until the shop was\nempty, standing at the counter and trying to appear at his ease while\nthe girl piled ladies' blouses before him, paying at the desk and\nforgetting to take up the odd penny of his change, being called back by\nthe cashier, and finally, striving to hide his blushes as he left the\nshop by examining the parcel to see if it was securely tied. When he\nbrought the blouse home Annie kissed him and said it was very pretty and\nstylish; but when she heard the price she threw the blouse on the table\nand said it was a regular swindle to charge ten and elevenpence for it.\nAt first she wanted to take it back but when she tried it on she was\ndelighted with it, especially with the make of the sleeves, and kissed\nhim and said he was very good to think of her.\n\nHm!...\n\nHe looked coldly into the eyes of the photograph and they answered\ncoldly. Certainly they were pretty and the face itself was pretty. But\nhe found something mean in it. Why was it so unconscious and ladylike?\nThe composure of the eyes irritated him. They repelled him and defied\nhim: there was no passion in them, no rapture. He thought of what\nGallaher had said about rich Jewesses. Those dark Oriental eyes, he\nthought, how full they are of passion, of voluptuous longing!... Why had\nhe married the eyes in the photograph?\n\nHe caught himself up at the question and glanced nervously round the\nroom. He found something mean in the pretty furniture which he had\nbought for his house on the hire system. Annie had chosen it herself\nand it reminded him of her. It too was prim and pretty. A dull resentment\nagainst his life awoke within him. Could he not escape from his little\nhouse? Was it too late for him to try to live bravely like Gallaher?\nCould he go to London? There was the furniture still to be paid for. If\nhe could only write a book and get it published, that might open the way\nfor him.\n\nA volume of Byron's poems lay before him on the table. He opened it\ncautiously with his left hand lest he should waken the child and began\nto read the first poem in the book:\n\n     Hushed are the winds and still the evening gloom,\n     Not e'en a Zephyr wanders through the grove,\n     Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb\n     And scatter flowers on the dust I love.\n\nHe paused. He felt the rhythm of the verse about him in the room.\nHow melancholy it was! Could he, too, write like that, express the\nmelancholy of his soul in verse? There were so many things he wanted\nto describe: his sensation of a few hours before on Grattan Bridge, for\nexample. If he could get back again into that mood....\n\nThe child awoke and began to cry. He turned from the page and tried to\nhush it: but it would not be hushed. He began to rock it to and fro in\nhis arms but its wailing cry grew keener. He rocked it faster while his\neyes began to read the second stanza:\n\n    Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,\n    That clay where once...\n\nIt was useless. He couldn't read. He couldn't do anything. The wailing\nof the child pierced the drum of his ear. It was useless, useless!\nHe was a prisoner for life. His arms trembled with anger and suddenly\nbending to the child's face he shouted:\n\n\"Stop!\"\n\nThe child stopped for an instant, had a spasm of fright and began to\nscream. He jumped up from his chair and walked hastily up and down the\nroom with the child in his arms. It began to sob piteously, losing its\nbreath for four or five seconds, and then bursting out anew. The thin\nwalls of the room echoed the sound. He tried to soothe it but it sobbed\nmore convulsively. He looked at the contracted and quivering face of\nthe child and began to be alarmed. He counted seven sobs without a\nbreak between them and caught the child to his breast in fright. If it\ndied!...\n\nThe door was burst open and a young woman ran in, panting.\n\n\"What is it? What is it?\" she cried.\n\nThe child, hearing its mother's voice, broke out into a paroxysm of\nsobbing.\n\n\"It's nothing, Annie... it's nothing.... He began to cry...\"\n\nShe flung her parcels on the floor and snatched the child from him.\n\n\"What have you done to him?\" she cried, glaring into his face.\n\nLittle Chandler sustained for one moment the gaze of her eyes and his\nheart closed together as he met the hatred in them. He began to stammer:\n\n\"It's nothing.... He... he began to cry.... I couldn't... I didn't do\nanything.... What?\"\n\nGiving no heed to him she began to walk up and down the room, clasping\nthe child tightly in her arms and murmuring:\n\n\"My little man! My little mannie! Was 'ou frightened, love?... There\nnow, love! There now!... Lambabaun! Mamma's little lamb of the world!...\nThere now!\"\n\nLittle Chandler felt his cheeks suffused with shame and he stood back\nout of the lamplight. He listened while the paroxysm of the child's\nsobbing grew less and less; and tears of remorse started to his eyes.\n\n\n\n\nCOUNTERPARTS\n\nTHE bell rang furiously and, when Miss Parker went to the tube, a\nfurious voice called out in a piercing North of Ireland accent:\n\n\"Send Farrington here!\"\n\nMiss Parker returned to her machine, saying to a man who was writing at\na desk:\n\n\"Mr. Alleyne wants you upstairs.\"\n\nThe man muttered \"Blast him!\" under his breath and pushed back his chair\nto stand up. When he stood up he was tall and of great bulk. He had a\nhanging face, dark wine-coloured, with fair eyebrows and moustache:\nhis eyes bulged forward slightly and the whites of them were dirty.\nHe lifted up the counter and, passing by the clients, went out of the\noffice with a heavy step.\n\nHe went heavily upstairs until he came to the second landing, where\na door bore a brass plate with the inscription Mr. Alleyne. Here he\nhalted, puffing with labour and vexation, and knocked. The shrill voice\ncried:\n\n\"Come in!\"\n\nThe man entered Mr. Alleyne's room. Simultaneously Mr. Alleyne, a little\nman wearing gold-rimmed glasses on a cleanshaven face, shot his head up\nover a pile of documents. The head itself was so pink and hairless it\nseemed like a large egg reposing on the papers. Mr. Alleyne did not lose\na moment:\n\n\"Farrington? What is the meaning of this? Why have I always to complain\nof you? May I ask you why you haven't made a copy of that contract\nbetween Bodley and Kirwan? I told you it must be ready by four o'clock.\"\n\n\"But Mr. Shelley said, sir----\"\n\n\"Mr. Shelley said, sir.... Kindly attend to what I say and not to\nwhat Mr. Shelley says, sir. You have always some excuse or another for\nshirking work. Let me tell you that if the contract is not copied before\nthis evening I'll lay the matter before Mr. Crosbie.... Do you hear me\nnow?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Do you hear me now?... Ay and another little matter! I might as well be\ntalking to the wall as talking to you. Understand once for all that you\nget a half an hour for your lunch and not an hour and a half. How many\ncourses do you want, I'd like to know.... Do you mind me now?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\nMr. Alleyne bent his head again upon his pile of papers. The man stared\nfixedly at the polished skull which directed the affairs of Crosbie &\nAlleyne, gauging its fragility. A spasm of rage gripped his throat for\na few moments and then passed, leaving after it a sharp sensation of\nthirst. The man recognised the sensation and felt that he must have a\ngood night's drinking. The middle of the month was passed and, if he\ncould get the copy done in time, Mr. Alleyne might give him an order on\nthe cashier. He stood still, gazing fixedly at the head upon the pile\nof papers. Suddenly Mr. Alleyne began to upset all the papers, searching\nfor something. Then, as if he had been unaware of the man's presence\ntill that moment, he shot up his head again, saying:\n\n\"Eh? Are you going to stand there all day? Upon my word, Farrington, you\ntake things easy!\"\n\n\"I was waiting to see...\"\n\n\"Very good, you needn't wait to see. Go downstairs and do your work.\"\n\nThe man walked heavily towards the door and, as he went out of the room,\nhe heard Mr. Alleyne cry after him that if the contract was not copied\nby evening Mr. Crosbie would hear of the matter.\n\nHe returned to his desk in the lower office and counted the sheets which\nremained to be copied. He took up his pen and dipped it in the ink but\nhe continued to stare stupidly at the last words he had written: In no\ncase shall the said Bernard Bodley be... The evening was falling and in\na few minutes they would be lighting the gas: then he could write. He\nfelt that he must slake the thirst in his throat. He stood up from his\ndesk and, lifting the counter as before, passed out of the office. As he\nwas passing out the chief clerk looked at him inquiringly.\n\n\"It's all right, Mr. Shelley,\" said the man, pointing with his finger to\nindicate the objective of his journey.\n\nThe chief clerk glanced at the hat-rack, but, seeing the row complete,\noffered no remark. As soon as he was on the landing the man pulled\na shepherd's plaid cap out of his pocket, put it on his head and ran\nquickly down the rickety stairs. From the street door he walked on\nfurtively on the inner side of the path towards the corner and all at\nonce dived into a doorway. He was now safe in the dark snug of O'Neill's\nshop, and filling up the little window that looked into the bar with his\ninflamed face, the colour of dark wine or dark meat, he called out:\n\n\"Here, Pat, give us a g.p., like a good fellow.\"\n\nThe curate brought him a glass of plain porter. The man drank it at a\ngulp and asked for a caraway seed. He put his penny on the counter and,\nleaving the curate to grope for it in the gloom, retreated out of the\nsnug as furtively as he had entered it.\n\nDarkness, accompanied by a thick fog, was gaining upon the dusk of\nFebruary and the lamps in Eustace Street had been lit. The man went up\nby the houses until he reached the door of the office, wondering whether\nhe could finish his copy in time. On the stairs a moist pungent odour of\nperfumes saluted his nose: evidently Miss Delacour had come while he\nwas out in O'Neill's. He crammed his cap back again into his pocket and\nre-entered the office, assuming an air of absentmindedness.\n\n\"Mr. Alleyne has been calling for you,\" said the chief clerk severely.\n\"Where were you?\"\n\nThe man glanced at the two clients who were standing at the counter as\nif to intimate that their presence prevented him from answering. As the\nclients were both male the chief clerk allowed himself a laugh.\n\n\"I know that game,\" he said. \"Five times in one day is a little bit...\nWell, you better look sharp and get a copy of our correspondence in the\nDelacour case for Mr. Alleyne.\"\n\nThis address in the presence of the public, his run upstairs and the\nporter he had gulped down so hastily confused the man and, as he sat\ndown at his desk to get what was required, he realised how hopeless was\nthe task of finishing his copy of the contract before half past five.\nThe dark damp night was coming and he longed to spend it in the bars,\ndrinking with his friends amid the glare of gas and the clatter of\nglasses. He got out the Delacour correspondence and passed out of\nthe office. He hoped Mr. Alleyne would not discover that the last two\nletters were missing.\n\nThe moist pungent perfume lay all the way up to Mr. Alleyne's room. Miss\nDelacour was a middle-aged woman of Jewish appearance. Mr. Alleyne was\nsaid to be sweet on her or on her money. She came to the office often\nand stayed a long time when she came. She was sitting beside his desk\nnow in an aroma of perfumes, smoothing the handle of her umbrella and\nnodding the great black feather in her hat. Mr. Alleyne had swivelled\nhis chair round to face her and thrown his right foot jauntily upon\nhis left knee. The man put the correspondence on the desk and bowed\nrespectfully but neither Mr. Alleyne nor Miss Delacour took any notice\nof his bow. Mr. Alleyne tapped a finger on the correspondence and then\nflicked it towards him as if to say: \"That's all right: you can go.\"\n\nThe man returned to the lower office and sat down again at his desk.\nHe stared intently at the incomplete phrase: In no case shall the said\nBernard Bodley be... and thought how strange it was that the last three\nwords began with the same letter. The chief clerk began to hurry Miss\nParker, saying she would never have the letters typed in time for post.\nThe man listened to the clicking of the machine for a few minutes and\nthen set to work to finish his copy. But his head was not clear and his\nmind wandered away to the glare and rattle of the public-house. It was a\nnight for hot punches. He struggled on with his copy, but when the clock\nstruck five he had still fourteen pages to write. Blast it! He couldn't\nfinish it in time. He longed to execrate aloud, to bring his fist down\non something violently. He was so enraged that he wrote Bernard Bernard\ninstead of Bernard Bodley and had to begin again on a clean sheet.\n\nHe felt strong enough to clear out the whole office singlehanded. His\nbody ached to do something, to rush out and revel in violence. All\nthe indignities of his life enraged him.... Could he ask the cashier\nprivately for an advance? No, the cashier was no good, no damn good:\nhe wouldn't give an advance.... He knew where he would meet the boys:\nLeonard and O'Halloran and Nosey Flynn. The barometer of his emotional\nnature was set for a spell of riot.\n\nHis imagination had so abstracted him that his name was called twice\nbefore he answered. Mr. Alleyne and Miss Delacour were standing outside\nthe counter and all the clerks had turn round in anticipation of\nsomething. The man got up from his desk. Mr. Alleyne began a tirade of\nabuse, saying that two letters were missing. The man answered that he\nknew nothing about them, that he had made a faithful copy. The tirade\ncontinued: it was so bitter and violent that the man could hardly\nrestrain his fist from descending upon the head of the manikin before\nhim.\n\n\"I know nothing about any other two letters,\" he said stupidly.\n\n\"You--know--nothing. Of course you know nothing,\" said Mr. Alleyne.\n\"Tell me,\" he added, glancing first for approval to the lady beside him,\n\"do you take me for a fool? Do you think me an utter fool?\"\n\nThe man glanced from the lady's face to the little egg-shaped head and\nback again; and, almost before he was aware of it, his tongue had found\na felicitous moment:\n\n\"I don't think, sir,\" he said, \"that that's a fair question to put to\nme.\"\n\nThere was a pause in the very breathing of the clerks. Everyone was\nastounded (the author of the witticism no less than his neighbours) and\nMiss Delacour, who was a stout amiable person, began to smile broadly.\nMr. Alleyne flushed to the hue of a wild rose and his mouth twitched\nwith a dwarf's passion. He shook his fist in the man's face till it\nseemed to vibrate like the knob of some electric machine:\n\n\"You impertinent ruffian! You impertinent ruffian! I'll make short work\nof you! Wait till you see! You'll apologise to me for your impertinence\nor you'll quit the office instanter! You'll quit this, I'm telling you,\nor you'll apologise to me!\"\n\n* * * * *\n\nHe stood in a doorway opposite the office watching to see if the cashier\nwould come out alone. All the clerks passed out and finally the cashier\ncame out with the chief clerk. It was no use trying to say a word to him\nwhen he was with the chief clerk. The man felt that his position was bad\nenough. He had been obliged to offer an abject apology to Mr. Alleyne\nfor his impertinence but he knew what a hornet's nest the office would\nbe for him. He could remember the way in which Mr. Alleyne had hounded\nlittle Peake out of the office in order to make room for his own nephew.\nHe felt savage and thirsty and revengeful, annoyed with himself and with\neveryone else. Mr. Alleyne would never give him an hour's rest; his life\nwould be a hell to him. He had made a proper fool of himself this time.\nCould he not keep his tongue in his cheek? But they had never pulled\ntogether from the first, he and Mr. Alleyne, ever since the day Mr.\nAlleyne had overheard him mimicking his North of Ireland accent to amuse\nHiggins and Miss Parker: that had been the beginning of it. He might\nhave tried Higgins for the money, but sure Higgins never had anything\nfor himself. A man with two establishments to keep up, of course he\ncouldn't....\n\nHe felt his great body again aching for the comfort of the public-house.\nThe fog had begun to chill him and he wondered could he touch Pat in\nO'Neill's. He could not touch him for more than a bob--and a bob was\nno use. Yet he must get money somewhere or other: he had spent his\nlast penny for the g.p. and soon it would be too late for getting money\nanywhere. Suddenly, as he was fingering his watch-chain, he thought of\nTerry Kelly's pawn-office in Fleet Street. That was the dart! Why didn't\nhe think of it sooner?\n\nHe went through the narrow alley of Temple Bar quickly, muttering to\nhimself that they could all go to hell because he was going to have\na good night of it. The clerk in Terry Kelly's said A crown! but the\nconsignor held out for six shillings; and in the end the six shillings\nwas allowed him literally. He came out of the pawn-office joyfully,\nmaking a little cylinder, of the coins between his thumb and fingers. In\nWestmoreland Street the footpaths were crowded with young men and women\nreturning from business and ragged urchins ran here and there yelling\nout the names of the evening editions. The man passed through the crowd,\nlooking on the spectacle generally with proud satisfaction and staring\nmasterfully at the office-girls. His head was full of the noises of\ntram-gongs and swishing trolleys and his nose already sniffed the\ncurling fumes of punch. As he walked on he preconsidered the terms in which\nhe would narrate the incident to the boys:\n\n\"So, I just looked at him--coolly, you know, and looked at her. Then I\nlooked back at him again--taking my time, you know. 'I don't think that\nthat's a fair question to put to me,' says I.\"\n\nNosey Flynn was sitting up in his usual corner of Davy Byrne's and, when\nhe heard the story, he stood Farrington a half-one, saying it was as\nsmart a thing as ever he heard. Farrington stood a drink in his turn.\nAfter a while O'Halloran and Paddy Leonard came in and the story was\nrepeated to them. O'Halloran stood tailors of malt, hot, all round and\ntold the story of the retort he had made to the chief clerk when he was\nin Callan's of Fownes's Street; but, as the retort was after the manner\nof the liberal shepherds in the eclogues, he had to admit that it was\nnot as clever as Farrington's retort. At this Farrington told the boys\nto polish off that and have another.\n\nJust as they were naming their poisons who should come in but Higgins!\nOf course he had to join in with the others. The men asked him to give\nhis version of it, and he did so with great vivacity for the sight of\nfive small hot whiskies was very exhilarating. Everyone roared\nlaughing when he showed the way in which Mr. Alleyne shook his fist in\nFarrington's face. Then he imitated Farrington, saying, \"And here was my\nnabs, as cool as you please,\" while Farrington looked at the company out\nof his heavy dirty eyes, smiling and at times drawing forth stray drops\nof liquor from his moustache with the aid of his lower lip.\n\nWhen that round was over there was a pause. O'Halloran had money but\nneither of the other two seemed to have any; so the whole party left\nthe shop somewhat regretfully. At the corner of Duke Street Higgins and\nNosey Flynn bevelled off to the left while the other three turned back\ntowards the city. Rain was drizzling down on the cold streets and, when\nthey reached the Ballast Office, Farrington suggested the Scotch House.\nThe bar was full of men and loud with the noise of tongues and glasses.\nThe three men pushed past the whining match-sellers at the door and\nformed a little party at the corner of the counter. They began to\nexchange stories. Leonard introduced them to a young fellow named\nWeathers who was performing at the Tivoli as an acrobat and knockabout\nartiste. Farrington stood a drink all round. Weathers said he would take\na small Irish and Apollinaris. Farrington, who had definite notions of\nwhat was what, asked the boys would they have an Apollinaris too;\nbut the boys told Tim to make theirs hot. The talk became theatrical.\nO'Halloran stood a round and then Farrington stood another round,\nWeathers protesting that the hospitality was too Irish. He promised to\nget them in behind the scenes and introduce them to some nice girls.\nO'Halloran said that he and Leonard would go, but that Farrington\nwouldn't go because he was a married man; and Farrington's heavy dirty\neyes leered at the company in token that he understood he was being\nchaffed. Weathers made them all have just one little tincture at his\nexpense and promised to meet them later on at Mulligan's in Poolbeg\nStreet.\n\nWhen the Scotch House closed they went round to Mulligan's. They went\ninto the parlour at the back and O'Halloran ordered small hot specials\nall round. They were all beginning to feel mellow. Farrington was just\nstanding another round when Weathers came back. Much to Farrington's\nrelief he drank a glass of bitter this time. Funds were getting low but\nthey had enough to keep them going. Presently two young women with big\nhats and a young man in a check suit came in and sat at a table close\nby. Weathers saluted them and told the company that they were out of the\nTivoli. Farrington's eyes wandered at every moment in the direction of\none of the young women. There was something striking in her appearance.\nAn immense scarf of peacock-blue muslin was wound round her hat and\nknotted in a great bow under her chin; and she wore bright yellow\ngloves, reaching to the elbow. Farrington gazed admiringly at the plump\narm which she moved very often and with much grace; and when, after a\nlittle time, she answered his gaze he admired still more her large dark\nbrown eyes. The oblique staring expression in them fascinated him. She\nglanced at him once or twice and, when the party was leaving the room,\nshe brushed against his chair and said \"O, pardon!\" in a London accent.\nHe watched her leave the room in the hope that she would look back at\nhim, but he was disappointed. He cursed his want of money and cursed all\nthe rounds he had stood, particularly all the whiskies and Apolinaris\nwhich he had stood to Weathers. If there was one thing that he hated it\nwas a sponge. He was so angry that he lost count of the conversation of\nhis friends.\n\nWhen Paddy Leonard called him he found that they were talking about\nfeats of strength. Weathers was showing his biceps muscle to the company\nand boasting so much that the other two had called on Farrington to\nuphold the national honour. Farrington pulled up his sleeve accordingly\nand showed his biceps muscle to the company. The two arms were examined\nand compared and finally it was agreed to have a trial of strength. The\ntable was cleared and the two men rested their elbows on it, clasping\nhands. When Paddy Leonard said \"Go!\" each was to try to bring down\nthe other's hand on to the table. Farrington looked very serious and\ndetermined.\n\nThe trial began. After about thirty seconds Weathers brought his\nopponent's hand slowly down on to the table. Farrington's dark\nwine-coloured face flushed darker still with anger and humiliation at\nhaving been defeated by such a stripling.\n\n\"You're not to put the weight of your body behind it. Play fair,\" he\nsaid.\n\n\"Who's not playing fair?\" said the other.\n\n\"Come on again. The two best out of three.\"\n\nThe trial began again. The veins stood out on Farrington's forehead,\nand the pallor of Weathers' complexion changed to peony. Their hands\nand arms trembled under the stress. After a long struggle Weathers again\nbrought his opponent's hand slowly on to the table. There was a murmur\nof applause from the spectators. The curate, who was standing beside\nthe table, nodded his red head towards the victor and said with stupid\nfamiliarity:\n\n\"Ah! that's the knack!\"\n\n\"What the hell do you know about it?\" said Farrington fiercely, turning\non the man. \"What do you put in your gab for?\"\n\n\"Sh, sh!\" said O'Halloran, observing the violent expression of\nFarrington's face. \"Pony up, boys. We'll have just one little smahan\nmore and then we'll be off.\"\n\n\nA very sullen-faced man stood at the corner of O'Connell Bridge\nwaiting for the little Sandymount tram to take him home. He was full\nof smouldering anger and revengefulness. He felt humiliated and\ndiscontented; he did not even feel drunk; and he had only twopence in\nhis pocket. He cursed everything. He had done for himself in the office,\npawned his watch, spent all his money; and he had not even got drunk.\nHe began to feel thirsty again and he longed to be back again in the hot\nreeking public-house. He had lost his reputation as a strong man, having\nbeen defeated twice by a mere boy. His heart swelled with fury and, when\nhe thought of the woman in the big hat who had brushed against him and\nsaid Pardon! his fury nearly choked him.\n\nHis tram let him down at Shelbourne Road and he steered his great body\nalong in the shadow of the wall of the barracks. He loathed returning\nto his home. When he went in by the side-door he found the kitchen empty\nand the kitchen fire nearly out. He bawled upstairs:\n\n\"Ada! Ada!\"\n\nHis wife was a little sharp-faced woman who bullied her husband when\nhe was sober and was bullied by him when he was drunk. They had five\nchildren. A little boy came running down the stairs.\n\n\"Who is that?\" said the man, peering through the darkness.\n\n\"Me, pa.\"\n\n\"Who are you? Charlie?\"\n\n\"No, pa. Tom.\"\n\n\"Where's your mother?\"\n\n\"She's out at the chapel.\"\n\n\"That's right.... Did she think of leaving any dinner for me?\"\n\n\"Yes, pa. I--\"\n\n\"Light the lamp. What do you mean by having the place in darkness? Are\nthe other children in bed?\"\n\nThe man sat down heavily on one of the chairs while the little boy\nlit the lamp. He began to mimic his son's flat accent, saying half to\nhimself: \"At the chapel. At the chapel, if you please!\" When the lamp\nwas lit he banged his fist on the table and shouted:\n\n\"What's for my dinner?\"\n\n\"I'm going... to cook it, pa,\" said the little boy.\n\nThe man jumped up furiously and pointed to the fire.\n\n\"On that fire! You let the fire out! By God, I'll teach you to do that\nagain!\"\n\nHe took a step to the door and seized the walking-stick which was\nstanding behind it.\n\n\"I'll teach you to let the fire out!\" he said, rolling up his sleeve in\norder to give his arm free play.\n\nThe little boy cried \"O, pa!\" and ran whimpering round the table, but\nthe man followed him and caught him by the coat. The little boy looked\nabout him wildly but, seeing no way of escape, fell upon his knees.\n\n\"Now, you'll let the fire out the next time!\" said the man striking at\nhim vigorously with the stick. \"Take that, you little whelp!\"\n\nThe boy uttered a squeal of pain as the stick cut his thigh. He clasped\nhis hands together in the air and his voice shook with fright.\n\n\"O, pa!\" he cried. \"Don't beat me, pa! And I'll... I'll say a Hail Mary\nfor you.... I'll say a Hail Mary for you, pa, if you don't beat me....\nI'll say a Hail Mary....\"\n\n\n\n\nCLAY\n\nTHE matron had given her leave to go out as soon as the women's tea was\nover and Maria looked forward to her evening out. The kitchen was\nspick and span: the cook said you could see yourself in the big copper\nboilers. The fire was nice and bright and on one of the side-tables were\nfour very big barmbracks. These barmbracks seemed uncut; but if you went\ncloser you would see that they had been cut into long thick even slices\nand were ready to be handed round at tea. Maria had cut them herself.\n\nMaria was a very, very small person indeed but she had a very long\nnose and a very long chin. She talked a little through her nose, always\nsoothingly: \"Yes, my dear,\" and \"No, my dear.\" She was always sent for\nwhen the women quarrelled over their tubs and always succeeded in making\npeace. One day the matron had said to her:\n\n\"Maria, you are a veritable peace-maker!\"\n\nAnd the sub-matron and two of the Board ladies had heard the compliment.\nAnd Ginger Mooney was always saying what she wouldn't do to the dummy\nwho had charge of the irons if it wasn't for Maria. Everyone was so fond\nof Maria.\n\nThe women would have their tea at six o'clock and she would be able to\nget away before seven. From Ballsbridge to the Pillar, twenty minutes;\nfrom the Pillar to Drumcondra, twenty minutes; and twenty minutes to buy\nthe things. She would be there before eight. She took out her purse with\nthe silver clasps and read again the words A Present from Belfast. She\nwas very fond of that purse because Joe had brought it to her five years\nbefore when he and Alphy had gone to Belfast on a Whit-Monday trip. In\nthe purse were two half-crowns and some coppers. She would have five\nshillings clear after paying tram fare. What a nice evening they would\nhave, all the children singing! Only she hoped that Joe wouldn't come in\ndrunk. He was so different when he took any drink.\n\nOften he had wanted her to go and live with them; but she would have\nfelt herself in the way (though Joe's wife was ever so nice with her)\nand she had become accustomed to the life of the laundry. Joe was a good\nfellow. She had nursed him and Alphy too; and Joe used often say:\n\n\"Mamma is mamma but Maria is my proper mother.\"\n\nAfter the break-up at home the boys had got her that position in the\nDublin by Lamplight laundry, and she liked it. She used to have such\na bad opinion of Protestants but now she thought they were very nice\npeople, a little quiet and serious, but still very nice people to live\nwith. Then she had her plants in the conservatory and she liked looking\nafter them. She had lovely ferns and wax-plants and, whenever anyone\ncame to visit her, she always gave the visitor one or two slips from\nher conservatory. There was one thing she didn't like and that was the\ntracts on the walks; but the matron was such a nice person to deal with,\nso genteel.\n\nWhen the cook told her everything was ready she went into the women's\nroom and began to pull the big bell. In a few minutes the women began\nto come in by twos and threes, wiping their steaming hands in their\npetticoats and pulling down the sleeves of their blouses over their red\nsteaming arms. They settled down before their huge mugs which the cook\nand the dummy filled up with hot tea, already mixed with milk and sugar\nin huge tin cans. Maria superintended the distribution of the barmbrack\nand saw that every woman got her four slices. There was a great deal of\nlaughing and joking during the meal. Lizzie Fleming said Maria was sure\nto get the ring and, though Fleming had said that for so many Hallow\nEves, Maria had to laugh and say she didn't want any ring or man either;\nand when she laughed her grey-green eyes sparkled with disappointed\nshyness and the tip of her nose nearly met the tip of her chin. Then\nGinger Mooney lifted her mug of tea and proposed Maria's health while\nall the other women clattered with their mugs on the table, and said she\nwas sorry she hadn't a sup of porter to drink it in. And Maria laughed\nagain till the tip of her nose nearly met the tip of her chin and till\nher minute body nearly shook itself asunder because she knew that Mooney\nmeant well though, of course, she had the notions of a common woman.\n\nBut wasn't Maria glad when the women had finished their tea and the cook\nand the dummy had begun to clear away the tea-things! She went into\nher little bedroom and, remembering that the next morning was a mass\nmorning, changed the hand of the alarm from seven to six. Then she took\noff her working skirt and her house-boots and laid her best skirt out on\nthe bed and her tiny dress-boots beside the foot of the bed. She changed\nher blouse too and, as she stood before the mirror, she thought of how\nshe used to dress for mass on Sunday morning when she was a young girl;\nand she looked with quaint affection at the diminutive body which she\nhad so often adorned. In spite of its years she found it a nice tidy\nlittle body.\n\nWhen she got outside the streets were shining with rain and she was glad\nof her old brown waterproof. The tram was full and she had to sit on the\nlittle stool at the end of the car, facing all the people, with her toes\nbarely touching the floor. She arranged in her mind all she was going to\ndo and thought how much better it was to be independent and to have your\nown money in your pocket. She hoped they would have a nice evening. She\nwas sure they would but she could not help thinking what a pity it was\nAlphy and Joe were not speaking. They were always falling out now but\nwhen they were boys together they used to be the best of friends: but\nsuch was life.\n\nShe got out of her tram at the Pillar and ferreted her way quickly among\nthe crowds. She went into Downes's cake-shop but the shop was so full of\npeople that it was a long time before she could get herself attended\nto. She bought a dozen of mixed penny cakes, and at last came out of the\nshop laden with a big bag. Then she thought what else would she buy: she\nwanted to buy something really nice. They would be sure to have plenty\nof apples and nuts. It was hard to know what to buy and all she could\nthink of was cake. She decided to buy some plumcake but Downes's\nplumcake had not enough almond icing on top of it so she went over to\na shop in Henry Street. Here she was a long time in suiting herself and\nthe stylish young lady behind the counter, who was evidently a little\nannoyed by her, asked her was it wedding-cake she wanted to buy. That\nmade Maria blush and smile at the young lady; but the young lady took it\nall very seriously and finally cut a thick slice of plumcake, parcelled\nit up and said:\n\n\"Two-and-four, please.\"\n\nShe thought she would have to stand in the Drumcondra tram because none\nof the young men seemed to notice her but an elderly gentleman made room\nfor her. He was a stout gentleman and he wore a brown hard hat; he had\na square red face and a greyish moustache. Maria thought he was a\ncolonel-looking gentleman and she reflected how much more polite he was\nthan the young men who simply stared straight before them. The gentleman\nbegan to chat with her about Hallow Eve and the rainy weather. He\nsupposed the bag was full of good things for the little ones and said\nit was only right that the youngsters should enjoy themselves while they\nwere young. Maria agreed with him and favoured him with demure nods and\nhems. He was very nice with her, and when she was getting out at the\nCanal Bridge she thanked him and bowed, and he bowed to her and raised\nhis hat and smiled agreeably, and while she was going up along the\nterrace, bending her tiny head under the rain, she thought how easy it\nwas to know a gentleman even when he has a drop taken.\n\nEverybody said: \"O, here's Maria!\" when she came to Joe's house. Joe was\nthere, having come home from business, and all the children had their\nSunday dresses on. There were two big girls in from next door and games\nwere going on. Maria gave the bag of cakes to the eldest boy, Alphy, to\ndivide and Mrs. Donnelly said it was too good of her to bring such a big\nbag of cakes and made all the children say:\n\n\"Thanks, Maria.\"\n\nBut Maria said she had brought something special for papa and mamma,\nsomething they would be sure to like, and she began to look for her\nplumcake. She tried in Downes's bag and then in the pockets of her\nwaterproof and then on the hallstand but nowhere could she find it.\nThen she asked all the children had any of them eaten it--by mistake, of\ncourse--but the children all said no and looked as if they did not like\nto eat cakes if they were to be accused of stealing. Everybody had a\nsolution for the mystery and Mrs. Donnelly said it was plain that Maria\nhad left it behind her in the tram. Maria, remembering how confused the\ngentleman with the greyish moustache had made her, coloured with shame\nand vexation and disappointment. At the thought of the failure of her\nlittle surprise and of the two and fourpence she had thrown away for\nnothing she nearly cried outright.\n\nBut Joe said it didn't matter and made her sit down by the fire. He\nwas very nice with her. He told her all that went on in his office,\nrepeating for her a smart answer which he had made to the manager. Maria\ndid not understand why Joe laughed so much over the answer he had made\nbut she said that the manager must have been a very overbearing person\nto deal with. Joe said he wasn't so bad when you knew how to take him,\nthat he was a decent sort so long as you didn't rub him the wrong way.\nMrs. Donnelly played the piano for the children and they danced and\nsang. Then the two next-door girls handed round the nuts. Nobody could\nfind the nutcrackers and Joe was nearly getting cross over it and asked\nhow did they expect Maria to crack nuts without a nutcracker. But Maria\nsaid she didn't like nuts and that they weren't to bother about her.\nThen Joe asked would she take a bottle of stout and Mrs. Donnelly said\nthere was port wine too in the house if she would prefer that. Maria\nsaid she would rather they didn't ask her to take anything: but Joe\ninsisted.\n\nSo Maria let him have his way and they sat by the fire talking over old\ntimes and Maria thought she would put in a good word for Alphy. But Joe\ncried that God might strike him stone dead if ever he spoke a word to\nhis brother again and Maria said she was sorry she had mentioned the\nmatter. Mrs. Donnelly told her husband it was a great shame for him to\nspeak that way of his own flesh and blood but Joe said that Alphy was no\nbrother of his and there was nearly being a row on the head of it. But\nJoe said he would not lose his temper on account of the night it was\nand asked his wife to open some more stout. The two next-door girls\nhad arranged some Hallow Eve games and soon everything was merry again.\nMaria was delighted to see the children so merry and Joe and his wife in\nsuch good spirits. The next-door girls put some saucers on the table\nand then led the children up to the table, blindfold. One got the\nprayer-book and the other three got the water; and when one of the\nnext-door girls got the ring Mrs. Donnelly shook her finger at the\nblushing girl as much as to say: O, I know all about it! They insisted\nthen on blindfolding Maria and leading her up to the table to see\nwhat she would get; and, while they were putting on the bandage, Maria\nlaughed and laughed again till the tip of her nose nearly met the tip of\nher chin.\n\nThey led her up to the table amid laughing and joking and she put her\nhand out in the air as she was told to do. She moved her hand about here\nand there in the air and descended on one of the saucers. She felt a\nsoft wet substance with her fingers and was surprised that nobody spoke\nor took off her bandage. There was a pause for a few seconds; and then\na great deal of scuffling and whispering. Somebody said something about\nthe garden, and at last Mrs. Donnelly said something very cross to one\nof the next-door girls and told her to throw it out at once: that was no\nplay. Maria understood that it was wrong that time and so she had to do\nit over again: and this time she got the prayer-book.\n\nAfter that Mrs. Donnelly played Miss McCloud's Reel for the children\nand Joe made Maria take a glass of wine. Soon they were all quite merry\nagain and Mrs. Donnelly said Maria would enter a convent before the year\nwas out because she had got the prayer-book. Maria had never seen Joe\nso nice to her as he was that night, so full of pleasant talk and\nreminiscences. She said they were all very good to her.\n\nAt last the children grew tired and sleepy and Joe asked Maria would she\nnot sing some little song before she went, one of the old songs. Mrs.\nDonnelly said \"Do, please, Maria!\" and so Maria had to get up and stand\nbeside the piano. Mrs. Donnelly bade the children be quiet and listen\nto Maria's song. Then she played the prelude and said \"Now, Maria!\" and\nMaria, blushing very much began to sing in a tiny quavering voice. She\nsang I Dreamt that I Dwelt, and when she came to the second verse she\nsang again:\n\n\n            I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls\n              With vassals and serfs at my side,\n            And of all who assembled within those walls\n              That I was the hope and the pride.\n\n            I had riches too great to count; could boast\n              Of a high ancestral name,\n            But I also dreamt, which pleased me most,\n              That you loved me still the same.\n\n\nBut no one tried to show her her mistake; and when she had ended her\nsong Joe was very much moved. He said that there was no time like the\nlong ago and no music for him like poor old Balfe, whatever other people\nmight say; and his eyes filled up so much with tears that he could not\nfind what he was looking for and in the end he had to ask his wife to\ntell him where the corkscrew was.\n\n\n\n\nA PAINFUL CASE\n\nMR. JAMES DUFFY lived in Chapelizod because he wished to live as far as\npossible from the city of which he was a citizen and because he found\nall the other suburbs of Dublin mean, modern and pretentious. He lived\nin an old sombre house and from his windows he could look into the\ndisused distillery or upwards along the shallow river on which Dublin is\nbuilt. The lofty walls of his uncarpeted room were free from pictures.\nHe had himself bought every article of furniture in the room: a black\niron bedstead, an iron washstand, four cane chairs, a clothes-rack,\na coal-scuttle, a fender and irons and a square table on which lay a\ndouble desk. A bookcase had been made in an alcove by means of shelves\nof white wood. The bed was clothed with white bedclothes and a black\nand scarlet rug covered the foot. A little hand-mirror hung above the\nwashstand and during the day a white-shaded lamp stood as the sole\nornament of the mantelpiece. The books on the white wooden shelves were\narranged from below upwards according to bulk. A complete Wordsworth\nstood at one end of the lowest shelf and a copy of the Maynooth\nCatechism, sewn into the cloth cover of a notebook, stood at one end of\nthe top shelf. Writing materials were always on the desk. In the desk\nlay a manuscript translation of Hauptmann's Michael Kramer, the stage\ndirections of which were written in purple ink, and a little sheaf of\npapers held together by a brass pin. In these sheets a sentence was\ninscribed from time to time and, in an ironical moment, the headline of\nan advertisement for Bile Beans had been pasted on to the first sheet.\nOn lifting the lid of the desk a faint fragrance escaped--the fragrance\nof new cedarwood pencils or of a bottle of gum or of an overripe apple\nwhich might have been left there and forgotten.\n\nMr. Duffy abhorred anything which betokened physical or mental disorder.\nA mediaeval doctor would have called him saturnine. His face, which\ncarried the entire tale of his years, was of the brown tint of Dublin\nstreets. On his long and rather large head grew dry black hair and a\ntawny moustache did not quite cover an unamiable mouth. His cheekbones\nalso gave his face a harsh character; but there was no harshness in the\neyes which, looking at the world from under their tawny eyebrows, gave\nthe impression of a man ever alert to greet a redeeming instinct in\nothers but often disappointed. He lived at a little distance from his\nbody, regarding his own acts with doubtful side-glances. He had an odd\nautobiographical habit which led him to compose in his mind from time\nto time a short sentence about himself containing a subject in the third\nperson and a predicate in the past tense. He never gave alms to beggars\nand walked firmly, carrying a stout hazel.\n\nHe had been for many years cashier of a private bank in Baggot Street.\nEvery morning he came in from Chapelizod by tram. At midday he went\nto Dan Burke's and took his lunch--a bottle of lager beer and a small\ntrayful of arrowroot biscuits. At four o'clock he was set free. He dined\nin an eating-house in George's Street where he felt himself safe from\nthe society of Dublin's gilded youth and where there was a certain plain\nhonesty in the bill of fare. His evenings were spent either before his\nlandlady's piano or roaming about the outskirts of the city. His liking\nfor Mozart's music brought him sometimes to an opera or a concert: these\nwere the only dissipations of his life.\n\nHe had neither companions nor friends, church nor creed. He lived his\nspiritual life without any communion with others, visiting his relatives\nat Christmas and escorting them to the cemetery when they died. He\nperformed these two social duties for old dignity's sake but conceded\nnothing further to the conventions which regulate the civic life. He\nallowed himself to think that in certain circumstances he would rob\nhis hank but, as these circumstances never arose, his life rolled out\nevenly--an adventureless tale.\n\nOne evening he found himself sitting beside two ladies in the Rotunda.\nThe house, thinly peopled and silent, gave distressing prophecy of\nfailure. The lady who sat next him looked round at the deserted house\nonce or twice and then said:\n\n\"What a pity there is such a poor house tonight! It's so hard on people\nto have to sing to empty benches.\"\n\nHe took the remark as an invitation to talk. He was surprised that\nshe seemed so little awkward. While they talked he tried to fix her\npermanently in his memory. When he learned that the young girl beside\nher was her daughter he judged her to be a year or so younger than\nhimself. Her face, which must have been handsome, had remained\nintelligent. It was an oval face with strongly marked features. The eyes\nwere very dark blue and steady. Their gaze began with a defiant note\nbut was confused by what seemed a deliberate swoon of the pupil into the\niris, revealing for an instant a temperament of great sensibility. The\npupil reasserted itself quickly, this half-disclosed nature fell again\nunder the reign of prudence, and her astrakhan jacket, moulding a bosom\nof a certain fullness, struck the note of defiance more definitely.\n\nHe met her again a few weeks afterwards at a concert in Earlsfort\nTerrace and seized the moments when her daughter's attention was\ndiverted to become intimate. She alluded once or twice to her husband\nbut her tone was not such as to make the allusion a warning. Her name\nwas Mrs. Sinico. Her husband's great-great-grandfather had come from\nLeghorn. Her husband was captain of a mercantile boat plying between\nDublin and Holland; and they had one child.\n\nMeeting her a third time by accident he found courage to make an\nappointment. She came. This was the first of many meetings; they met\nalways in the evening and chose the most quiet quarters for their walks\ntogether. Mr. Duffy, however, had a distaste for underhand ways and,\nfinding that they were compelled to meet stealthily, he forced her to\nask him to her house. Captain Sinico encouraged his visits, thinking\nthat his daughter's hand was in question. He had dismissed his wife so\nsincerely from his gallery of pleasures that he did not suspect that\nanyone else would take an interest in her. As the husband was often\naway and the daughter out giving music lessons Mr. Duffy had many\nopportunities of enjoying the lady's society. Neither he nor she had had\nany such adventure before and neither was conscious of any incongruity.\nLittle by little he entangled his thoughts with hers. He lent her books,\nprovided her with ideas, shared his intellectual life with her. She\nlistened to all.\n\nSometimes in return for his theories she gave out some fact of her own\nlife. With almost maternal solicitude she urged him to let his nature\nopen to the full: she became his confessor. He told her that for some\ntime he had assisted at the meetings of an Irish Socialist Party where\nhe had felt himself a unique figure amidst a score of sober workmen in\na garret lit by an inefficient oil-lamp. When the party had divided into\nthree sections, each under its own leader and in its own garret, he had\ndiscontinued his attendances. The workmen's discussions, he said,\nwere too timorous; the interest they took in the question of wages was\ninordinate. He felt that they were hard-featured realists and that they\nresented an exactitude which was the produce of a leisure not within\ntheir reach. No social revolution, he told her, would be likely to\nstrike Dublin for some centuries.\n\nShe asked him why did he not write out his thoughts. For what, he asked\nher, with careful scorn. To compete with phrasemongers, incapable of\nthinking consecutively for sixty seconds? To submit himself to the\ncriticisms of an obtuse middle class which entrusted its morality to\npolicemen and its fine arts to impresarios?\n\nHe went often to her little cottage outside Dublin; often they spent\ntheir evenings alone. Little by little, as their thoughts entangled,\nthey spoke of subjects less remote. Her companionship was like a warm\nsoil about an exotic. Many times she allowed the dark to fall upon\nthem, refraining from lighting the lamp. The dark discreet room, their\nisolation, the music that still vibrated in their ears united them.\nThis union exalted him, wore away the rough edges of his character,\nemotionalised his mental life. Sometimes he caught himself listening to\nthe sound of his own voice. He thought that in her eyes he would ascend\nto an angelical stature; and, as he attached the fervent nature of his\ncompanion more and more closely to him, he heard the strange impersonal\nvoice which he recognised as his own, insisting on the soul's incurable\nloneliness. We cannot give ourselves, it said: we are our own. The end\nof these discourses was that one night during which she had shown every\nsign of unusual excitement, Mrs. Sinico caught up his hand passionately\nand pressed it to her cheek.\n\nMr. Duffy was very much surprised. Her interpretation of his words\ndisillusioned him. He did not visit her for a week, then he wrote to her\nasking her to meet him. As he did not wish their last interview to be\ntroubled by the influence of their ruined confessional they met in a\nlittle cakeshop near the Parkgate. It was cold autumn weather but in\nspite of the cold they wandered up and down the roads of the Park for\nnearly three hours. They agreed to break off their intercourse: every\nbond, he said, is a bond to sorrow. When they came out of the Park they\nwalked in silence towards the tram; but here she began to tremble\nso violently that, fearing another collapse on her part, he bade her\ngood-bye quickly and left her. A few days later he received a parcel\ncontaining his books and music.\n\nFour years passed. Mr. Duffy returned to his even way of life. His room\nstill bore witness of the orderliness of his mind. Some new pieces of\nmusic encumbered the music-stand in the lower room and on his shelves\nstood two volumes by Nietzsche: Thus Spake Zarathustra and The Gay\nScience. He wrote seldom in the sheaf of papers which lay in his desk.\nOne of his sentences, written two months after his last interview with\nMrs. Sinico, read: Love between man and man is impossible because there\nmust not be sexual intercourse and friendship between man and woman is\nimpossible because there must be sexual intercourse. He kept away from\nconcerts lest he should meet her. His father died; the junior partner of\nthe bank retired. And still every morning he went into the city by\ntram and every evening walked home from the city after having dined\nmoderately in George's Street and read the evening paper for dessert.\n\nOne evening as he was about to put a morsel of corned beef and cabbage\ninto his mouth his hand stopped. His eyes fixed themselves on a\nparagraph in the evening paper which he had propped against the\nwater-carafe. He replaced the morsel of food on his plate and read the\nparagraph attentively. Then he drank a glass of water, pushed his plate\nto one side, doubled the paper down before him between his elbows and\nread the paragraph over and over again. The cabbage began to deposit a\ncold white grease on his plate. The girl came over to him to ask was\nhis dinner not properly cooked. He said it was very good and ate a few\nmouthfuls of it with difficulty. Then he paid his bill and went out.\n\nHe walked along quickly through the November twilight, his stout hazel\nstick striking the ground regularly, the fringe of the buff Mail peeping\nout of a side-pocket of his tight reefer overcoat. On the lonely road\nwhich leads from the Parkgate to Chapelizod he slackened his pace.\nHis stick struck the ground less emphatically and his breath, issuing\nirregularly, almost with a sighing sound, condensed in the wintry air.\nWhen he reached his house he went up at once to his bedroom and, taking\nthe paper from his pocket, read the paragraph again by the failing light\nof the window. He read it not aloud, but moving his lips as a priest\ndoes when he reads the prayers Secreto. This was the paragraph:\n\n\n               DEATH OF A LADY AT SYDNEY PARADE\n                       A PAINFUL CASE\n\n\nToday at the City of Dublin Hospital the Deputy Coroner (in the absence\nof Mr. Leverett) held an inquest on the body of Mrs. Emily Sinico, aged\nforty-three years, who was killed at Sydney Parade Station yesterday\nevening. The evidence showed that the deceased lady, while attempting to\ncross the line, was knocked down by the engine of the ten o'clock slow\ntrain from Kingstown, thereby sustaining injuries of the head and right\nside which led to her death.\n\nJames Lennon, driver of the engine, stated that he had been in the\nemployment of the railway company for fifteen years. On hearing\nthe guard's whistle he set the train in motion and a second or two\nafterwards brought it to rest in response to loud cries. The train was\ngoing slowly.\n\nP. Dunne, railway porter, stated that as the train was about to start he\nobserved a woman attempting to cross the lines. He ran towards her and\nshouted, but, before he could reach her, she was caught by the buffer of\nthe engine and fell to the ground.\n\nA juror. \"You saw the lady fall?\"\n\nWitness. \"Yes.\"\n\nPolice Sergeant Croly deposed that when he arrived he found the deceased\nlying on the platform apparently dead. He had the body taken to the\nwaiting-room pending the arrival of the ambulance.\n\nConstable 57E corroborated.\n\nDr. Halpin, assistant house surgeon of the City of Dublin Hospital,\nstated that the deceased had two lower ribs fractured and had sustained\nsevere contusions of the right shoulder. The right side of the head\nhad been injured in the fall. The injuries were not sufficient to\nhave caused death in a normal person. Death, in his opinion, had been\nprobably due to shock and sudden failure of the heart's action.\n\nMr. H. B. Patterson Finlay, on behalf of the railway company, expressed\nhis deep regret at the accident. The company had always taken every\nprecaution to prevent people crossing the lines except by the bridges,\nboth by placing notices in every station and by the use of patent spring\ngates at level crossings. The deceased had been in the habit of crossing\nthe lines late at night from platform to platform and, in view of\ncertain other circumstances of the case, he did not think the railway\nofficials were to blame.\n\nCaptain Sinico, of Leoville, Sydney Parade, husband of the deceased,\nalso gave evidence. He stated that the deceased was his wife. He was\nnot in Dublin at the time of the accident as he had arrived only that\nmorning from Rotterdam. They had been married for twenty-two years and\nhad lived happily until about two years ago when his wife began to be\nrather intemperate in her habits.\n\nMiss Mary Sinico said that of late her mother had been in the habit\nof going out at night to buy spirits. She, witness, had often tried to\nreason with her mother and had induced her to join a league. She was not\nat home until an hour after the accident. The jury returned a verdict\nin accordance with the medical evidence and exonerated Lennon from all\nblame.\n\nThe Deputy Coroner said it was a most painful case, and expressed great\nsympathy with Captain Sinico and his daughter. He urged on the railway\ncompany to take strong measures to prevent the possibility of similar\naccidents in the future. No blame attached to anyone.\n\n\nMr. Duffy raised his eyes from the paper and gazed out of his window on\nthe cheerless evening landscape. The river lay quiet beside the empty\ndistillery and from time to time a light appeared in some house on the\nLucan road. What an end! The whole narrative of her death revolted him\nand it revolted him to think that he had ever spoken to her of what he\nheld sacred. The threadbare phrases, the inane expressions of sympathy,\nthe cautious words of a reporter won over to conceal the details of\na commonplace vulgar death attacked his stomach. Not merely had she\ndegraded herself; she had degraded him. He saw the squalid tract of her\nvice, miserable and malodorous. His soul's companion! He thought of\nthe hobbling wretches whom he had seen carrying cans and bottles to\nbe filled by the barman. Just God, what an end! Evidently she had been\nunfit to live, without any strength of purpose, an easy prey to habits,\none of the wrecks on which civilisation has been reared. But that she\ncould have sunk so low! Was it possible he had deceived himself\nso utterly about her? He remembered her outburst of that night and\ninterpreted it in a harsher sense than he had ever done. He had no\ndifficulty now in approving of the course he had taken.\n\nAs the light failed and his memory began to wander he thought her hand\ntouched his. The shock which had first attacked his stomach was now\nattacking his nerves. He put on his overcoat and hat quickly and went\nout. The cold air met him on the threshold; it crept into the sleeves of\nhis coat. When he came to the public-house at Chapelizod Bridge he went\nin and ordered a hot punch.\n\nThe proprietor served him obsequiously but did not venture to talk.\nThere were five or six workingmen in the shop discussing the value of a\ngentleman's estate in County Kildare They drank at intervals from their\nhuge pint tumblers and smoked, spitting often on the floor and sometimes\ndragging the sawdust over their spits with their heavy boots. Mr. Duffy\nsat on his stool and gazed at them, without seeing or hearing them.\nAfter a while they went out and he called for another punch. He sat a\nlong time over it. The shop was very quiet. The proprietor sprawled on\nthe counter reading the Herald and yawning. Now and again a tram was\nheard swishing along the lonely road outside.\n\nAs he sat there, living over his life with her and evoking alternately\nthe two images in which he now conceived her, he realised that she was\ndead, that she had ceased to exist, that she had become a memory. He\nbegan to feel ill at ease. He asked himself what else could he have\ndone. He could not have carried on a comedy of deception with her; he\ncould not have lived with her openly. He had done what seemed to him\nbest. How was he to blame? Now that she was gone he understood how\nlonely her life must have been, sitting night after night alone in that\nroom. His life would be lonely too until he, too, died, ceased to exist,\nbecame a memory--if anyone remembered him.\n\nIt was after nine o'clock when he left the shop. The night was cold and\ngloomy. He entered the Park by the first gate and walked along under the\ngaunt trees. He walked through the bleak alleys where they had walked\nfour years before. She seemed to be near him in the darkness. At moments\nhe seemed to feel her voice touch his ear, her hand touch his. He stood\nstill to listen. Why had he withheld life from her? Why had he sentenced\nher to death? He felt his moral nature falling to pieces.\n\nWhen he gained the crest of the Magazine Hill he halted and looked\nalong the river towards Dublin, the lights of which burned redly and\nhospitably in the cold night. He looked down the slope and, at the base,\nin the shadow of the wall of the Park, he saw some human figures lying.\nThose venal and furtive loves filled him with despair. He gnawed the\nrectitude of his life; he felt that he had been outcast from life's\nfeast. One human being had seemed to love him and he had denied her life\nand happiness: he had sentenced her to ignominy, a death of shame. He\nknew that the prostrate creatures down by the wall were watching him and\nwished him gone. No one wanted him; he was outcast from life's feast.\nHe turned his eyes to the grey gleaming river, winding along towards\nDublin. Beyond the river he saw a goods train winding out of Kingsbridge\nStation, like a worm with a fiery head winding through the darkness,\nobstinately and laboriously. It passed slowly out of sight; but still\nhe heard in his ears the laborious drone of the engine reiterating the\nsyllables of her name.\n\nHe turned back the way he had come, the rhythm of the engine pounding\nin his ears. He began to doubt the reality of what memory told him. He\nhalted under a tree and allowed the rhythm to die away. He could not\nfeel her near him in the darkness nor her voice touch his ear. He\nwaited for some minutes listening. He could hear nothing: the night was\nperfectly silent. He listened again: perfectly silent. He felt that he\nwas alone.\n\n\n\n\nIVY DAY IN THE COMMITTEE ROOM\n\nOLD JACK raked the cinders together with a piece of cardboard and spread\nthem judiciously over the whitening dome of coals. When the dome was\nthinly covered his face lapsed into darkness but, as he set himself to\nfan the fire again, his crouching shadow ascended the opposite wall and\nhis face slowly re-emerged into light. It was an old man's face, very\nbony and hairy. The moist blue eyes blinked at the fire and the moist\nmouth fell open at times, munching once or twice mechanically when\nit closed. When the cinders had caught he laid the piece of cardboard\nagainst the wall, sighed and said:\n\n\"That's better now, Mr. O'Connor.\"\n\nMr. O'Connor, a grey-haired young man, whose face was disfigured by many\nblotches and pimples, had just brought the tobacco for a cigarette\ninto a shapely cylinder but when spoken to he undid his handiwork\nmeditatively. Then he began to roll the tobacco again meditatively and\nafter a moment's thought decided to lick the paper.\n\n\"Did Mr. Tierney say when he'd be back?\" he asked in a husky falsetto.\n\n\"He didn't say.\"\n\nMr. O'Connor put his cigarette into his mouth and began search his\npockets. He took out a pack of thin pasteboard cards.\n\n\"I'll get you a match,\" said the old man.\n\n\"Never mind, this'll do,\" said Mr. O'Connor.\n\nHe selected one of the cards and read what was printed on it:\n\n\n      MUNICIPAL ELECTIONS\n           ----------\n      ROYAL EXCHANGE WARD\n           ----------\n\nMr. Richard J. Tierney, P.L.G., respectfully solicits the favour of your\nvote and influence at the coming election in the Royal Exchange Ward.\n\n\nMr. O'Connor had been engaged by Tierney's agent to canvass one part of\nthe ward but, as the weather was inclement and his boots let in the wet,\nhe spent a great part of the day sitting by the fire in the Committee\nRoom in Wicklow Street with Jack, the old caretaker. They had been\nsitting thus since the short day had grown dark. It was the sixth of\nOctober, dismal and cold out of doors.\n\nMr. O'Connor tore a strip off the card and, lighting it, lit his\ncigarette. As he did so the flame lit up a leaf of dark glossy ivy the\nlapel of his coat. The old man watched him attentively and then, taking\nup the piece of cardboard again, began to fan the fire slowly while his\ncompanion smoked.\n\n\"Ah, yes,\" he said, continuing, \"it's hard to know what way to bring\nup children. Now who'd think he'd turn out like that! I sent him to\nthe Christian Brothers and I done what I could for him, and there he goes\nboosing about. I tried to make him someway decent.\"\n\nHe replaced the cardboard wearily.\n\n\"Only I'm an old man now I'd change his tune for him. I'd take the stick\nto his back and beat him while I could stand over him--as I done many\na time before. The mother, you know, she cocks him up with this and\nthat....\"\n\n\"That's what ruins children,\" said Mr. O'Connor.\n\n\"To be sure it is,\" said the old man. \"And little thanks you get for it,\nonly impudence. He takes th'upper hand of me whenever he sees I've a\nsup taken. What's the world coming to when sons speaks that way to their\nfather?\"\n\n\"What age is he?\" said Mr. O'Connor.\n\n\"Nineteen,\" said the old man.\n\n\"Why don't you put him to something?\"\n\n\"Sure, amn't I never done at the drunken bowsy ever since he left\nschool? 'I won't keep you,' I says. 'You must get a job for yourself.'\nBut, sure, it's worse whenever he gets a job; he drinks it all.\"\n\nMr. O'Connor shook his head in sympathy, and the old man fell silent,\ngazing into the fire. Someone opened the door of the room and called\nout:\n\n\"Hello! Is this a Freemasons' meeting?\"\n\n\"Who's that?\" said the old man.\n\n\"What are you doing in the dark?\" asked a voice.\n\n\"Is that you, Hynes?\" asked Mr. O'Connor.\n\n\"Yes. What are you doing in the dark?\" said Mr. Hynes. advancing into\nthe light of the fire.\n\nHe was a tall, slender young man with a light brown moustache. Imminent\nlittle drops of rain hung at the brim of his hat and the collar of his\njacket-coat was turned up.\n\n\"Well, Mat,\" he said to Mr. O'Connor, \"how goes it?\"\n\nMr. O'Connor shook his head. The old man left the hearth and, after\nstumbling about the room returned with two candlesticks which he thrust\none after the other into the fire and carried to the table. A denuded\nroom came into view and the fire lost all its cheerful colour. The walls\nof the room were bare except for a copy of an election address. In the\nmiddle of the room was a small table on which papers were heaped.\n\nMr. Hynes leaned against the mantelpiece and asked:\n\n\"Has he paid you yet?\"\n\n\"Not yet,\" said Mr. O'Connor. \"I hope to God he'll not leave us in the\nlurch tonight.\"\n\nMr. Hynes laughed.\n\n\"O, he'll pay you. Never fear,\" he said.\n\n\"I hope he'll look smart about it if he means business,\" said Mr.\nO'Connor.\n\n\"What do you think, Jack?\" said Mr. Hynes satirically to the old man.\n\nThe old man returned to his seat by the fire, saying:\n\n\"It isn't but he has it, anyway. Not like the other tinker.\"\n\n\"What other tinker?\" said Mr. Hynes.\n\n\"Colgan,\" said the old man scornfully.\n\n\"It is because Colgan's a working-man you say that? What's the\ndifference between a good honest bricklayer and a publican--eh? Hasn't\nthe working-man as good a right to be in the Corporation as anyone\nelse--ay, and a better right than those shoneens that are always hat in\nhand before any fellow with a handle to his name? Isn't that so, Mat?\"\nsaid Mr. Hynes, addressing Mr. O'Connor.\n\n\"I think you're right,\" said Mr. O'Connor.\n\n\"One man is a plain honest man with no hunker-sliding about him. He goes\nin to represent the labour classes. This fellow you're working for only\nwants to get some job or other.\"\n\n\"Of course, the working-classes should be represented,\" said the old\nman.\n\n\"The working-man,\" said Mr. Hynes, \"gets all kicks and no halfpence. But\nit's labour produces everything. The working-man is not looking for fat\njobs for his sons and nephews and cousins. The working-man is not going\nto drag the honour of Dublin in the mud to please a German monarch.\"\n\n\"How's that?\" said the old man.\n\n\"Don't you know they want to present an address of welcome to Edward\nRex if he comes here next year? What do we want kowtowing to a foreign\nking?\"\n\n\"Our man won't vote for the address,\" said Mr. O'Connor. \"He goes in on\nthe Nationalist ticket.\"\n\n\"Won't he?\" said Mr. Hynes. \"Wait till you see whether he will or not. I\nknow him. Is it Tricky Dicky Tierney?\"\n\n\"By God! perhaps you're right, Joe,\" said Mr. O'Connor. \"Anyway, I wish\nhe'd turn up with the spondulics.\"\n\nThe three men fell silent. The old man began to rake more cinders\ntogether. Mr. Hynes took off his hat, shook it and then turned down the\ncollar of his coat, displaying, as he did so, an ivy leaf in the lapel.\n\n\"If this man was alive,\" he said, pointing to the leaf, \"we'd have no\ntalk of an address of welcome.\"\n\n\"That's true,\" said Mr. O'Connor.\n\n\"Musha, God be with them times!\" said the old man. \"There was some life\nin it then.\"\n\nThe room was silent again. Then a bustling little man with a snuffling\nnose and very cold ears pushed in the door. He walked over quickly to\nthe fire, rubbing his hands as if he intended to produce a spark from\nthem.\n\n\"No money, boys,\" he said.\n\n\"Sit down here, Mr. Henchy,\" said the old man, offering him his chair.\n\n\"O, don't stir, Jack, don't stir,\" said Mr. Henchy\n\nHe nodded curtly to Mr. Hynes and sat down on the chair which the old\nman vacated.\n\n\"Did you serve Aungier Street?\" he asked Mr. O'Connor.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mr. O'Connor, beginning to search his pockets for memoranda.\n\n\"Did you call on Grimes?\"\n\n\"I did.\"\n\n\"Well? How does he stand?\"\n\n\"He wouldn't promise. He said: 'I won't tell anyone what way I'm going\nto vote.' But I think he'll be all right.\"\n\n\"Why so?\"\n\n\"He asked me who the nominators were; and I told him. I mentioned Father\nBurke's name. I think it'll be all right.\"\n\nMr. Henchy began to snuffle and to rub his hands over the fire at a\nterrific speed. Then he said:\n\n\"For the love of God, Jack, bring us a bit of coal. There must be some\nleft.\"\n\nThe old man went out of the room.\n\n\"It's no go,\" said Mr. Henchy, shaking his head. \"I asked the little\nshoeboy, but he said: 'Oh, now, Mr. Henchy, when I see work going on\nproperly I won't forget you, you may be sure.' Mean little tinker!\n'Usha, how could he be anything else?\"\n\n\"What did I tell you, Mat?\" said Mr. Hynes. \"Tricky Dicky Tierney.\"\n\n\"O, he's as tricky as they make 'em,\" said Mr. Henchy. \"He hasn't got\nthose little pigs' eyes for nothing. Blast his soul! Couldn't he pay\nup like a man instead of: 'O, now, Mr. Henchy, I must speak to Mr.\nFanning.... I've spent a lot of money'? Mean little school-boy of hell! I\nsuppose he forgets the time his little old father kept the hand-me-down\nshop in Mary's Lane.\"\n\n\"But is that a fact?\" asked Mr. O'Connor.\n\n\"God, yes,\" said Mr. Henchy. \"Did you never hear that? And the men\nused to go in on Sunday morning before the houses were open to buy a\nwaistcoat or a trousers--moya! But Tricky Dicky's little old father\nalways had a tricky little black bottle up in a corner. Do you mind now?\nThat's that. That's where he first saw the light.\"\n\nThe old man returned with a few lumps of coal which he placed here and\nthere on the fire.\n\n\"Thats a nice how-do-you-do,\" said Mr. O'Connor. \"How does he expect us\nto work for him if he won't stump up?\"\n\n\"I can't help it,\" said Mr. Henchy. \"I expect to find the bailiffs in\nthe hall when I go home.\"\n\nMr. Hynes laughed and, shoving himself away from the mantelpiece with\nthe aid of his shoulders, made ready to leave.\n\n\"It'll be all right when King Eddie comes,\" he said. \"Well boys, I'm off\nfor the present. See you later. 'Bye, 'bye.\"\n\nHe went out of the room slowly. Neither Mr. Henchy nor the old man said\nanything, but, just as the door was closing, Mr. O'Connor, who had been\nstaring moodily into the fire, called out suddenly:\n\n\"'Bye, Joe.\"\n\nMr. Henchy waited a few moments and then nodded in the direction of the\ndoor.\n\n\"Tell me,\" he said across the fire, \"what brings our friend in here?\nWhat does he want?\"\n\n\"'Usha, poor Joe!\" said Mr. O'Connor, throwing the end of his cigarette\ninto the fire, \"he's hard up, like the rest of us.\"\n\nMr. Henchy snuffled vigorously and spat so copiously that he nearly put\nout the fire, which uttered a hissing protest.\n\n\"To tell you my private and candid opinion,\" he said, \"I think he's a\nman from the other camp. He's a spy of Colgan's, if you ask me. Just go\nround and try and find out how they're getting on. They won't suspect\nyou. Do you twig?\"\n\n\"Ah, poor Joe is a decent skin,\" said Mr. O'Connor.\n\n\"His father was a decent, respectable man,\" Mr. Henchy admitted. \"Poor\nold Larry Hynes! Many a good turn he did in his day! But I'm greatly\nafraid our friend is not nineteen carat. Damn it, I can understand a\nfellow being hard up, but what I can't understand is a fellow sponging.\nCouldn't he have some spark of manhood about him?\"\n\n\"He doesn't get a warm welcome from me when he comes,\" said the old man.\n\"Let him work for his own side and not come spying around here.\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" said Mr. O'Connor dubiously, as he took out\ncigarette-papers and tobacco. \"I think Joe Hynes is a straight man.\nHe's a clever chap, too, with the pen. Do you remember that thing he\nwrote...?\"\n\n\"Some of these hillsiders and fenians are a bit too clever if you ask me,\"\nsaid Mr. Henchy. \"Do you know what my private and candid opinion is\nabout some of those little jokers? I believe half of them are in the pay\nof the Castle.\"\n\n\"There's no knowing,\" said the old man.\n\n\"O, but I know it for a fact,\" said Mr. Henchy. \"They're Castle\nhacks.... I don't say Hynes.... No, damn it, I think he's a stroke above\nthat.... But there's a certain little nobleman with a cock-eye--you know\nthe patriot I'm alluding to?\"\n\nMr. O'Connor nodded.\n\n\"There's a lineal descendant of Major Sirr for you if you like! O, the\nheart's blood of a patriot! That's a fellow now that'd sell his country\nfor fourpence--ay--and go down on his bended knees and thank the\nAlmighty Christ he had a country to sell.\"\n\nThere was a knock at the door.\n\n\"Come in!\" said Mr. Henchy.\n\nA person resembling a poor clergyman or a poor actor appeared in the\ndoorway. His black clothes were tightly buttoned on his short body\nand it was impossible to say whether he wore a clergyman's collar or\na layman's, because the collar of his shabby frock-coat, the uncovered\nbuttons of which reflected the candlelight, was turned up about his\nneck. He wore a round hat of hard black felt. His face, shining with\nraindrops, had the appearance of damp yellow cheese save where two rosy\nspots indicated the cheekbones. He opened his very long mouth suddenly\nto express disappointment and at the same time opened wide his very\nbright blue eyes to express pleasure and surprise.\n\n\"O Father Keon!\" said Mr. Henchy, jumping up from his chair. \"Is that\nyou? Come in!\"\n\n\"O, no, no, no!\" said Father Keon quickly, pursing his lips as if he\nwere addressing a child.\n\n\"Won't you come in and sit down?\"\n\n\"No, no, no!\" said Father Keon, speaking in a discreet, indulgent,\nvelvety voice. \"Don't let me disturb you now! I'm just looking for Mr.\nFanning....\"\n\n\"He's round at the Black Eagle,\" said Mr. Henchy. \"But won't you come in\nand sit down a minute?\"\n\n\"No, no, thank you. It was just a little business matter,\" said Father\nKeon. \"Thank you, indeed.\"\n\nHe retreated from the doorway and Mr. Henchy, seizing one of the\ncandlesticks, went to the door to light him downstairs.\n\n\"O, don't trouble, I beg!\"\n\n\"No, but the stairs is so dark.\"\n\n\"No, no, I can see.... Thank you, indeed.\"\n\n\"Are you right now?\"\n\n\"All right, thanks.... Thanks.\"\n\nMr. Henchy returned with the candlestick and put it on the table. He sat\ndown again at the fire. There was silence for a few moments.\n\n\"Tell me, John,\" said Mr. O'Connor, lighting his cigarette with another\npasteboard card.\n\n\"Hm?\"\n\n\"What he is exactly?\"\n\n\"Ask me an easier one,\" said Mr. Henchy.\n\n\"Fanning and himself seem to me very thick. They're often in Kavanagh's\ntogether. Is he a priest at all?\"\n\n\"Mmmyes, I believe so.... I think he's what you call a black sheep.\nWe haven't many of them, thank God! but we have a few.... He's an\nunfortunate man of some kind....\"\n\n\"And how does he knock it out?\" asked Mr. O'Connor.\n\n\"That's another mystery.\"\n\n\"Is he attached to any chapel or church or institution or----\"\n\n\"No,\" said Mr. Henchy, \"I think he's travelling on his own account....\nGod forgive me,\" he added, \"I thought he was the dozen of stout.\"\n\n\"Is there any chance of a drink itself?\" asked Mr. O'Connor.\n\n\"I'm dry too,\" said the old man.\n\n\"I asked that little shoeboy three times,\" said Mr. Henchy, \"would he\nsend up a dozen of stout. I asked him again now, but he was leaning\non the counter in his shirt-sleeves having a deep goster with Alderman\nCowley.\"\n\n\"Why didn't you remind him?\" said Mr. O'Connor.\n\n\"Well, I couldn't go over while he was talking to Alderman Cowley. I\njust waited till I caught his eye, and said: 'About that little matter I\nwas speaking to you about....' 'That'll be all right, Mr. H.,' he said.\nYerra, sure the little hop-o'-my-thumb has forgotten all about it.\"\n\n\"There's some deal on in that quarter,\" said Mr. O'Connor thoughtfully.\n\"I saw the three of them hard at it yesterday at Suffolk Street corner.\"\n\n\"I think I know the little game they're at,\" said Mr. Henchy. \"You must\nowe the City Fathers money nowadays if you want to be made Lord Mayor.\nThen they'll make you Lord Mayor. By God! I'm thinking seriously of\nbecoming a City Father myself. What do you think? Would I do for the\njob?\"\n\nMr. O'Connor laughed.\n\n\"So far as owing money goes....\"\n\n\"Driving out of the Mansion House,\" said Mr. Henchy, \"in all my vermin,\nwith Jack here standing up behind me in a powdered wig--eh?\"\n\n\"And make me your private secretary, John.\"\n\n\"Yes. And I'll make Father Keon my private chaplain. We'll have a family\nparty.\"\n\n\"Faith, Mr. Henchy,\" said the old man, \"you'd keep up better style than\nsome of them. I was talking one day to old Keegan, the porter. 'And\nhow do you like your new master, Pat?' says I to him. 'You haven't much\nentertaining now,' says I. 'Entertaining!' says he. 'He'd live on the\nsmell of an oil-rag.' And do you know what he told me? Now, I declare to\nGod I didn't believe him.\"\n\n\"What?\" said Mr. Henchy and Mr. O'Connor.\n\n\"He told me: 'What do you think of a Lord Mayor of Dublin sending out\nfor a pound of chops for his dinner? How's that for high living?' says\nhe. 'Wisha! wisha,' says I. 'A pound of chops,' says he, 'coming into\nthe Mansion House.' 'Wisha!' says I, 'what kind of people is going at\nall now?'\"\n\nAt this point there was a knock at the door, and a boy put in his head.\n\n\"What is it?\" said the old man.\n\n\"From the Black Eagle,\" said the boy, walking in sideways and depositing\na basket on the floor with a noise of shaken bottles.\n\nThe old man helped the boy to transfer the bottles from the basket to\nthe table and counted the full tally. After the transfer the boy put his\nbasket on his arm and asked:\n\n\"Any bottles?\"\n\n\"What bottles?\" said the old man.\n\n\"Won't you let us drink them first?\" said Mr. Henchy.\n\n\"I was told to ask for the bottles.\"\n\n\"Come back tomorrow,\" said the old man.\n\n\"Here, boy!\" said Mr. Henchy, \"will you run over to O'Farrell's and ask\nhim to lend us a corkscrew--for Mr. Henchy, say. Tell him we won't keep\nit a minute. Leave the basket there.\"\n\nThe boy went out and Mr. Henchy began to rub his hands cheerfully,\nsaying:\n\n\"Ah, well, he's not so bad after all. He's as good as his word, anyhow.\"\n\n\"There's no tumblers,\" said the old man.\n\n\"O, don't let that trouble you, Jack,\" said Mr. Henchy. \"Many's the good\nman before now drank out of the bottle.\"\n\n\"Anyway, it's better than nothing,\" said Mr. O'Connor.\n\n\"He's not a bad sort,\" said Mr. Henchy, \"only Fanning has such a loan of\nhim. He means well, you know, in his own tinpot way.\"\n\nThe boy came back with the corkscrew. The old man opened three bottles\nand was handing back the corkscrew when Mr. Henchy said to the boy:\n\n\"Would you like a drink, boy?\"\n\n\"If you please, sir,\" said the boy.\n\nThe old man opened another bottle grudgingly, and handed it to the boy.\n\n\"What age are you?\" he asked.\n\n\"Seventeen,\" said the boy.\n\nAs the old man said nothing further, the boy took the bottle and said:\n\"Here's my best respects, sir,\" to Mr. Henchy, drank the contents, put\nthe bottle back on the table and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Then\nhe took up the corkscrew and went out of the door sideways, muttering\nsome form of salutation.\n\n\"That's the way it begins,\" said the old man.\n\n\"The thin edge of the wedge,\" said Mr. Henchy.\n\nThe old man distributed the three bottles which he had opened and the\nmen drank from them simultaneously. After having drunk each placed his\nbottle on the mantelpiece within hand's reach and drew in a long breath\nof satisfaction.\n\n\"Well, I did a good day's work today,\" said Mr. Henchy, after a pause.\n\n\"That so, John?\"\n\n\"Yes. I got him one or two sure things in Dawson Street, Crofton and\nmyself. Between ourselves, you know, Crofton (he's a decent chap, of\ncourse), but he's not worth a damn as a canvasser. He hasn't a word\nto throw to a dog. He stands and looks at the people while I do the\ntalking.\"\n\nHere two men entered the room. One of them was a very fat man whose blue\nserge clothes seemed to be in danger of falling from his sloping figure.\nHe had a big face which resembled a young ox's face in expression,\nstaring blue eyes and a grizzled moustache. The other man, who was much\nyounger and frailer, had a thin, clean-shaven face. He wore a very high\ndouble collar and a wide-brimmed bowler hat.\n\n\"Hello, Crofton!\" said Mr. Henchy to the fat man. \"Talk of the devil...\"\n\n\"Where did the boose come from?\" asked the young man. \"Did the cow\ncalve?\"\n\n\"O, of course, Lyons spots the drink first thing!\" said Mr. O'Connor,\nlaughing.\n\n\"Is that the way you chaps canvass,\" said Mr. Lyons, \"and Crofton and I\nout in the cold and rain looking for votes?\"\n\n\"Why, blast your soul,\" said Mr. Henchy, \"I'd get more votes in five\nminutes than you two'd get in a week.\"\n\n\"Open two bottles of stout, Jack,\" said Mr. O'Connor.\n\n\"How can I?\" said the old man, \"when there's no corkscrew?\"\n\n\"Wait now, wait now!\" said Mr. Henchy, getting up quickly. \"Did you ever\nsee this little trick?\"\n\nHe took two bottles from the table and, carrying them to the fire, put\nthem on the hob. Then he sat down again by the fire and took another\ndrink from his bottle. Mr. Lyons sat on the edge of the table, pushed\nhis hat towards the nape of his neck and began to swing his legs.\n\n\"Which is my bottle?\" he asked.\n\n\"This lad,\" said Mr. Henchy.\n\nMr. Crofton sat down on a box and looked fixedly at the other bottle on\nthe hob. He was silent for two reasons. The first reason, sufficient in\nitself, was that he had nothing to say; the second reason was that\nhe considered his companions beneath him. He had been a canvasser for\nWilkins, the Conservative, but when the Conservatives had withdrawn\ntheir man and, choosing the lesser of two evils, given their support to\nthe Nationalist candidate, he had been engaged to work for Mr. Tiemey.\n\nIn a few minutes an apologetic \"Pok!\" was heard as the cork flew out\nof Mr. Lyons' bottle. Mr. Lyons jumped off the table, went to the fire,\ntook his bottle and carried it back to the table.\n\n\"I was just telling them, Crofton,\" said Mr. Henchy, \"that we got a good\nfew votes today.\"\n\n\"Who did you get?\" asked Mr. Lyons.\n\n\"Well, I got Parkes for one, and I got Atkinson for two, and got Ward\nof Dawson Street. Fine old chap he is, too--regular old toff, old\nConservative! 'But isn't your candidate a Nationalist?' said he. 'He's a\nrespectable man,' said I. 'He's in favour of whatever will benefit this\ncountry. He's a big ratepayer,' I said. 'He has extensive house property\nin the city and three places of business and isn't it to his own\nadvantage to keep down the rates? He's a prominent and respected\ncitizen,' said I, 'and a Poor Law Guardian, and he doesn't belong to any\nparty, good, bad, or indifferent.' That's the way to talk to 'em.\"\n\n\"And what about the address to the King?\" said Mr. Lyons, after drinking\nand smacking his lips.\n\n\"Listen to me,\" said Mr. Henchy. \"What we want in this country, as I\nsaid to old Ward, is capital. The King's coming here will mean an influx\nof money into this country. The citizens of Dublin will benefit by it.\nLook at all the factories down by the quays there, idle! Look at all the\nmoney there is in the country if we only worked the old industries, the\nmills, the ship-building yards and factories. It's capital we want.\"\n\n\"But look here, John,\" said Mr. O'Connor. \"Why should we welcome the\nKing of England? Didn't Parnell himself...\"\n\n\"Parnell,\" said Mr. Henchy, \"is dead. Now, here's the way I look at it.\nHere's this chap come to the throne after his old mother keeping him out\nof it till the man was grey. He's a man of the world, and he means\nwell by us. He's a jolly fine decent fellow, if you ask me, and no damn\nnonsense about him. He just says to himself: 'The old one never went\nto see these wild Irish. By Christ, I'll go myself and see what they're\nlike.' And are we going to insult the man when he comes over here on a\nfriendly visit? Eh? Isn't that right, Crofton?\"\n\nMr. Crofton nodded his head.\n\n\"But after all now,\" said Mr. Lyons argumentatively, \"King Edward's\nlife, you know, is not the very...\"\n\n\"Let bygones be bygones,\" said Mr. Henchy. \"I admire the man personally.\nHe's just an ordinary knockabout like you and me. He's fond of his glass\nof grog and he's a bit of a rake, perhaps, and he's a good sportsman.\nDamn it, can't we Irish play fair?\"\n\n\"That's all very fine,\" said Mr. Lyons. \"But look at the case of Parnell\nnow.\"\n\n\"In the name of God,\" said Mr. Henchy, \"where's the analogy between the\ntwo cases?\"\n\n\"What I mean,\" said Mr. Lyons, \"is we have our ideals. Why, now, would\nwe welcome a man like that? Do you think now after what he did Parnell\nwas a fit man to lead us? And why, then, would we do it for Edward the\nSeventh?\"\n\n\"This is Parnell's anniversary,\" said Mr. O'Connor, \"and don't let\nus stir up any bad blood. We all respect him now that he's dead and\ngone--even the Conservatives,\" he added, turning to Mr. Crofton.\n\nPok! The tardy cork flew out of Mr. Crofton's bottle. Mr. Crofton got\nup from his box and went to the fire. As he returned with his capture he\nsaid in a deep voice:\n\n\"Our side of the house respects him, because he was a gentleman.\"\n\n\"Right you are, Crofton!\" said Mr. Henchy fiercely. \"He was the only man\nthat could keep that bag of cats in order. 'Down, ye dogs! Lie down, ye\ncurs!' That's the way he treated them. Come in, Joe! Come in!\" he called\nout, catching sight of Mr. Hynes in the doorway.\n\nMr. Hynes came in slowly.\n\n\"Open another bottle of stout, Jack,\" said Mr. Henchy. \"O, I forgot\nthere's no corkscrew! Here, show me one here and I'll put it at the\nfire.\"\n\nThe old man handed him another bottle and he placed it on the hob.\n\n\"Sit down, Joe,\" said Mr. O'Connor, \"we're just talking about the\nChief.\"\n\n\"Ay, ay!\" said Mr. Henchy.\n\nMr. Hynes sat on the side of the table near Mr. Lyons but said nothing.\n\n\"There's one of them, anyhow,\" said Mr. Henchy, \"that didn't renege him.\nBy God, I'll say for you, Joe! No, by God, you stuck to him like a man!\"\n\n\"O, Joe,\" said Mr. O'Connor suddenly. \"Give us that thing you wrote--do\nyou remember? Have you got it on you?\"\n\n\"O, ay!\" said Mr. Henchy. \"Give us that. Did you ever hear that,\nCrofton? Listen to this now: splendid thing.\"\n\n\"Go on,\" said Mr. O'Connor. \"Fire away, Joe.\"\n\nMr. Hynes did not seem to remember at once the piece to which they were\nalluding, but, after reflecting a while, he said:\n\n\"O, that thing is it.... Sure, that's old now.\"\n\n\"Out with it, man!\" said Mr. O'Connor.\n\n\"'Sh, 'sh,\" said Mr. Henchy. \"Now, Joe!\"\n\nMr. Hynes hesitated a little longer. Then amid the silence he took off\nhis hat, laid it on the table and stood up. He seemed to be rehearsing\nthe piece in his mind. After a rather long pause he announced:\n\n\n                       THE DEATH OF PARNELL\n                        6th October, 1891\n\n\nHe cleared his throat once or twice and then began to recite:\n\n\n            He is dead.  Our Uncrowned King is dead.\n              O, Erin, mourn with grief and woe\n            For he lies dead whom the fell gang\n              Of modern hypocrites laid low.\n            He lies slain by the coward hounds\n              He raised to glory from the mire;\n            And Erin's hopes and Erin's dreams\n              Perish upon her monarch's pyre.\n            In palace, cabin or in cot\n              The Irish heart where'er it be\n            Is bowed with woe--for he is gone\n              Who would have wrought her destiny.\n            He would have had his Erin famed,\n              The green flag gloriously unfurled,\n            Her statesmen, bards and warriors raised\n              Before the nations of the World.\n            He dreamed (alas, 'twas but a dream!)\n              Of Liberty: but as he strove\n            To clutch that idol, treachery\n              Sundered him from the thing he loved.\n            Shame on the coward, caitiff hands\n              That smote their Lord or with a kiss\n            Betrayed him to the rabble-rout\n              Of fawning priests--no friends of his.\n            May everlasting shame consume\n              The memory of those who tried\n            To befoul and smear the exalted name\n              Of one who spurned them in his pride.\n            He fell as fall the mighty ones,\n              Nobly undaunted to the last,\n            And death has now united him\n              With Erin's heroes of the past.\n            No sound of strife disturb his sleep!\n              Calmly he rests: no human pain\n            Or high ambition spurs him now\n              The peaks of glory to attain.\n            They had their way: they laid him low.\n              But Erin, list, his spirit may\n            Rise, like the Phoenix from the flames,\n              When breaks the dawning of the day,\n            The day that brings us Freedom's reign.\n              And on that day may Erin well\n            Pledge in the cup she lifts to Joy\n              One grief--the memory of Parnell.\n\n\nMr. Hynes sat down again on the table. When he had finished his\nrecitation there was a silence and then a burst of clapping: even Mr.\nLyons clapped. The applause continued for a little time. When it had\nceased all the auditors drank from their bottles in silence.\n\nPok! The cork flew out of Mr. Hynes' bottle, but Mr. Hynes remained\nsitting flushed and bare-headed on the table. He did not seem to have\nheard the invitation.\n\n\"Good man, Joe!\" said Mr. O'Connor, taking out his cigarette papers and\npouch the better to hide his emotion.\n\n\"What do you think of that, Crofton?\" cried Mr. Henchy. \"Isn't that\nfine? What?\"\n\nMr. Crofton said that it was a very fine piece of writing.\n\n\n\n\nA MOTHER\n\nMR HOLOHAN, assistant secretary of the Eire Abu Society, had been\nwalking up and down Dublin for nearly a month, with his hands and\npockets full of dirty pieces of paper, arranging about the series of\nconcerts. He had a game leg and for this his friends called him Hoppy\nHolohan. He walked up and down constantly, stood by the hour at street\ncorners arguing the point and made notes; but in the end it was Mrs.\nKearney who arranged everything.\n\nMiss Devlin had become Mrs. Kearney out of spite. She had been educated\nin a high-class convent, where she had learned French and music. As\nshe was naturally pale and unbending in manner she made few friends at\nschool. When she came to the age of marriage she was sent out to many\nhouses where her playing and ivory manners were much admired. She sat\namid the chilly circle of her accomplishments, waiting for some suitor\nto brave it and offer her a brilliant life. But the young men whom she\nmet were ordinary and she gave them no encouragement, trying to console\nher romantic desires by eating a great deal of Turkish Delight in\nsecret. However, when she drew near the limit and her friends began\nto loosen their tongues about her, she silenced them by marrying Mr.\nKearney, who was a bootmaker on Ormond Quay.\n\nHe was much older than she. His conversation, which was serious, took\nplace at intervals in his great brown beard. After the first year of\nmarried life, Mrs. Kearney perceived that such a man would wear better\nthan a romantic person, but she never put her own romantic ideas away.\nHe was sober, thrifty and pious; he went to the altar every first\nFriday, sometimes with her, oftener by himself. But she never weakened\nin her religion and was a good wife to him. At some party in a strange\nhouse when she lifted her eyebrow ever so slightly he stood up to take\nhis leave and, when his cough troubled him, she put the eider-down quilt\nover his feet and made a strong rum punch. For his part, he was a model\nfather. By paying a small sum every week into a society, he ensured for\nboth his daughters a dowry of one hundred pounds each when they came to\nthe age of twenty-four. He sent the older daughter, Kathleen, to a good\nconvent, where she learned French and music, and afterward paid her\nfees at the Academy. Every year in the month of July Mrs. Kearney found\noccasion to say to some friend:\n\n\"My good man is packing us off to Skerries for a few weeks.\"\n\nIf it was not Skerries it was Howth or Greystones.\n\nWhen the Irish Revival began to be appreciable Mrs. Kearney determined\nto take advantage of her daughter's name and brought an Irish teacher to\nthe house. Kathleen and her sister sent Irish picture postcards to their\nfriends and these friends sent back other Irish picture postcards.\nOn special Sundays, when Mr. Kearney went with his family to the\npro-cathedral, a little crowd of people would assemble after mass at\nthe corner of Cathedral Street. They were all friends of the\nKearneys--musical friends or Nationalist friends; and, when they had\nplayed every little counter of gossip, they shook hands with one\nanother all together, laughing at the crossing of so many hands, and said\ngood-bye to one another in Irish. Soon the name of Miss Kathleen Kearney\nbegan to be heard often on people's lips. People said that she was\nvery clever at music and a very nice girl and, moreover, that she was\na believer in the language movement. Mrs. Kearney was well content at\nthis. Therefore she was not surprised when one day Mr. Holohan came to\nher and proposed that her daughter should be the accompanist at a\nseries of four grand concerts which his Society was going to give in the\nAntient Concert Rooms. She brought him into the drawing-room, made him\nsit down and brought out the decanter and the silver biscuit-barrel. She\nentered heart and soul into the details of the enterprise, advised and\ndissuaded: and finally a contract was drawn up by which Kathleen was to\nreceive eight guineas for her services as accompanist at the four grand\nconcerts.\n\nAs Mr. Holohan was a novice in such delicate matters as the wording of\nbills and the disposing of items for a programme, Mrs. Kearney helped\nhim. She had tact. She knew what artistes should go into capitals and\nwhat artistes should go into small type. She knew that the first tenor\nwould not like to come on after Mr. Meade's comic turn. To keep the\naudience continually diverted she slipped the doubtful items in between\nthe old favourites. Mr. Holohan called to see her every day to have her\nadvice on some point. She was invariably friendly and advising--homely,\nin fact. She pushed the decanter towards him, saying:\n\n\"Now, help yourself, Mr. Holohan!\"\n\nAnd while he was helping himself she said:\n\n\"Don't be afraid! Don't be afraid of it!\"\n\nEverything went on smoothly. Mrs. Kearney bought some lovely blush-pink\ncharmeuse in Brown Thomas's to let into the front of Kathleen's dress.\nIt cost a pretty penny; but there are occasions when a little expense\nis justifiable. She took a dozen of two-shilling tickets for the final\nconcert and sent them to those friends who could not be trusted to come\notherwise. She forgot nothing, and, thanks to her, everything that was\nto be done was done.\n\nThe concerts were to be on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday.\nWhen Mrs. Kearney arrived with her daughter at the Antient Concert Rooms\non Wednesday night she did not like the look of things. A few young men,\nwearing bright blue badges in their coats, stood idle in the vestibule;\nnone of them wore evening dress. She passed by with her daughter and a\nquick glance through the open door of the hall showed her the cause of\nthe stewards' idleness. At first she wondered had she mistaken the hour.\nNo, it was twenty minutes to eight.\n\nIn the dressing-room behind the stage she was introduced to the\nsecretary of the Society, Mr. Fitzpatrick. She smiled and shook his\nhand. He was a little man, with a white, vacant face. She noticed that\nhe wore his soft brown hat carelessly on the side of his head and that\nhis accent was flat. He held a programme in his hand, and, while he was\ntalking to her, he chewed one end of it into a moist pulp. He seemed\nto bear disappointments lightly. Mr. Holohan came into the dressingroom\nevery few minutes with reports from the box-office. The artistes talked\namong themselves nervously, glanced from time to time at the mirror and\nrolled and unrolled their music. When it was nearly half-past eight, the\nfew people in the hall began to express their desire to be entertained.\nMr. Fitzpatrick came in, smiled vacantly at the room, and said:\n\n\"Well now, ladies and gentlemen. I suppose we'd better open the ball.\"\n\nMrs. Kearney rewarded his very flat final syllable with a quick stare of\ncontempt, and then said to her daughter encouragingly:\n\n\"Are you ready, dear?\"\n\nWhen she had an opportunity, she called Mr. Holohan aside and asked him\nto tell her what it meant. Mr. Holohan did not know what it meant.\nHe said that the Committee had made a mistake in arranging for four\nconcerts: four was too many.\n\n\"And the artistes!\" said Mrs. Kearney. \"Of course they are doing their\nbest, but really they are not good.\"\n\nMr. Holohan admitted that the artistes were no good but the Committee,\nhe said, had decided to let the first three concerts go as they pleased\nand reserve all the talent for Saturday night. Mrs. Kearney said\nnothing, but, as the mediocre items followed one another on the platform\nand the few people in the hall grew fewer and fewer, she began to regret\nthat she had put herself to any expense for such a concert. There was\nsomething she didn't like in the look of things and Mr. Fitzpatrick's\nvacant smile irritated her very much. However, she said nothing and\nwaited to see how it would end. The concert expired shortly before ten,\nand everyone went home quickly.\n\nThe concert on Thursday night was better attended, but Mrs. Kearney\nsaw at once that the house was filled with paper. The audience behaved\nindecorously, as if the concert were an informal dress rehearsal. Mr.\nFitzpatrick seemed to enjoy himself; he was quite unconscious that Mrs.\nKearney was taking angry note of his conduct. He stood at the edge of\nthe screen, from time to time jutting out his head and exchanging a\nlaugh with two friends in the corner of the balcony. In the course of\nthe evening, Mrs. Kearney learned that the Friday concert was to be\nabandoned and that the Committee was going to move heaven and earth to\nsecure a bumper house on Saturday night. When she heard this, she sought\nout Mr. Holohan. She buttonholed him as he was limping out quickly with\na glass of lemonade for a young lady and asked him was it true. Yes, it\nwas true.\n\n\"But, of course, that doesn't alter the contract,\" she said. \"The\ncontract was for four concerts.\"\n\nMr. Holohan seemed to be in a hurry; he advised her to speak to Mr.\nFitzpatrick. Mrs. Kearney was now beginning to be alarmed. She called\nMr. Fitzpatrick away from his screen and told him that her daughter had\nsigned for four concerts and that, of course, according to the terms\nof the contract, she should receive the sum originally stipulated for,\nwhether the society gave the four concerts or not. Mr. Fitzpatrick, who\ndid not catch the point at issue very quickly, seemed unable to resolve\nthe difficulty and said that he would bring the matter before the\nCommittee. Mrs. Kearney's anger began to flutter in her cheek and she\nhad all she could do to keep from asking:\n\n\"And who is the Cometty pray?\"\n\nBut she knew that it would not be ladylike to do that: so she was\nsilent.\n\nLittle boys were sent out into the principal streets of Dublin early on\nFriday morning with bundles of handbills. Special puffs appeared in all\nthe evening papers, reminding the music-loving public of the treat which\nwas in store for it on the following evening. Mrs. Kearney was\nsomewhat reassured, but she thought well to tell her husband part of\nher suspicions. He listened carefully and said that perhaps it would be\nbetter if he went with her on Saturday night. She agreed. She respected\nher husband in the same way as she respected the General Post Office, as\nsomething large, secure and fixed; and though she knew the small number\nof his talents she appreciated his abstract value as a male. She was\nglad that he had suggested coming with her. She thought her plans over.\n\nThe night of the grand concert came. Mrs. Kearney, with her husband and\ndaughter, arrived at the Antient Concert Rooms three-quarters of an hour\nbefore the time at which the concert was to begin. By ill luck it was a\nrainy evening. Mrs. Kearney placed her daughter's clothes and music in\ncharge of her husband and went all over the building looking for Mr.\nHolohan or Mr. Fitzpatrick. She could find neither. She asked the\nstewards was any member of the Committee in the hall and, after a great\ndeal of trouble, a steward brought out a little woman named Miss\nBeirne to whom Mrs. Kearney explained that she wanted to see one of the\nsecretaries. Miss Beirne expected them any minute and asked could she do\nanything. Mrs. Kearney looked searchingly at the oldish face which was\nscrewed into an expression of trustfulness and enthusiasm and answered:\n\n\"No, thank you!\"\n\nThe little woman hoped they would have a good house. She looked out\nat the rain until the melancholy of the wet street effaced all the\ntrustfulness and enthusiasm from her twisted features. Then she gave a\nlittle sigh and said:\n\n\"Ah, well! We did our best, the dear knows.\"\n\nMrs. Kearney had to go back to the dressing-room.\n\nThe artistes were arriving. The bass and the second tenor had already\ncome. The bass, Mr. Duggan, was a slender young man with a scattered\nblack moustache. He was the son of a hall porter in an office in the\ncity and, as a boy, he had sung prolonged bass notes in the resounding\nhall. From this humble state he had raised himself until he had become\na first-rate artiste. He had appeared in grand opera. One night, when an\noperatic artiste had fallen ill, he had undertaken the part of the king\nin the opera of Maritana at the Queen's Theatre. He sang his music with\ngreat feeling and volume and was warmly welcomed by the gallery; but,\nunfortunately, he marred the good impression by wiping his nose in his\ngloved hand once or twice out of thoughtlessness. He was unassuming and\nspoke little. He said yous so softly that it passed unnoticed and he\nnever drank anything stronger than milk for his voice's sake. Mr. Bell,\nthe second tenor, was a fair-haired little man who competed every year\nfor prizes at the Feis Ceoil. On his fourth trial he had been awarded\na bronze medal. He was extremely nervous and extremely jealous of\nother tenors and he covered his nervous jealousy with an ebullient\nfriendliness. It was his humour to have people know what an ordeal a\nconcert was to him. Therefore when he saw Mr. Duggan he went over to him\nand asked:\n\n\"Are you in it too?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mr. Duggan.\n\nMr. Bell laughed at his fellow-sufferer, held out his hand and said:\n\n\"Shake!\"\n\nMrs. Kearney passed by these two young men and went to the edge of the\nscreen to view the house. The seats were being filled up rapidly and a\npleasant noise circulated in the auditorium. She came back and spoke to\nher husband privately. Their conversation was evidently about Kathleen\nfor they both glanced at her often as she stood chatting to one of her\nNationalist friends, Miss Healy, the contralto. An unknown solitary\nwoman with a pale face walked through the room. The women followed with\nkeen eyes the faded blue dress which was stretched upon a meagre body.\nSomeone said that she was Madam Glynn, the soprano.\n\n\"I wonder where did they dig her up,\" said Kathleen to Miss Healy. \"I'm\nsure I never heard of her.\"\n\nMiss Healy had to smile. Mr. Holohan limped into the dressing-room\nat that moment and the two young ladies asked him who was the unknown\nwoman. Mr. Holohan said that she was Madam Glynn from London. Madam\nGlynn took her stand in a corner of the room, holding a roll of music\nstiffly before her and from time to time changing the direction of her\nstartled gaze. The shadow took her faded dress into shelter but fell\nrevengefully into the little cup behind her collar-bone. The noise of\nthe hall became more audible. The first tenor and the baritone arrived\ntogether. They were both well dressed, stout and complacent and they\nbrought a breath of opulence among the company.\n\nMrs. Kearney brought her daughter over to them, and talked to them\namiably. She wanted to be on good terms with them but, while she strove\nto be polite, her eyes followed Mr. Holohan in his limping and devious\ncourses. As soon as she could she excused herself and went out after\nhim.\n\n\"Mr. Holohan, I want to speak to you for a moment,\" she said.\n\nThey went down to a discreet part of the corridor. Mrs Kearney asked\nhim when was her daughter going to be paid. Mr. Holohan said that Mr.\nFitzpatrick had charge of that. Mrs. Kearney said that she didn't know\nanything about Mr. Fitzpatrick. Her daughter had signed a contract for\neight guineas and she would have to be paid. Mr. Holohan said that it\nwasn't his business.\n\n\"Why isn't it your business?\" asked Mrs. Kearney. \"Didn't you yourself\nbring her the contract? Anyway, if it's not your business it's my\nbusiness and I mean to see to it.\"\n\n\"You'd better speak to Mr. Fitzpatrick,\" said Mr. Holohan distantly.\n\n\"I don't know anything about Mr. Fitzpatrick,\" repeated Mrs. Kearney. \"I\nhave my contract, and I intend to see that it is carried out.\"\n\nWhen she came back to the dressing-room her cheeks were slightly\nsuffused. The room was lively. Two men in outdoor dress had taken\npossession of the fireplace and were chatting familiarly with Miss Healy\nand the baritone. They were the Freeman man and Mr. O'Madden Burke. The\nFreeman man had come in to say that he could not wait for the concert as\nhe had to report the lecture which an American priest was giving in\nthe Mansion House. He said they were to leave the report for him at the\nFreeman office and he would see that it went in. He was a grey-haired\nman, with a plausible voice and careful manners. He held an extinguished\ncigar in his hand and the aroma of cigar smoke floated near him. He had\nnot intended to stay a moment because concerts and artistes bored him\nconsiderably but he remained leaning against the mantelpiece. Miss\nHealy stood in front of him, talking and laughing. He was old enough to\nsuspect one reason for her politeness but young enough in spirit to\nturn the moment to account. The warmth, fragrance and colour of her body\nappealed to his senses. He was pleasantly conscious that the bosom which\nhe saw rise and fall slowly beneath him rose and fell at that moment\nfor him, that the laughter and fragrance and wilful glances were his\ntribute. When he could stay no longer he took leave of her regretfully.\n\n\"O'Madden Burke will write the notice,\" he explained to Mr. Holohan,\n\"and I'll see it in.\"\n\n\"Thank you very much, Mr. Hendrick,\" said Mr. Holohan, \"you'll see it\nin, I know. Now, won't you have a little something before you go?\"\n\n\"I don't mind,\" said Mr. Hendrick.\n\nThe two men went along some tortuous passages and up a dark staircase\nand came to a secluded room where one of the stewards was uncorking\nbottles for a few gentlemen. One of these gentlemen was Mr. O'Madden\nBurke, who had found out the room by instinct. He was a suave, elderly\nman who balanced his imposing body, when at rest, upon a large silk\numbrella. His magniloquent western name was the moral umbrella upon\nwhich he balanced the fine problem of his finances. He was widely\nrespected.\n\nWhile Mr. Holohan was entertaining the Freeman man Mrs. Kearney was\nspeaking so animatedly to her husband that he had to ask her to lower\nher voice. The conversation of the others in the dressing-room had\nbecome strained. Mr. Bell, the first item, stood ready with his music\nbut the accompanist made no sign. Evidently something was wrong. Mr.\nKearney looked straight before him, stroking his beard, while Mrs.\nKearney spoke into Kathleen's ear with subdued emphasis. From the hall\ncame sounds of encouragement, clapping and stamping of feet. The\nfirst tenor and the baritone and Miss Healy stood together, waiting\ntranquilly, but Mr. Bell's nerves were greatly agitated because he was\nafraid the audience would think that he had come late.\n\nMr. Holohan and Mr. O'Madden Burke came into the room. In a moment Mr.\nHolohan perceived the hush. He went over to Mrs. Kearney and spoke\nwith her earnestly. While they were speaking the noise in the hall grew\nlouder. Mr. Holohan became very red and excited. He spoke volubly, but\nMrs. Kearney said curtly at intervals:\n\n\"She won't go on. She must get her eight guineas.\"\n\nMr. Holohan pointed desperately towards the hall where the audience was\nclapping and stamping. He appealed to Mr Kearney and to Kathleen. But\nMr. Kearney continued to stroke his beard and Kathleen looked down,\nmoving the point of her new shoe: it was not her fault. Mrs. Kearney\nrepeated:\n\n\"She won't go on without her money.\"\n\nAfter a swift struggle of tongues Mr. Holohan hobbled out in haste.\nThe room was silent. When the strain of the silence had become somewhat\npainful Miss Healy said to the baritone:\n\n\"Have you seen Mrs. Pat Campbell this week?\"\n\nThe baritone had not seen her but he had been told that she was very\nfine. The conversation went no further. The first tenor bent his head\nand began to count the links of the gold chain which was extended across\nhis waist, smiling and humming random notes to observe the effect on the\nfrontal sinus. From time to time everyone glanced at Mrs. Kearney.\n\nThe noise in the auditorium had risen to a clamour when Mr. Fitzpatrick\nburst into the room, followed by Mr. Holohan, who was panting. The\nclapping and stamping in the hall were punctuated by whistling. Mr.\nFitzpatrick held a few banknotes in his hand. He counted out four\ninto Mrs. Kearney's hand and said she would get the other half at the\ninterval. Mrs. Kearney said:\n\n\"This is four shillings short.\"\n\nBut Kathleen gathered in her skirt and said: \"Now, Mr. Bell,\" to\nthe first item, who was shaking like an aspen. The singer and the\naccompanist went out together. The noise in hall died away. There was a\npause of a few seconds: and then the piano was heard.\n\nThe first part of the concert was very successful except for Madam\nGlynn's item. The poor lady sang Killarney in a bodiless gasping voice,\nwith all the old-fashioned mannerisms of intonation and pronunciation\nwhich she believed lent elegance to her singing. She looked as if she\nhad been resurrected from an old stage-wardrobe and the cheaper parts\nof the hall made fun of her high wailing notes. The first tenor and the\ncontralto, however, brought down the house. Kathleen played a selection\nof Irish airs which was generously applauded. The first part closed with\na stirring patriotic recitation delivered by a young lady who arranged\namateur theatricals. It was deservedly applauded; and, when it was\nended, the men went out for the interval, content.\n\nAll this time the dressing-room was a hive of excitement. In one corner\nwere Mr. Holohan, Mr. Fitzpatrick, Miss Beirne, two of the stewards, the\nbaritone, the bass, and Mr. O'Madden Burke. Mr. O'Madden Burke said it\nwas the most scandalous exhibition he had ever witnessed. Miss Kathleen\nKearney's musical career was ended in Dublin after that, he said. The\nbaritone was asked what did he think of Mrs. Kearney's conduct. He did\nnot like to say anything. He had been paid his money and wished to be at\npeace with men. However, he said that Mrs. Kearney might have taken the\nartistes into consideration. The stewards and the secretaries debated\nhotly as to what should be done when the interval came.\n\n\"I agree with Miss Beirne,\" said Mr. O'Madden Burke. \"Pay her nothing.\"\n\nIn another corner of the room were Mrs. Kearney and her husband, Mr.\nBell, Miss Healy and the young lady who had to recite the patriotic\npiece. Mrs. Kearney said that the Committee had treated her\nscandalously. She had spared neither trouble nor expense and this was\nhow she was repaid.\n\nThey thought they had only a girl to deal with and that, therefore, they\ncould ride roughshod over her. But she would show them their mistake.\nThey wouldn't have dared to have treated her like that if she had been a\nman. But she would see that her daughter got her rights: she wouldn't\nbe fooled. If they didn't pay her to the last farthing she would make\nDublin ring. Of course she was sorry for the sake of the artistes. But\nwhat else could she do? She appealed to the second tenor who said he\nthought she had not been well treated. Then she appealed to Miss Healy.\nMiss Healy wanted to join the other group but she did not like to do so\nbecause she was a great friend of Kathleen's and the Kearneys had often\ninvited her to their house.\n\nAs soon as the first part was ended Mr. Fitzpatrick and Mr. Holohan went\nover to Mrs. Kearney and told her that the other four guineas would be\npaid after the Committee meeting on the following Tuesday and that, in\ncase her daughter did not play for the second part, the Committee would\nconsider the contract broken and would pay nothing.\n\n\"I haven't seen any Committee,\" said Mrs. Kearney angrily. \"My daughter\nhas her contract. She will get four pounds eight into her hand or a foot\nshe won't put on that platform.\"\n\n\"I'm surprised at you, Mrs. Kearney,\" said Mr. Holohan. \"I never thought\nyou would treat us this way.\"\n\n\"And what way did you treat me?\" asked Mrs. Kearney.\n\nHer face was inundated with an angry colour and she looked as if she\nwould attack someone with her hands.\n\n\"I'm asking for my rights.\" she said.\n\n\"You might have some sense of decency,\" said Mr. Holohan.\n\n\"Might I, indeed?... And when I ask when my daughter is going to be paid\nI can't get a civil answer.\"\n\nShe tossed her head and assumed a haughty voice:\n\n\"You must speak to the secretary. It's not my business. I'm a great\nfellow fol-the-diddle-I-do.\"\n\n\"I thought you were a lady,\" said Mr. Holohan, walking away from her\nabruptly.\n\nAfter that Mrs. Kearney's conduct was condemned on all hands: everyone\napproved of what the Committee had done. She stood at the door, haggard\nwith rage, arguing with her husband and daughter, gesticulating with\nthem. She waited until it was time for the second part to begin in the\nhope that the secretaries would approach her. But Miss Healy had kindly\nconsented to play one or two accompaniments. Mrs. Kearney had to stand\naside to allow the baritone and his accompanist to pass up to the\nplatform. She stood still for an instant like an angry stone image\nand, when the first notes of the song struck her ear, she caught up her\ndaughter's cloak and said to her husband:\n\n\"Get a cab!\"\n\nHe went out at once. Mrs. Kearney wrapped the cloak round her daughter\nand followed him. As she passed through the doorway she stopped and\nglared into Mr. Holohan's face.\n\n\"I'm not done with you yet,\" she said.\n\n\"But I'm done with you,\" said Mr. Holohan.\n\nKathleen followed her mother meekly. Mr. Holohan began to pace up and\ndown the room, in order to cool himself for he his skin on fire.\n\n\"That's a nice lady!\" he said. \"O, she's a nice lady!\"\n\n\"You did the proper thing, Holohan,\" said Mr. O'Madden Burke, poised\nupon his umbrella in approval.\n\n\n\n\nGRACE\n\nTWO GENTLEMEN who were in the lavatory at the time tried to lift him up:\nbut he was quite helpless. He lay curled up at the foot of the stairs\ndown which he had fallen. They succeeded in turning him over. His hat\nhad rolled a few yards away and his clothes were smeared with the filth\nand ooze of the floor on which he had lain, face downwards. His eyes\nwere closed and he breathed with a grunting noise. A thin stream of\nblood trickled from the corner of his mouth.\n\nThese two gentlemen and one of the curates carried him up the stairs\nand laid him down again on the floor of the bar. In two minutes he was\nsurrounded by a ring of men. The manager of the bar asked everyone\nwho he was and who was with him. No one knew who he was but one of the\ncurates said he had served the gentleman with a small rum.\n\n\"Was he by himself?\" asked the manager.\n\n\"No, sir. There was two gentlemen with him.\"\n\n\"And where are they?\"\n\nNo one knew; a voice said:\n\n\"Give him air. He's fainted.\"\n\nThe ring of onlookers distended and closed again elastically. A dark\nmedal of blood had formed itself near the man's head on the tessellated\nfloor. The manager, alarmed by the grey pallor of the man's face, sent\nfor a policeman.\n\nHis collar was unfastened and his necktie undone. He opened eyes for an\ninstant, sighed and closed them again. One of gentlemen who had carried\nhim upstairs held a dinged silk hat in his hand. The manager asked\nrepeatedly did no one know who the injured man was or where had his\nfriends gone. The door of the bar opened and an immense constable\nentered. A crowd which had followed him down the laneway collected\noutside the door, struggling to look in through the glass panels.\n\nThe manager at once began to narrate what he knew. The constable, a young\nman with thick immobile features, listened. He moved his head slowly to\nright and left and from the manager to the person on the floor, as if\nhe feared to be the victim of some delusion. Then he drew off his glove,\nproduced a small book from his waist, licked the lead of his pencil and\nmade ready to indite. He asked in a suspicious provincial accent:\n\n\"Who is the man? What's his name and address?\"\n\nA young man in a cycling-suit cleared his way through the ring of\nbystanders. He knelt down promptly beside the injured man and called for\nwater. The constable knelt down also to help. The young man washed the\nblood from the injured man's mouth and then called for some brandy. The\nconstable repeated the order in an authoritative voice until a curate\ncame running with the glass. The brandy was forced down the man's\nthroat. In a few seconds he opened his eyes and looked about him. He\nlooked at the circle of faces and then, understanding, strove to rise to\nhis feet.\n\n\"You're all right now?\" asked the young man in the cycling-suit.\n\n\"Sha,'s nothing,\" said the injured man, trying to stand up.\n\nHe was helped to his feet. The manager said something about a hospital\nand some of the bystanders gave advice. The battered silk hat was placed\non the man's head. The constable asked:\n\n\"Where do you live?\"\n\nThe man, without answering, began to twirl the ends of his moustache.\nHe made light of his accident. It was nothing, he said: only a little\naccident. He spoke very thickly.\n\n\"Where do you live?\" repeated the constable.\n\nThe man said they were to get a cab for him. While the point was being\ndebated a tall agile gentleman of fair complexion, wearing a long yellow\nulster, came from the far end of the bar. Seeing the spectacle, he\ncalled out:\n\n\"Hallo, Tom, old man! What's the trouble?\"\n\n\"Sha,'s nothing,\" said the man.\n\nThe new-comer surveyed the deplorable figure before him and then turned\nto the constable, saying:\n\n\"It's all right, constable. I'll see him home.\"\n\nThe constable touched his helmet and answered:\n\n\"All right, Mr. Power!\"\n\n\"Come now, Tom,\" said Mr. Power, taking his friend by the arm. \"No bones\nbroken. What? Can you walk?\"\n\nThe young man in the cycling-suit took the man by the other arm and the\ncrowd divided.\n\n\"How did you get yourself into this mess?\" asked Mr. Power.\n\n\"The gentleman fell down the stairs,\" said the young man.\n\n\"I' 'ery 'uch o'liged to you, sir,\" said the injured man.\n\n\"Not at all.\"\n\n\"'ant we have a little...?\"\n\n\"Not now. Not now.\"\n\nThe three men left the bar and the crowd sifted through the doors in to\nthe laneway. The manager brought the constable to the stairs to inspect\nthe scene of the accident. They agreed that the gentleman must have\nmissed his footing. The customers returned to the counter and a curate\nset about removing the traces of blood from the floor.\n\nWhen they came out into Grafton Street, Mr. Power whistled for an\noutsider. The injured man said again as well as he could.\n\n\"I' 'ery 'uch o'liged to you, sir. I hope we'll 'eet again. 'y na'e is\nKernan.\"\n\nThe shock and the incipient pain had partly sobered him.\n\n\"Don't mention it,\" said the young man.\n\nThey shook hands. Mr. Kernan was hoisted on to the car and, while Mr.\nPower was giving directions to the carman, he expressed his gratitude\nto the young man and regretted that they could not have a little drink\ntogether.\n\n\"Another time,\" said the young man.\n\nThe car drove off towards Westmoreland Street. As it passed Ballast\nOffice the clock showed half-past nine. A keen east wind hit them,\nblowing from the mouth of the river. Mr. Kernan was huddled together\nwith cold. His friend asked him to tell how the accident had happened.\n\n\"I'an't 'an,\" he answered, \"'y 'ongue is hurt.\"\n\n\"Show.\"\n\nThe other leaned over the well of the car and peered into Mr. Kernan's\nmouth but he could not see. He struck a match and, sheltering it in the\nshell of his hands, peered again into the mouth which Mr. Kernan opened\nobediently. The swaying movement of the car brought the match to and\nfrom the opened mouth. The lower teeth and gums were covered with\nclotted blood and a minute piece of the tongue seemed to have been\nbitten off. The match was blown out.\n\n\"That's ugly,\" said Mr. Power.\n\n\"Sha, 's nothing,\" said Mr. Kernan, closing his mouth and pulling the\ncollar of his filthy coat across his neck.\n\nMr. Kernan was a commercial traveller of the old school which believed\nin the dignity of its calling. He had never been seen in the city\nwithout a silk hat of some decency and a pair of gaiters. By grace of\nthese two articles of clothing, he said, a man could always pass muster.\nHe carried on the tradition of his Napoleon, the great Blackwhite, whose\nmemory he evoked at times by legend and mimicry. Modern business methods\nhad spared him only so far as to allow him a little office in Crowe\nStreet, on the window blind of which was written the name of his firm\nwith the address--London, E. C. On the mantelpiece of this little office\na little leaden battalion of canisters was drawn up and on the table\nbefore the window stood four or five china bowls which were usually half\nfull of a black liquid. From these bowls Mr. Kernan tasted tea. He took\na mouthful, drew it up, saturated his palate with it and then spat it\nforth into the grate. Then he paused to judge.\n\nMr. Power, a much younger man, was employed in the Royal Irish\nConstabulary Office in Dublin Castle. The arc of his social rise\nintersected the arc of his friend's decline, but Mr. Kernan's decline\nwas mitigated by the fact that certain of those friends who had known\nhim at his highest point of success still esteemed him as a character.\nMr. Power was one of these friends. His inexplicable debts were a byword\nin his circle; he was a debonair young man.\n\nThe car halted before a small house on the Glasnevin road and Mr. Kernan\nwas helped into the house. His wife put him to bed while Mr. Power sat\ndownstairs in the kitchen asking the children where they went to school\nand what book they were in. The children--two girls and a boy, conscious\nof their father's helplessness and of their mother's absence, began some\nhorseplay with him. He was surprised at their manners and at their\naccents, and his brow grew thoughtful. After a while Mrs. Kernan entered\nthe kitchen, exclaiming:\n\n\"Such a sight! O, he'll do for himself one day and that's the holy alls\nof it. He's been drinking since Friday.\"\n\nMr. Power was careful to explain to her that he was not responsible,\nthat he had come on the scene by the merest accident. Mrs. Kernan,\nremembering Mr. Power's good offices during domestic quarrels, as well\nas many small, but opportune loans, said:\n\n\"O, you needn't tell me that, Mr. Power. I know you're a friend of his,\nnot like some of the others he does be with. They're all right so long\nas he has money in his pocket to keep him out from his wife and family.\nNice friends! Who was he with tonight, I'd like to know?\"\n\nMr. Power shook his head but said nothing.\n\n\"I'm so sorry,\" she continued, \"that I've nothing in the house to offer\nyou. But if you wait a minute I'll send round to Fogarty's at the\ncorner.\"\n\nMr. Power stood up.\n\n\"We were waiting for him to come home with the money. He never seems to\nthink he has a home at all.\"\n\n\"O, now, Mrs. Kernan,\" said Mr. Power, \"we'll make him turn over a new\nleaf. I'll talk to Martin. He's the man. We'll come here one of these\nnights and talk it over.\"\n\nShe saw him to the door. The carman was stamping up and down the\nfootpath, and swinging his arms to warm himself.\n\n\"It's very kind of you to bring him home,\" she said.\n\n\"Not at all,\" said Mr. Power.\n\nHe got up on the car. As it drove off he raised his hat to her gaily.\n\n\"We'll make a new man of him,\" he said. \"Good-night, Mrs. Kernan.\"\n\n* * * * *\n\nMrs. Kernan's puzzled eyes watched the car till it was out of sight.\nThen she withdrew them, went into the house and emptied her husband's\npockets.\n\nShe was an active, practical woman of middle age. Not long before she\nhad celebrated her silver wedding and renewed her intimacy with her\nhusband by waltzing with him to Mr. Power's accompaniment. In her days\nof courtship, Mr. Kernan had seemed to her a not ungallant figure: and\nshe still hurried to the chapel door whenever a wedding was reported\nand, seeing the bridal pair, recalled with vivid pleasure how she had\npassed out of the Star of the Sea Church in Sandymount, leaning on the\narm of a jovial well-fed man, who was dressed smartly in a frock-coat\nand lavender trousers and carried a silk hat gracefully balanced upon\nhis other arm. After three weeks she had found a wife's life irksome\nand, later on, when she was beginning to find it unbearable, she had\nbecome a mother. The part of mother presented to her no insuperable\ndifficulties and for twenty-five years she had kept house shrewdly for\nher husband. Her two eldest sons were launched. One was in a draper's\nshop in Glasgow and the other was clerk to a tea-merchant in Belfast.\nThey were good sons, wrote regularly and sometimes sent home money. The\nother children were still at school.\n\nMr. Kernan sent a letter to his office next day and remained in bed. She\nmade beef-tea for him and scolded him roundly. She accepted his frequent\nintemperance as part of the climate, healed him dutifully whenever he\nwas sick and always tried to make him eat a breakfast. There were worse\nhusbands. He had never been violent since the boys had grown up, and she\nknew that he would walk to the end of Thomas Street and back again to\nbook even a small order.\n\nTwo nights after, his friends came to see him. She brought them up to\nhis bedroom, the air of which was impregnated with a personal odour,\nand gave them chairs at the fire. Mr. Kernan's tongue, the occasional\nstinging pain of which had made him somewhat irritable during the day,\nbecame more polite. He sat propped up in the bed by pillows and the\nlittle colour in his puffy cheeks made them resemble warm cinders. He\napologised to his guests for the disorder of the room, but at the same\ntime looked at them a little proudly, with a veteran's pride.\n\nHe was quite unconscious that he was the victim of a plot which his\nfriends, Mr. Cunningham, Mr. M'Coy and Mr. Power had disclosed to Mrs.\nKernan in the parlour. The idea had been Mr. Power's, but its development\nwas entrusted to Mr. Cunningham. Mr. Kernan came of Protestant stock\nand, though he had been converted to the Catholic faith at the time\nof his marriage, he had not been in the pale of the Church for twenty\nyears. He was fond, moreover, of giving side-thrusts at Catholicism.\n\nMr. Cunningham was the very man for such a case. He was an elder\ncolleague of Mr. Power. His own domestic life was not very happy. People\nhad great sympathy with him, for it was known that he had married an\nunpresentable woman who was an incurable drunkard. He had set up house\nfor her six times; and each time she had pawned the furniture on him.\n\nEveryone had respect for poor Martin Cunningham. He was a thoroughly\nsensible man, influential and intelligent. His blade of human knowledge,\nnatural astuteness particularised by long association with cases in the\npolice courts, had been tempered by brief immersions in the waters\nof general philosophy. He was well informed. His friends bowed to his\nopinions and considered that his face was like Shakespeare's.\n\nWhen the plot had been disclosed to her, Mrs. Kernan had said:\n\n\"I leave it all in your hands, Mr. Cunningham.\"\n\nAfter a quarter of a century of married life, she had very few illusions\nleft. Religion for her was a habit, and she suspected that a man of her\nhusband's age would not change greatly before death. She was tempted to\nsee a curious appropriateness in his accident and, but that she did\nnot wish to seem bloody-minded, would have told the gentlemen that\nMr. Kernan's tongue would not suffer by being shortened. However, Mr.\nCunningham was a capable man; and religion was religion. The scheme\nmight do good and, at least, it could do no harm. Her beliefs were\nnot extravagant. She believed steadily in the Sacred Heart as the\nmost generally useful of all Catholic devotions and approved of the\nsacraments. Her faith was bounded by her kitchen, but, if she was put to\nit, she could believe also in the banshee and in the Holy Ghost.\n\nThe gentlemen began to talk of the accident. Mr. Cunningham said that he\nhad once known a similar case. A man of seventy had bitten off a piece\nof his tongue during an epileptic fit and the tongue had filled in\nagain, so that no one could see a trace of the bite.\n\n\"Well, I'm not seventy,\" said the invalid.\n\n\"God forbid,\" said Mr. Cunningham.\n\n\"It doesn't pain you now?\" asked Mr. M'Coy.\n\nMr. M'Coy had been at one time a tenor of some reputation. His wife, who\nhad been a soprano, still taught young children to play the piano at low\nterms. His line of life had not been the shortest distance between two\npoints and for short periods he had been driven to live by his wits. He\nhad been a clerk in the Midland Railway, a canvasser for advertisements\nfor The Irish Times and for The Freeman's Journal, a town traveller\nfor a coal firm on commission, a private inquiry agent, a clerk in the\noffice of the Sub-Sheriff, and he had recently become secretary to the\nCity Coroner. His new office made him professionally interested in Mr.\nKernan's case.\n\n\"Pain? Not much,\" answered Mr. Kernan. \"But it's so sickening. I feel as\nif I wanted to retch off.\"\n\n\"That's the boose,\" said Mr. Cunningham firmly.\n\n\"No,\" said Mr. Kernan. \"I think I caught a cold on the car. There's\nsomething keeps coming into my throat, phlegm or----\"\n\n\"Mucus.\" said Mr. M'Coy.\n\n\"It keeps coming like from down in my throat; sickening.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" said Mr. M'Coy, \"that's the thorax.\"\n\nHe looked at Mr. Cunningham and Mr. Power at the same time with an air\nof challenge. Mr. Cunningham nodded his head rapidly and Mr. Power said:\n\n\"Ah, well, all's well that ends well.\"\n\n\"I'm very much obliged to you, old man,\" said the invalid.\n\nMr. Power waved his hand.\n\n\"Those other two fellows I was with----\"\n\n\"Who were you with?\" asked Mr. Cunningham.\n\n\"A chap. I don't know his name. Damn it now, what's his name? Little\nchap with sandy hair....\"\n\n\"And who else?\"\n\n\"Harford.\"\n\n\"Hm,\" said Mr. Cunningham.\n\nWhen Mr. Cunningham made that remark, people were silent. It was known\nthat the speaker had secret sources of information. In this case the\nmonosyllable had a moral intention. Mr. Harford sometimes formed one\nof a little detachment which left the city shortly after noon on Sunday\nwith the purpose of arriving as soon as possible at some public-house on\nthe outskirts of the city where its members duly qualified themselves as\nbona fide travellers. But his fellow-travellers had never consented\nto overlook his origin. He had begun life as an obscure financier by\nlending small sums of money to workmen at usurious interest. Later on he\nhad become the partner of a very fat, short gentleman, Mr. Goldberg, in\nthe Liffey Loan Bank. Though he had never embraced more than the Jewish\nethical code, his fellow-Catholics, whenever they had smarted in person\nor by proxy under his exactions, spoke of him bitterly as an Irish Jew\nand an illiterate, and saw divine disapproval of usury made manifest\nthrough the person of his idiot son. At other times they remembered his\ngood points.\n\n\"I wonder where did he go to,\" said Mr. Kernan.\n\nHe wished the details of the incident to remain vague. He wished his\nfriends to think there had been some mistake, that Mr. Harford and he\nhad missed each other. His friends, who knew quite well Mr. Harford's\nmanners in drinking were silent. Mr. Power said again:\n\n\"All's well that ends well.\"\n\nMr. Kernan changed the subject at once.\n\n\"That was a decent young chap, that medical fellow,\" he said. \"Only for\nhim----\"\n\n\"O, only for him,\" said Mr. Power, \"it might have been a case of seven\ndays, without the option of a fine.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" said Mr. Kernan, trying to remember. \"I remember now there\nwas a policeman. Decent young fellow, he seemed. How did it happen at\nall?\"\n\n\"It happened that you were peloothered, Tom,\" said Mr. Cunningham\ngravely.\n\n\"True bill,\" said Mr. Kernan, equally gravely.\n\n\"I suppose you squared the constable, Jack,\" said Mr. M'Coy.\n\nMr. Power did not relish the use of his Christian name. He was not\nstraight-laced, but he could not forget that Mr. M'Coy had recently made\na crusade in search of valises and portmanteaus to enable Mrs. M'Coy to\nfulfil imaginary engagements in the country. More than he resented the\nfact that he had been victimised he resented such low playing of the\ngame. He answered the question, therefore, as if Mr. Kernan had asked\nit.\n\nThe narrative made Mr. Kernan indignant. He was keenly conscious of his\ncitizenship, wished to live with his city on terms mutually honourable\nand resented any affront put upon him by those whom he called country\nbumpkins.\n\n\"Is this what we pay rates for?\" he asked. \"To feed and clothe these\nignorant bostooms... and they're nothing else.\"\n\nMr. Cunningham laughed. He was a Castle official only during office\nhours.\n\n\"How could they be anything else, Tom?\" he said.\n\nHe assumed a thick, provincial accent and said in a tone of command:\n\n\"65, catch your cabbage!\"\n\nEveryone laughed. Mr. M'Coy, who wanted to enter the conversation by any\ndoor, pretended that he had never heard the story. Mr. Cunningham said:\n\n\"It is supposed--they say, you know--to take place in the depot where\nthey get these thundering big country fellows, omadhauns, you know, to\ndrill. The sergeant makes them stand in a row against the wall and hold\nup their plates.\"\n\nHe illustrated the story by grotesque gestures.\n\n\"At dinner, you know. Then he has a bloody big bowl of cabbage before\nhim on the table and a bloody big spoon like a shovel. He takes up a wad\nof cabbage on the spoon and pegs it across the room and the poor devils\nhave to try and catch it on their plates: 65, catch your cabbage.\"\n\nEveryone laughed again: but Mr. Kernan was somewhat indignant still. He\ntalked of writing a letter to the papers.\n\n\"These yahoos coming up here,\" he said, \"think they can boss the people.\nI needn't tell you, Martin, what kind of men they are.\"\n\nMr. Cunningham gave a qualified assent.\n\n\"It's like everything else in this world,\" he said. \"You get some bad\nones and you get some good ones.\"\n\n\"O yes, you get some good ones, I admit,\" said Mr. Kernan, satisfied.\n\n\"It's better to have nothing to say to them,\" said Mr. M'Coy. \"That's my\nopinion!\"\n\nMrs. Kernan entered the room and, placing a tray on the table, said:\n\n\"Help yourselves, gentlemen.\"\n\nMr. Power stood up to officiate, offering her his chair. She declined\nit, saying she was ironing downstairs, and, after having exchanged a nod\nwith Mr. Cunningham behind Mr. Power's back, prepared to leave the room.\nHer husband called out to her:\n\n\"And have you nothing for me, duckie?\"\n\n\"O, you! The back of my hand to you!\" said Mrs. Kernan tartly.\n\nHer husband called after her:\n\n\"Nothing for poor little hubby!\"\n\nHe assumed such a comical face and voice that the distribution of the\nbottles of stout took place amid general merriment.\n\nThe gentlemen drank from their glasses, set the glasses again on the\ntable and paused. Then Mr. Cunningham turned towards Mr. Power and said\ncasually:\n\n\"On Thursday night, you said, Jack.\"\n\n\"Thursday, yes,\" said Mr. Power.\n\n\"Righto!\" said Mr. Cunningham promptly.\n\n\"We can meet in M'Auley's,\" said Mr. M'Coy. \"That'll be the most\nconvenient place.\"\n\n\"But we mustn't be late,\" said Mr. Power earnestly, \"because it is sure\nto be crammed to the doors.\"\n\n\"We can meet at half-seven,\" said Mr. M'Coy.\n\n\"Righto!\" said Mr. Cunningham.\n\n\"Half-seven at M'Auley's be it!\"\n\nThere was a short silence. Mr. Kernan waited to see whether he would be\ntaken into his friends' confidence. Then he asked:\n\n\"What's in the wind?\"\n\n\"O, it's nothing,\" said Mr. Cunningham. \"It's only a little matter that\nwe're arranging about for Thursday.\"\n\n\"The opera, is it?\" said Mr. Kernan.\n\n\"No, no,\" said Mr. Cunningham in an evasive tone, \"it's just a little...\nspiritual matter.\"\n\n\"O,\" said Mr. Kernan.\n\nThere was silence again. Then Mr. Power said, point blank:\n\n\"To tell you the truth, Tom, we're going to make a retreat.\"\n\n\"Yes, that's it,\" said Mr. Cunningham, \"Jack and I and M'Coy here--we're\nall going to wash the pot.\"\n\nHe uttered the metaphor with a certain homely energy and, encouraged by\nhis own voice, proceeded:\n\n\"You see, we may as well all admit we're a nice collection of\nscoundrels, one and all. I say, one and all,\" he added with gruff\ncharity and turning to Mr. Power. \"Own up now!\"\n\n\"I own up,\" said Mr. Power.\n\n\"And I own up,\" said Mr. M'Coy.\n\n\"So we're going to wash the pot together,\" said Mr. Cunningham.\n\nA thought seemed to strike him. He turned suddenly to the invalid and\nsaid:\n\n\"D'ye know what, Tom, has just occurred to me? You night join in and\nwe'd have a four-handed reel.\"\n\n\"Good idea,\" said Mr. Power. \"The four of us together.\"\n\nMr. Kernan was silent. The proposal conveyed very little meaning to\nhis mind, but, understanding that some spiritual agencies were about to\nconcern themselves on his behalf, he thought he owed it to his dignity\nto show a stiff neck. He took no part in the conversation for a long\nwhile, but listened, with an air of calm enmity, while his friends\ndiscussed the Jesuits.\n\n\"I haven't such a bad opinion of the Jesuits,\" he said, intervening at\nlength. \"They're an educated order. I believe they mean well, too.\"\n\n\"They're the grandest order in the Church, Tom,\" said Mr. Cunningham,\nwith enthusiasm. \"The General of the Jesuits stands next to the Pope.\"\n\n\"There's no mistake about it,\" said Mr. M'Coy, \"if you want a thing\nwell done and no flies about, you go to a Jesuit. They're the boyos have\ninfluence. I'll tell you a case in point....\"\n\n\"The Jesuits are a fine body of men,\" said Mr. Power.\n\n\"It's a curious thing,\" said Mr. Cunningham, \"about the Jesuit Order.\nEvery other order of the Church had to be reformed at some time or other\nbut the Jesuit Order was never once reformed. It never fell away.\"\n\n\"Is that so?\" asked Mr. M'Coy.\n\n\"That's a fact,\" said Mr. Cunningham. \"That's history.\"\n\n\"Look at their church, too,\" said Mr. Power. \"Look at the congregation\nthey have.\"\n\n\"The Jesuits cater for the upper classes,\" said Mr. M'Coy.\n\n\"Of course,\" said Mr. Power.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mr. Kernan. \"That's why I have a feeling for them. It's some\nof those secular priests, ignorant, bumptious----\"\n\n\"They're all good men,\" said Mr. Cunningham, \"each in his own way. The\nIrish priesthood is honoured all the world over.\"\n\n\"O yes,\" said Mr. Power.\n\n\"Not like some of the other priesthoods on the continent,\" said Mr.\nM'Coy, \"unworthy of the name.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you're right,\" said Mr. Kernan, relenting.\n\n\"Of course I'm right,\" said Mr. Cunningham. \"I haven't been in the\nworld all this time and seen most sides of it without being a judge of\ncharacter.\"\n\nThe gentlemen drank again, one following another's example. Mr. Kernan\nseemed to be weighing something in his mind. He was impressed. He had a\nhigh opinion of Mr. Cunningham as a judge of character and as a reader\nof faces. He asked for particulars.\n\n\"O, it's just a retreat, you know,\" said Mr. Cunningham. \"Father Purdon\nis giving it. It's for business men, you know.\"\n\n\"He won't be too hard on us, Tom,\" said Mr. Power persuasively.\n\n\"Father Purdon? Father Purdon?\" said the invalid.\n\n\"O, you must know him, Tom,\" said Mr. Cunningham stoutly. \"Fine, jolly\nfellow! He's a man of the world like ourselves.\"\n\n\"Ah,... yes. I think I know him. Rather red face; tall.\"\n\n\"That's the man.\"\n\n\"And tell me, Martin.... Is he a good preacher?\"\n\n\"Munno.... It's not exactly a sermon, you know. It's just kind of a\nfriendly talk, you know, in a common-sense way.\"\n\nMr. Kernan deliberated. Mr. M'Coy said:\n\n\"Father Tom Burke, that was the boy!\"\n\n\"O, Father Tom Burke,\" said Mr. Cunningham, \"that was a born orator. Did\nyou ever hear him, Tom?\"\n\n\"Did I ever hear him!\" said the invalid, nettled. \"Rather! I heard\nhim....\"\n\n\"And yet they say he wasn't much of a theologian,\" said Mr Cunningham.\n\n\"Is that so?\" said Mr. M'Coy.\n\n\"O, of course, nothing wrong, you know. Only sometimes, they say, he\ndidn't preach what was quite orthodox.\"\n\n\"Ah!... he was a splendid man,\" said Mr. M'Coy.\n\n\"I heard him once,\" Mr. Kernan continued. \"I forget the subject of his\ndiscourse now. Crofton and I were in the back of the... pit, you know...\nthe----\"\n\n\"The body,\" said Mr. Cunningham.\n\n\"Yes, in the back near the door. I forget now what.... O yes, it was\non the Pope, the late Pope. I remember it well. Upon my word it was\nmagnificent, the style of the oratory. And his voice! God! hadn't he a\nvoice! The Prisoner of the Vatican, he called him. I remember Crofton\nsaying to me when we came out----\"\n\n\"But he's an Orangeman, Crofton, isn't he?\" said Mr. Power.\n\n\"'Course he is,\" said Mr. Kernan, \"and a damned decent Orangeman too. We\nwent into Butler's in Moore Street--faith, I was genuinely moved, tell you\nthe God's truth--and I remember well his very words. 'Kernan,' he said, 'we\nworship at different altars, he said, but our belief is the same.' Struck\nme as very well put.\"\n\n\"There's a good deal in that,\" said Mr. Power. \"There used always to be\ncrowds of Protestants in the chapel where Father Tom was preaching.\"\n\n\"There's not much difference between us,\" said Mr. M'Coy.\n\n\"We both believe in----\"\n\nHe hesitated for a moment.\n\n\"... in the Redeemer. Only they don't believe in the Pope and in the\nmother of God.\"\n\n\"But, of course,\" said Mr. Cunningham quietly and effectively, \"our\nreligion is the religion, the old, original faith.\"\n\n\"Not a doubt of it,\" said Mr. Kernan warmly.\n\nMrs. Kernan came to the door of the bedroom and announced:\n\n\"Here's a visitor for you!\"\n\n\"Who is it?\"\n\n\"Mr. Fogarty.\"\n\n\"O, come in! come in!\"\n\nA pale, oval face came forward into the light. The arch of its fair\ntrailing moustache was repeated in the fair eyebrows looped above\npleasantly astonished eyes. Mr. Fogarty was a modest grocer. He had\nfailed in business in a licensed house in the city because his financial\ncondition had constrained him to tie himself to second-class distillers\nand brewers. He had opened a small shop on Glasnevin Road where, he\nflattered himself, his manners would ingratiate him with the housewives\nof the district. He bore himself with a certain grace, complimented\nlittle children and spoke with a neat enunciation. He was not without\nculture.\n\nMr. Fogarty brought a gift with him, a half-pint of special whisky. He\ninquired politely for Mr. Kernan, placed his gift on the table and sat\ndown with the company on equal terms. Mr. Kernan appreciated the gift\nall the more since he was aware that there was a small account for\ngroceries unsettled between him and Mr. Fogarty. He said:\n\n\"I wouldn't doubt you, old man. Open that, Jack, will you?\"\n\nMr. Power again officiated. Glasses were rinsed and five small\nmeasures of whisky were poured out. This new influence enlivened the\nconversation. Mr. Fogarty, sitting on a small area of the chair, was\nspecially interested.\n\n\"Pope Leo XIII,\" said Mr. Cunningham, \"was one of the lights of the age.\nHis great idea, you know, was the union of the Latin and Greek Churches.\nThat was the aim of his life.\"\n\n\"I often heard he was one of the most intellectual men in Europe,\" said\nMr. Power. \"I mean, apart from his being Pope.\"\n\n\"So he was,\" said Mr. Cunningham, \"if not the most so. His motto, you\nknow, as Pope, was Lux upon Lux--Light upon Light.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" said Mr. Fogarty eagerly. \"I think you're wrong there. It was\nLux in Tenebris, I think--Light in Darkness.\"\n\n\"O yes,\" said Mr. M'Coy, \"Tenebrae.\"\n\n\"Allow me,\" said Mr. Cunningham positively, \"it was Lux upon Lux. And\nPius IX his predecessor's motto was Crux upon Crux--that is, Cross upon\nCross--to show the difference between their two pontificates.\"\n\nThe inference was allowed. Mr. Cunningham continued.\n\n\"Pope Leo, you know, was a great scholar and a poet.\"\n\n\"He had a strong face,\" said Mr. Kernan.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mr. Cunningham. \"He wrote Latin poetry.\"\n\n\"Is that so?\" said Mr. Fogarty.\n\nMr. M'Coy tasted his whisky contentedly and shook his head with a double\nintention, saying:\n\n\"That's no joke, I can tell you.\"\n\n\"We didn't learn that, Tom,\" said Mr. Power, following Mr. M'Coy's\nexample, \"when we went to the penny-a-week school.\"\n\n\"There was many a good man went to the penny-a-week school with a sod\nof turf under his oxter,\" said Mr. Kernan sententiously. \"The old system\nwas the best: plain honest education. None of your modern trumpery....\"\n\n\"Quite right,\" said Mr. Power.\n\n\"No superfluities,\" said Mr. Fogarty.\n\nHe enunciated the word and then drank gravely.\n\n\"I remember reading,\" said Mr. Cunningham, \"that one of Pope Leo's poems\nwas on the invention of the photograph--in Latin, of course.\"\n\n\"On the photograph!\" exclaimed Mr. Kernan.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mr. Cunningham.\n\nHe also drank from his glass.\n\n\"Well, you know,\" said Mr. M'Coy, \"isn't the photograph wonderful when\nyou come to think of it?\"\n\n\"O, of course,\" said Mr. Power, \"great minds can see things.\"\n\n\"As the poet says: Great minds are very near to madness,\" said Mr.\nFogarty.\n\nMr. Kernan seemed to be troubled in mind. He made an effort to recall\nthe Protestant theology on some thorny points and in the end addressed\nMr. Cunningham.\n\n\"Tell me, Martin,\" he said. \"Weren't some of the popes--of course, not\nour present man, or his predecessor, but some of the old popes--not\nexactly... you know... up to the knocker?\"\n\nThere was a silence. Mr. Cunningham said\n\n\"O, of course, there were some bad lots... But the astonishing thing\nis this. Not one of them, not the biggest drunkard, not the most...\nout-and-out ruffian, not one of them ever preached ex cathedra a word of\nfalse doctrine. Now isn't that an astonishing thing?\"\n\n\"That is,\" said Mr. Kernan.\n\n\"Yes, because when the Pope speaks ex cathedra,\" Mr. Fogarty explained,\n\"he is infallible.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mr. Cunningham.\n\n\"O, I know about the infallibility of the Pope. I remember I was younger\nthen.... Or was it that----?\"\n\nMr. Fogarty interrupted. He took up the bottle and helped the others to\na little more. Mr. M'Coy, seeing that there was not enough to go round,\npleaded that he had not finished his first measure. The others accepted\nunder protest. The light music of whisky falling into glasses made an\nagreeable interlude.\n\n\"What's that you were saying, Tom?\" asked Mr. M'Coy.\n\n\"Papal infallibility,\" said Mr. Cunningham, \"that was the greatest scene\nin the whole history of the Church.\"\n\n\"How was that, Martin?\" asked Mr. Power.\n\nMr. Cunningham held up two thick fingers.\n\n\"In the sacred college, you know, of cardinals and archbishops and\nbishops there were two men who held out against it while the others were\nall for it. The whole conclave except these two was unanimous. No! They\nwouldn't have it!\"\n\n\"Ha!\" said Mr. M'Coy.\n\n\"And they were a German cardinal by the name of Dolling... or Dowling...\nor----\"\n\n\"Dowling was no German, and that's a sure five,\" said Mr. Power,\nlaughing.\n\n\"Well, this great German cardinal, whatever his name was, was one; and\nthe other was John MacHale.\"\n\n\"What?\" cried Mr. Kernan. \"Is it John of Tuam?\"\n\n\"Are you sure of that now?\" asked Mr. Fogarty dubiously. \"I thought it\nwas some Italian or American.\"\n\n\"John of Tuam,\" repeated Mr. Cunningham, \"was the man.\"\n\nHe drank and the other gentlemen followed his lead. Then he resumed:\n\n\"There they were at it, all the cardinals and bishops and archbishops\nfrom all the ends of the earth and these two fighting dog and devil\nuntil at last the Pope himself stood up and declared infallibility a\ndogma of the Church ex cathedra. On the very moment John MacHale, who\nhad been arguing and arguing against it, stood up and shouted out with\nthe voice of a lion: 'Credo!'\"\n\n\"I believe!\" said Mr. Fogarty.\n\n\"Credo!\" said Mr. Cunningham. \"That showed the faith he had. He submitted\nthe moment the Pope spoke.\"\n\n\"And what about Dowling?\" asked Mr. M'Coy.\n\n\"The German cardinal wouldn't submit. He left the church.\"\n\nMr. Cunningham's words had built up the vast image of the church in the\nminds of his hearers. His deep, raucous voice had thrilled them as it\nuttered the word of belief and submission. When Mrs. Kernan came into\nthe room, drying her hands she came into a solemn company. She did not\ndisturb the silence, but leaned over the rail at the foot of the bed.\n\n\"I once saw John MacHale,\" said Mr. Kernan, \"and I'll never forget it as\nlong as I live.\"\n\nHe turned towards his wife to be confirmed.\n\n\"I often told you that?\"\n\nMrs. Kernan nodded.\n\n\"It was at the unveiling of Sir John Gray's statue. Edmund Dwyer\nGray was speaking, blathering away, and here was this old fellow,\ncrabbed-looking old chap, looking at him from under his bushy eyebrows.\"\n\nMr. Kernan knitted his brows and, lowering his head like an angry bull,\nglared at his wife.\n\n\"God!\" he exclaimed, resuming his natural face, \"I never saw such an eye\nin a man's head. It was as much as to say: I have you properly taped, my\nlad. He had an eye like a hawk.\"\n\n\"None of the Grays was any good,\" said Mr. Power.\n\nThere was a pause again. Mr. Power turned to Mrs. Kernan and said with\nabrupt joviality:\n\n\"Well, Mrs. Kernan, we're going to make your man here a good holy pious\nand God-fearing Roman Catholic.\"\n\nHe swept his arm round the company inclusively.\n\n\"We're all going to make a retreat together and confess our sins--and\nGod knows we want it badly.\"\n\n\"I don't mind,\" said Mr. Kernan, smiling a little nervously.\n\nMrs. Kernan thought it would be wiser to conceal her satisfaction. So\nshe said:\n\n\"I pity the poor priest that has to listen to your tale.\"\n\nMr. Kernan's expression changed.\n\n\"If he doesn't like it,\" he said bluntly, \"he can... do the other thing.\nI'll just tell him my little tale of woe. I'm not such a bad fellow----\"\n\nMr. Cunningham intervened promptly.\n\n\"We'll all renounce the devil,\" he said, \"together, not forgetting his\nworks and pomps.\"\n\n\"Get behind me, Satan!\" said Mr. Fogarty, laughing and looking at the\nothers.\n\nMr. Power said nothing. He felt completely out-generalled. But a pleased\nexpression flickered across his face.\n\n\"All we have to do,\" said Mr. Cunningham, \"is to stand up with lighted\ncandles in our hands and renew our baptismal vows.\"\n\n\"O, don't forget the candle, Tom,\" said Mr. M'Coy, \"whatever you do.\"\n\n\"What?\" said Mr. Kernan. \"Must I have a candle?\"\n\n\"O yes,\" said Mr. Cunningham.\n\n\"No, damn it all,\" said Mr. Kernan sensibly, \"I draw the line there.\nI'll do the job right enough. I'll do the retreat business and\nconfession, and... all that business. But... no candles! No, damn it\nall, I bar the candles!\"\n\nHe shook his head with farcical gravity.\n\n\"Listen to that!\" said his wife.\n\n\"I bar the candles,\" said Mr. Kernan, conscious of having created an\neffect on his audience and continuing to shake his head to and fro. \"I\nbar the magic-lantern business.\"\n\nEveryone laughed heartily.\n\n\"There's a nice Catholic for you!\" said his wife.\n\n\"No candles!\" repeated Mr. Kernan obdurately. \"That's off!\"\n\n\nThe transept of the Jesuit Church in Gardiner Street was almost full;\nand still at every moment gentlemen entered from the side door and,\ndirected by the lay-brother, walked on tiptoe along the aisles until\nthey found seating accommodation. The gentlemen were all well dressed\nand orderly. The light of the lamps of the church fell upon an assembly\nof black clothes and white collars, relieved here and there by tweeds,\non dark mottled pillars of green marble and on lugubrious canvases. The\ngentlemen sat in the benches, having hitched their trousers slightly\nabove their knees and laid their hats in security. They sat well back\nand gazed formally at the distant speck of red light which was suspended\nbefore the high altar.\n\nIn one of the benches near the pulpit sat Mr. Cunningham and Mr. Kernan.\nIn the bench behind sat Mr. M'Coy alone: and in the bench behind him sat\nMr. Power and Mr. Fogarty. Mr. M'Coy had tried unsuccessfully to find a\nplace in the bench with the others, and, when the party had settled down\nin the form of a quincunx, he had tried unsuccessfully to make comic\nremarks. As these had not been well received, he had desisted. Even he\nwas sensible of the decorous atmosphere and even he began to respond to\nthe religious stimulus. In a whisper, Mr. Cunningham drew Mr. Kernan's\nattention to Mr. Harford, the moneylender, who sat some distance off,\nand to Mr. Fanning, the registration agent and mayor maker of the city,\nwho was sitting immediately under the pulpit beside one of the newly\nelected councillors of the ward. To the right sat old Michael Grimes,\nthe owner of three pawnbroker's shops, and Dan Hogan's nephew, who was\nup for the job in the Town Clerk's office. Farther in front sat\nMr. Hendrick, the chief reporter of The Freeman's Journal, and poor\nO'Carroll, an old friend of Mr. Kernan's, who had been at one time a\nconsiderable commercial figure. Gradually, as he recognised familiar\nfaces, Mr. Kernan began to feel more at home. His hat, which had been\nrehabilitated by his wife, rested upon his knees. Once or twice he\npulled down his cuffs with one hand while he held the brim of his hat\nlightly, but firmly, with the other hand.\n\nA powerful-looking figure, the upper part of which was draped with\na white surplice, was observed to be struggling into the pulpit.\nSimultaneously the congregation unsettled, produced handkerchiefs and\nknelt upon them with care. Mr. Kernan followed the general example. The\npriest's figure now stood upright in the pulpit, two-thirds of its bulk,\ncrowned by a massive red face, appearing above the balustrade.\n\nFather Purdon knelt down, turned towards the red speck of light\nand, covering his face with his hands, prayed. After an interval, he\nuncovered his face and rose. The congregation rose also and settled\nagain on its benches. Mr. Kernan restored his hat to its original\nposition on his knee and presented an attentive face to the preacher.\nThe preacher turned back each wide sleeve of his surplice with an\nelaborate large gesture and slowly surveyed the array of faces. Then he\nsaid:\n\n\"For the children of this world are wiser in their generation than the\nchildren of light. Wherefore make unto yourselves friends out of the\nmammon of iniquity so that when you die they may receive you into\neverlasting dwellings.\"\n\nFather Purdon developed the text with resonant assurance. It was one of\nthe most difficult texts in all the Scriptures, he said, to interpret\nproperly. It was a text which might seem to the casual observer at\nvariance with the lofty morality elsewhere preached by Jesus Christ.\nBut, he told his hearers, the text had seemed to him specially adapted\nfor the guidance of those whose lot it was to lead the life of the world\nand who yet wished to lead that life not in the manner of worldlings. It\nwas a text for business men and professional men. Jesus Christ, with His\ndivine understanding of every cranny of our human nature, understood\nthat all men were not called to the religious life, that by far the vast\nmajority were forced to live in the world, and, to a certain extent,\nfor the world: and in this sentence He designed to give them a word of\ncounsel, setting before them as exemplars in the religious life those\nvery worshippers of Mammon who were of all men the least solicitous in\nmatters religious.\n\nHe told his hearers that he was there that evening for no terrifying,\nno extravagant purpose; but as a man of the world speaking to his\nfellow-men. He came to speak to business men and he would speak to them\nin a businesslike way. If he might use the metaphor, he said, he was\ntheir spiritual accountant; and he wished each and every one of his\nhearers to open his books, the books of his spiritual life, and see if\nthey tallied accurately with conscience.\n\nJesus Christ was not a hard taskmaster. He understood our little\nfailings, understood the weakness of our poor fallen nature, understood\nthe temptations of this life. We might have had, we all had from time to\ntime, our temptations: we might have, we all had, our failings. But one\nthing only, he said, he would ask of his hearers. And that was: to be\nstraight and manly with God. If their accounts tallied in every point to\nsay:\n\n\"Well, I have verified my accounts. I find all well.\"\n\nBut if, as might happen, there were some discrepancies, to admit the\ntruth, to be frank and say like a man:\n\n\"Well, I have looked into my accounts. I find this wrong and this wrong.\nBut, with God's grace, I will rectify this and this. I will set right my\naccounts.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEAD\n\nLILY, the caretaker's daughter, was literally run off her feet. Hardly\nhad she brought one gentleman into the little pantry behind the office\non the ground floor and helped him off with his overcoat than the wheezy\nhall-door bell clanged again and she had to scamper along the bare\nhallway to let in another guest. It was well for her she had not to\nattend to the ladies also. But Miss Kate and Miss Julia had thought\nof that and had converted the bathroom upstairs into a ladies'\ndressing-room. Miss Kate and Miss Julia were there, gossiping and\nlaughing and fussing, walking after each other to the head of the\nstairs, peering down over the banisters and calling down to Lily to ask\nher who had come.\n\nIt was always a great affair, the Misses Morkan's annual dance.\nEverybody who knew them came to it, members of the family, old friends\nof the family, the members of Julia's choir, any of Kate's pupils that\nwere grown up enough, and even some of Mary Jane's pupils too. Never\nonce had it fallen flat. For years and years it had gone off in splendid\nstyle, as long as anyone could remember; ever since Kate and Julia,\nafter the death of their brother Pat, had left the house in Stoney\nBatter and taken Mary Jane, their only niece, to live with them in the\ndark, gaunt house on Usher's Island, the upper part of which they had\nrented from Mr. Fulham, the corn-factor on the ground floor. That was a\ngood thirty years ago if it was a day. Mary Jane, who was then a little\ngirl in short clothes, was now the main prop of the household, for she\nhad the organ in Haddington Road. She had been through the Academy\nand gave a pupils' concert every year in the upper room of the Antient\nConcert Rooms. Many of her pupils belonged to the better-class families\non the Kingstown and Dalkey line. Old as they were, her aunts also did\ntheir share. Julia, though she was quite grey, was still the leading\nsoprano in Adam and Eve's, and Kate, being too feeble to go about much,\ngave music lessons to beginners on the old square piano in the back\nroom. Lily, the caretaker's daughter, did housemaid's work for them.\nThough their life was modest, they believed in eating well; the best\nof everything: diamond-bone sirloins, three-shilling tea and the best\nbottled stout. But Lily seldom made a mistake in the orders, so that she\ngot on well with her three mistresses. They were fussy, that was all.\nBut the only thing they would not stand was back answers.\n\nOf course, they had good reason to be fussy on such a night. And then it\nwas long after ten o'clock and yet there was no sign of Gabriel and his\nwife. Besides they were dreadfully afraid that Freddy Malins might\nturn up screwed. They would not wish for worlds that any of Mary Jane's\npupils should see him under the influence; and when he was like that it\nwas sometimes very hard to manage him. Freddy Malins always came late,\nbut they wondered what could be keeping Gabriel: and that was what\nbrought them every two minutes to the banisters to ask Lily had Gabriel\nor Freddy come.\n\n\"O, Mr. Conroy,\" said Lily to Gabriel when she opened the door for him,\n\"Miss Kate and Miss Julia thought you were never coming. Good-night,\nMrs. Conroy.\"\n\n\"I'll engage they did,\" said Gabriel, \"but they forget that my wife here\ntakes three mortal hours to dress herself.\"\n\nHe stood on the mat, scraping the snow from his goloshes, while Lily led\nhis wife to the foot of the stairs and called out:\n\n\"Miss Kate, here's Mrs. Conroy.\"\n\nKate and Julia came toddling down the dark stairs at once. Both of them\nkissed Gabriel's wife, said she must be perished alive, and asked was\nGabriel with her.\n\n\"Here I am as right as the mail, Aunt Kate! Go on up. I'll follow,\"\ncalled out Gabriel from the dark.\n\nHe continued scraping his feet vigorously while the three women went\nupstairs, laughing, to the ladies' dressing-room. A light fringe of snow\nlay like a cape on the shoulders of his overcoat and like toecaps on the\ntoes of his goloshes; and, as the buttons of his overcoat slipped with a\nsqueaking noise through the snow-stiffened frieze, a cold, fragrant air\nfrom out-of-doors escaped from crevices and folds.\n\n\"Is it snowing again, Mr. Conroy?\" asked Lily.\n\nShe had preceded him into the pantry to help him off with his overcoat.\nGabriel smiled at the three syllables she had given his surname and\nglanced at her. She was a slim, growing girl, pale in complexion and\nwith hay-coloured hair. The gas in the pantry made her look still paler.\nGabriel had known her when she was a child and used to sit on the lowest\nstep nursing a rag doll.\n\n\"Yes, Lily,\" he answered, \"and I think we're in for a night of it.\"\n\nHe looked up at the pantry ceiling, which was shaking with the stamping\nand shuffling of feet on the floor above, listened for a moment to\nthe piano and then glanced at the girl, who was folding his overcoat\ncarefully at the end of a shelf.\n\n\"Tell me. Lily,\" he said in a friendly tone, \"do you still go to\nschool?\"\n\n\"O no, sir,\" she answered. \"I'm done schooling this year and more.\"\n\n\"O, then,\" said Gabriel gaily, \"I suppose we'll be going to your wedding\none of these fine days with your young man, eh?\"\n\nThe girl glanced back at him over her shoulder and said with great\nbitterness:\n\n\"The men that is now is only all palaver and what they can get out of\nyou.\"\n\nGabriel coloured, as if he felt he had made a mistake and, without\nlooking at her, kicked off his goloshes and flicked actively with his\nmuffler at his patent-leather shoes.\n\nHe was a stout, tallish young man. The high colour of his cheeks\npushed upwards even to his forehead, where it scattered itself in a\nfew formless patches of pale red; and on his hairless face there\nscintillated restlessly the polished lenses and the bright gilt rims of\nthe glasses which screened his delicate and restless eyes. His glossy\nblack hair was parted in the middle and brushed in a long curve behind\nhis ears where it curled slightly beneath the groove left by his hat.\n\nWhen he had flicked lustre into his shoes he stood up and pulled his\nwaistcoat down more tightly on his plump body. Then he took a coin\nrapidly from his pocket.\n\n\"O Lily,\" he said, thrusting it into her hands, \"it's Christmastime,\nisn't it? Just... here's a little....\"\n\nHe walked rapidly towards the door.\n\n\"O no, sir!\" cried the girl, following him. \"Really, sir, I wouldn't\ntake it.\"\n\n\"Christmas-time! Christmas-time!\" said Gabriel, almost trotting to the\nstairs and waving his hand to her in deprecation.\n\nThe girl, seeing that he had gained the stairs, called out after him:\n\n\"Well, thank you, sir.\"\n\nHe waited outside the drawing-room door until the waltz should finish,\nlistening to the skirts that swept against it and to the shuffling of\nfeet. He was still discomposed by the girl's bitter and sudden retort.\nIt had cast a gloom over him which he tried to dispel by arranging his\ncuffs and the bows of his tie. He then took from his waistcoat pocket a\nlittle paper and glanced at the headings he had made for his speech. He\nwas undecided about the lines from Robert Browning, for he feared they\nwould be above the heads of his hearers. Some quotation that they would\nrecognise from Shakespeare or from the Melodies would be better. The\nindelicate clacking of the men's heels and the shuffling of their soles\nreminded him that their grade of culture differed from his. He would\nonly make himself ridiculous by quoting poetry to them which they\ncould not understand. They would think that he was airing his superior\neducation. He would fail with them just as he had failed with the girl\nin the pantry. He had taken up a wrong tone. His whole speech was a\nmistake from first to last, an utter failure.\n\nJust then his aunts and his wife came out of the ladies' dressing-room.\nHis aunts were two small, plainly dressed old women. Aunt Julia was an\ninch or so the taller. Her hair, drawn low over the tops of her ears,\nwas grey; and grey also, with darker shadows, was her large flaccid\nface. Though she was stout in build and stood erect, her slow eyes and\nparted lips gave her the appearance of a woman who did not know where\nshe was or where she was going. Aunt Kate was more vivacious. Her\nface, healthier than her sister's, was all puckers and creases, like a\nshrivelled red apple, and her hair, braided in the same old-fashioned\nway, had not lost its ripe nut colour.\n\nThey both kissed Gabriel frankly. He was their favourite nephew, the son\nof their dead elder sister, Ellen, who had married T. J. Conroy of the\nPort and Docks.\n\n\"Gretta tells me you're not going to take a cab back to Monkstown\ntonight, Gabriel,\" said Aunt Kate.\n\n\"No,\" said Gabriel, turning to his wife, \"we had quite enough of that\nlast year, hadn't we? Don't you remember, Aunt Kate, what a cold Gretta\ngot out of it? Cab windows rattling all the way, and the east wind\nblowing in after we passed Merrion. Very jolly it was. Gretta caught a\ndreadful cold.\"\n\nAunt Kate frowned severely and nodded her head at every word.\n\n\"Quite right, Gabriel, quite right,\" she said. \"You can't be too\ncareful.\"\n\n\"But as for Gretta there,\" said Gabriel, \"she'd walk home in the snow if\nshe were let.\"\n\nMrs. Conroy laughed.\n\n\"Don't mind him, Aunt Kate,\" she said. \"He's really an awful bother,\nwhat with green shades for Tom's eyes at night and making him do the\ndumb-bells, and forcing Eva to eat the stirabout. The poor child! And\nshe simply hates the sight of it!... O, but you'll never guess what he\nmakes me wear now!\"\n\nShe broke out into a peal of laughter and glanced at her husband, whose\nadmiring and happy eyes had been wandering from her dress to her face\nand hair. The two aunts laughed heartily, too, for Gabriel's solicitude\nwas a standing joke with them.\n\n\"Goloshes!\" said Mrs. Conroy. \"That's the latest. Whenever it's wet\nunderfoot I must put on my galoshes. Tonight even, he wanted me to put\nthem on, but I wouldn't. The next thing he'll buy me will be a diving\nsuit.\"\n\nGabriel laughed nervously and patted his tie reassuringly, while Aunt\nKate nearly doubled herself, so heartily did she enjoy the joke. The\nsmile soon faded from Aunt Julia's face and her mirthless eyes were\ndirected towards her nephew's face. After a pause she asked:\n\n\"And what are goloshes, Gabriel?\"\n\n\"Goloshes, Julia!\" exclaimed her sister \"Goodness me, don't you know\nwhat goloshes are? You wear them over your... over your boots, Gretta,\nisn't it?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mrs. Conroy. \"Guttapercha things. We both have a pair now.\nGabriel says everyone wears them on the Continent.\"\n\n\"O, on the Continent,\" murmured Aunt Julia, nodding her head slowly.\n\nGabriel knitted his brows and said, as if he were slightly angered:\n\n\"It's nothing very wonderful, but Gretta thinks it very funny because\nshe says the word reminds her of Christy Minstrels.\"\n\n\"But tell me, Gabriel,\" said Aunt Kate, with brisk tact. \"Of course,\nyou've seen about the room. Gretta was saying...\"\n\n\"O, the room is all right,\" replied Gabriel. \"I've taken one in the\nGresham.\"\n\n\"To be sure,\" said Aunt Kate, \"by far the best thing to do. And the\nchildren, Gretta, you're not anxious about them?\"\n\n\"O, for one night,\" said Mrs. Conroy. \"Besides, Bessie will look after\nthem.\"\n\n\"To be sure,\" said Aunt Kate again. \"What a comfort it is to have a girl\nlike that, one you can depend on! There's that Lily, I'm sure I don't\nknow what has come over her lately. She's not the girl she was at all.\"\n\nGabriel was about to ask his aunt some questions on this point, but she\nbroke off suddenly to gaze after her sister, who had wandered down the\nstairs and was craning her neck over the banisters.\n\n\"Now, I ask you,\" she said almost testily, \"where is Julia going? Julia!\nJulia! Where are you going?\"\n\nJulia, who had gone half way down one flight, came back and announced\nblandly:\n\n\"Here's Freddy.\"\n\nAt the same moment a clapping of hands and a final flourish of the\npianist told that the waltz had ended. The drawing-room door was opened\nfrom within and some couples came out. Aunt Kate drew Gabriel aside\nhurriedly and whispered into his ear:\n\n\"Slip down, Gabriel, like a good fellow and see if he's all right, and\ndon't let him up if he's screwed. I'm sure he's screwed. I'm sure he\nis.\"\n\nGabriel went to the stairs and listened over the banisters. He could\nhear two persons talking in the pantry. Then he recognised Freddy\nMalins' laugh. He went down the stairs noisily.\n\n\"It's such a relief,\" said Aunt Kate to Mrs. Conroy, \"that Gabriel is\nhere. I always feel easier in my mind when he's here.... Julia, there's\nMiss Daly and Miss Power will take some refreshment. Thanks for your\nbeautiful waltz, Miss Daly. It made lovely time.\"\n\nA tall wizen-faced man, with a stiff grizzled moustache and swarthy\nskin, who was passing out with his partner, said:\n\n\"And may we have some refreshment, too, Miss Morkan?\"\n\n\"Julia,\" said Aunt Kate summarily, \"and here's Mr. Browne and Miss\nFurlong. Take them in, Julia, with Miss Daly and Miss Power.\"\n\n\"I'm the man for the ladies,\" said Mr. Browne, pursing his lips until\nhis moustache bristled and smiling in all his wrinkles. \"You know, Miss\nMorkan, the reason they are so fond of me is----\"\n\nHe did not finish his sentence, but, seeing that Aunt Kate was out of\nearshot, at once led the three young ladies into the back room. The\nmiddle of the room was occupied by two square tables placed end to\nend, and on these Aunt Julia and the caretaker were straightening\nand smoothing a large cloth. On the sideboard were arrayed dishes and\nplates, and glasses and bundles of knives and forks and spoons. The top\nof the closed square piano served also as a sideboard for viands\nand sweets. At a smaller sideboard in one corner two young men were\nstanding, drinking hop-bitters.\n\nMr. Browne led his charges thither and invited them all, in jest, to\nsome ladies' punch, hot, strong and sweet. As they said they never took\nanything strong, he opened three bottles of lemonade for them. Then\nhe asked one of the young men to move aside, and, taking hold of the\ndecanter, filled out for himself a goodly measure of whisky. The young\nmen eyed him respectfully while he took a trial sip.\n\n\"God help me,\" he said, smiling, \"it's the doctor's orders.\"\n\nHis wizened face broke into a broader smile, and the three young ladies\nlaughed in musical echo to his pleasantry, swaying their bodies to and\nfro, with nervous jerks of their shoulders. The boldest said:\n\n\"O, now, Mr. Browne, I'm sure the doctor never ordered anything of the\nkind.\"\n\nMr. Browne took another sip of his whisky and said, with sidling\nmimicry:\n\n\"Well, you see, I'm like the famous Mrs. Cassidy, who is reported to\nhave said: 'Now, Mary Grimes, if I don't take it, make me take it, for I\nfeel I want it.'\"\n\nHis hot face had leaned forward a little too confidentially and he had\nassumed a very low Dublin accent so that the young ladies, with one\ninstinct, received his speech in silence. Miss Furlong, who was one\nof Mary Jane's pupils, asked Miss Daly what was the name of the pretty\nwaltz she had played; and Mr. Browne, seeing that he was ignored, turned\npromptly to the two young men who were more appreciative.\n\nA red-faced young woman, dressed in pansy, came into the room, excitedly\nclapping her hands and crying:\n\n\"Quadrilles! Quadrilles!\"\n\nClose on her heels came Aunt Kate, crying:\n\n\"Two gentlemen and three ladies, Mary Jane!\"\n\n\"O, here's Mr. Bergin and Mr. Kerrigan,\" said Mary Jane. \"Mr. Kerrigan,\nwill you take Miss Power? Miss Furlong, may I get you a partner, Mr.\nBergin. O, that'll just do now.\"\n\n\"Three ladies, Mary Jane,\" said Aunt Kate.\n\nThe two young gentlemen asked the ladies if they might have the\npleasure, and Mary Jane turned to Miss Daly.\n\n\"O, Miss Daly, you're really awfully good, after playing for the last\ntwo dances, but really we're so short of ladies tonight.\"\n\n\"I don't mind in the least, Miss Morkan.\"\n\n\"But I've a nice partner for you, Mr. Bartell D'Arcy, the tenor. I'll\nget him to sing later on. All Dublin is raving about him.\"\n\n\"Lovely voice, lovely voice!\" said Aunt Kate.\n\nAs the piano had twice begun the prelude to the first figure Mary Jane\nled her recruits quickly from the room. They had hardly gone when Aunt\nJulia wandered slowly into the room, looking behind her at something.\n\n\"What is the matter, Julia?\" asked Aunt Kate anxiously. \"Who is it?\"\n\nJulia, who was carrying in a column of table-napkins, turned to her\nsister and said, simply, as if the question had surprised her:\n\n\"It's only Freddy, Kate, and Gabriel with him.\"\n\nIn fact right behind her Gabriel could be seen piloting Freddy Malins\nacross the landing. The latter, a young man of about forty, was of\nGabriel's size and build, with very round shoulders. His face was fleshy\nand pallid, touched with colour only at the thick hanging lobes of his\nears and at the wide wings of his nose. He had coarse features, a\nblunt nose, a convex and receding brow, tumid and protruded lips. His\nheavy-lidded eyes and the disorder of his scanty hair made him look\nsleepy. He was laughing heartily in a high key at a story which he had\nbeen telling Gabriel on the stairs and at the same time rubbing the\nknuckles of his left fist backwards and forwards into his left eye.\n\n\"Good-evening, Freddy,\" said Aunt Julia.\n\nFreddy Malins bade the Misses Morkan good-evening in what seemed an\noffhand fashion by reason of the habitual catch in his voice and then,\nseeing that Mr. Browne was grinning at him from the sideboard, crossed\nthe room on rather shaky legs and began to repeat in an undertone the\nstory he had just told to Gabriel.\n\n\"He's not so bad, is he?\" said Aunt Kate to Gabriel.\n\nGabriel's brows were dark but he raised them quickly and answered:\n\n\"O, no, hardly noticeable.\"\n\n\"Now, isn't he a terrible fellow!\" she said. \"And his poor mother made\nhim take the pledge on New Year's Eve. But come on, Gabriel, into the\ndrawing-room.\"\n\nBefore leaving the room with Gabriel she signalled to Mr. Browne by\nfrowning and shaking her forefinger in warning to and fro. Mr. Browne\nnodded in answer and, when she had gone, said to Freddy Malins:\n\n\"Now, then, Teddy, I'm going to fill you out a good glass of lemonade\njust to buck you up.\"\n\nFreddy Malins, who was nearing the climax of his story, waved the offer\naside impatiently but Mr. Browne, having first called Freddy Malins'\nattention to a disarray in his dress, filled out and handed him a\nfull glass of lemonade. Freddy Malins' left hand accepted the\nglass mechanically, his right hand being engaged in the mechanical\nreadjustment of his dress. Mr. Browne, whose face was once more\nwrinkling with mirth, poured out for himself a glass of whisky while\nFreddy Malins exploded, before he had well reached the climax of his\nstory, in a kink of high-pitched bronchitic laughter and, setting down\nhis untasted and overflowing glass, began to rub the knuckles of his\nleft fist backwards and forwards into his left eye, repeating words of\nhis last phrase as well as his fit of laughter would allow him.\n\nGabriel could not listen while Mary Jane was playing her Academy piece,\nfull of runs and difficult passages, to the hushed drawing-room. He\nliked music but the piece she was playing had no melody for him and he\ndoubted whether it had any melody for the other listeners, though they\nhad begged Mary Jane to play something. Four young men, who had come\nfrom the refreshment-room to stand in the doorway at the sound of the\npiano, had gone away quietly in couples after a few minutes. The only\npersons who seemed to follow the music were Mary Jane herself, her hands\nracing along the key-board or lifted from it at the pauses like those\nof a priestess in momentary imprecation, and Aunt Kate standing at her\nelbow to turn the page.\n\nGabriel's eyes, irritated by the floor, which glittered with beeswax\nunder the heavy chandelier, wandered to the wall above the piano. A\npicture of the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet hung there and beside\nit was a picture of the two murdered princes in the Tower which Aunt\nJulia had worked in red, blue and brown wools when she was a girl.\nProbably in the school they had gone to as girls that kind of work had\nbeen taught for one year. His mother had worked for him as a birthday\npresent a waistcoat of purple tabinet, with little foxes' heads upon it,\nlined with brown satin and having round mulberry buttons. It was strange\nthat his mother had had no musical talent though Aunt Kate used to call\nher the brains carrier of the Morkan family. Both she and Julia had\nalways seemed a little proud of their serious and matronly sister. Her\nphotograph stood before the pierglass. She held an open book on her\nknees and was pointing out something in it to Constantine who, dressed\nin a man-o-war suit, lay at her feet. It was she who had chosen the name\nof her sons for she was very sensible of the dignity of family life.\nThanks to her, Constantine was now senior curate in Balbrigan and,\nthanks to her, Gabriel himself had taken his degree in the Royal\nUniversity. A shadow passed over his face as he remembered her sullen\nopposition to his marriage. Some slighting phrases she had used still\nrankled in his memory; she had once spoken of Gretta as being country\ncute and that was not true of Gretta at all. It was Gretta who had\nnursed her during all her last long illness in their house at Monkstown.\n\nHe knew that Mary Jane must be near the end of her piece for she was\nplaying again the opening melody with runs of scales after every bar and\nwhile he waited for the end the resentment died down in his heart.\nThe piece ended with a trill of octaves in the treble and a final deep\noctave in the bass. Great applause greeted Mary Jane as, blushing and\nrolling up her music nervously, she escaped from the room. The most\nvigorous clapping came from the four young men in the doorway who had\ngone away to the refreshment-room at the beginning of the piece but had\ncome back when the piano had stopped.\n\nLancers were arranged. Gabriel found himself partnered with Miss Ivors.\nShe was a frank-mannered talkative young lady, with a freckled face and\nprominent brown eyes. She did not wear a low-cut bodice and the large\nbrooch which was fixed in the front of her collar bore on it an Irish\ndevice and motto.\n\nWhen they had taken their places she said abruptly:\n\n\"I have a crow to pluck with you.\"\n\n\"With me?\" said Gabriel.\n\nShe nodded her head gravely.\n\n\"What is it?\" asked Gabriel, smiling at her solemn manner.\n\n\"Who is G. C.?\" answered Miss Ivors, turning her eyes upon him.\n\nGabriel coloured and was about to knit his brows, as if he did not\nunderstand, when she said bluntly:\n\n\"O, innocent Amy! I have found out that you write for The Daily Express.\nNow, aren't you ashamed of yourself?\"\n\n\"Why should I be ashamed of myself?\" asked Gabriel, blinking his eyes\nand trying to smile.\n\n\"Well, I'm ashamed of you,\" said Miss Ivors frankly. \"To say you'd write\nfor a paper like that. I didn't think you were a West Briton.\"\n\nA look of perplexity appeared on Gabriel's face. It was true that he\nwrote a literary column every Wednesday in The Daily Express, for which\nhe was paid fifteen shillings. But that did not make him a West Briton\nsurely. The books he received for review were almost more welcome than\nthe paltry cheque. He loved to feel the covers and turn over the pages\nof newly printed books. Nearly every day when his teaching in the\ncollege was ended he used to wander down the quays to the second-hand\nbooksellers, to Hickey's on Bachelor's Walk, to Web's or Massey's on\nAston's Quay, or to O'Clohissey's in the by-street. He did not know how\nto meet her charge. He wanted to say that literature was above politics.\nBut they were friends of many years' standing and their careers had been\nparallel, first at the University and then as teachers: he could not\nrisk a grandiose phrase with her. He continued blinking his eyes and\ntrying to smile and murmured lamely that he saw nothing political in\nwriting reviews of books.\n\nWhen their turn to cross had come he was still perplexed and\ninattentive. Miss Ivors promptly took his hand in a warm grasp and said\nin a soft friendly tone:\n\n\"Of course, I was only joking. Come, we cross now.\"\n\nWhen they were together again she spoke of the University question and\nGabriel felt more at ease. A friend of hers had shown her his review\nof Browning's poems. That was how she had found out the secret: but she\nliked the review immensely. Then she said suddenly:\n\n\"O, Mr. Conroy, will you come for an excursion to the Aran Isles this\nsummer? We're going to stay there a whole month. It will be splendid\nout in the Atlantic. You ought to come. Mr. Clancy is coming, and Mr.\nKilkelly and Kathleen Kearney. It would be splendid for Gretta too if\nshe'd come. She's from Connacht, isn't she?\"\n\n\"Her people are,\" said Gabriel shortly.\n\n\"But you will come, won't you?\" said Miss Ivors, laying her warm hand\neagerly on his arm.\n\n\"The fact is,\" said Gabriel, \"I have just arranged to go----\"\n\n\"Go where?\" asked Miss Ivors.\n\n\"Well, you know, every year I go for a cycling tour with some fellows\nand so----\"\n\n\"But where?\" asked Miss Ivors.\n\n\"Well, we usually go to France or Belgium or perhaps Germany,\" said\nGabriel awkwardly.\n\n\"And why do you go to France and Belgium,\" said Miss Ivors, \"instead of\nvisiting your own land?\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Gabriel, \"it's partly to keep in touch with the languages\nand partly for a change.\"\n\n\"And haven't you your own language to keep in touch with--Irish?\" asked\nMiss Ivors.\n\n\"Well,\" said Gabriel, \"if it comes to that, you know, Irish is not my\nlanguage.\"\n\nTheir neighbours had turned to listen to the cross-examination. Gabriel\nglanced right and left nervously and tried to keep his good humour under\nthe ordeal which was making a blush invade his forehead.\n\n\"And haven't you your own land to visit,\" continued Miss Ivors, \"that\nyou know nothing of, your own people, and your own country?\"\n\n\"O, to tell you the truth,\" retorted Gabriel suddenly, \"I'm sick of my\nown country, sick of it!\"\n\n\"Why?\" asked Miss Ivors.\n\nGabriel did not answer for his retort had heated him.\n\n\"Why?\" repeated Miss Ivors.\n\nThey had to go visiting together and, as he had not answered her, Miss\nIvors said warmly:\n\n\"Of course, you've no answer.\"\n\nGabriel tried to cover his agitation by taking part in the dance with\ngreat energy. He avoided her eyes for he had seen a sour expression on\nher face. But when they met in the long chain he was surprised to feel\nhis hand firmly pressed. She looked at him from under her brows for a\nmoment quizzically until he smiled. Then, just as the chain was about to\nstart again, she stood on tiptoe and whispered into his ear:\n\n\"West Briton!\"\n\nWhen the lancers were over Gabriel went away to a remote corner of the\nroom where Freddy Malins' mother was sitting. She was a stout feeble old\nwoman with white hair. Her voice had a catch in it like her son's and\nshe stuttered slightly. She had been told that Freddy had come and that\nhe was nearly all right. Gabriel asked her whether she had had a good\ncrossing. She lived with her married daughter in Glasgow and came to\nDublin on a visit once a year. She answered placidly that she had had a\nbeautiful crossing and that the captain had been most attentive to her.\nShe spoke also of the beautiful house her daughter kept in Glasgow, and\nof all the friends they had there. While her tongue rambled on Gabriel\ntried to banish from his mind all memory of the unpleasant incident with\nMiss Ivors. Of course the girl or woman, or whatever she was, was an\nenthusiast but there was a time for all things. Perhaps he ought not\nto have answered her like that. But she had no right to call him a West\nBriton before people, even in joke. She had tried to make him ridiculous\nbefore people, heckling him and staring at him with her rabbit's eyes.\n\nHe saw his wife making her way towards him through the waltzing couples.\nWhen she reached him she said into his ear:\n\n\"Gabriel, Aunt Kate wants to know won't you carve the goose as usual.\nMiss Daly will carve the ham and I'll do the pudding.\"\n\n\"All right,\" said Gabriel.\n\n\"She's sending in the younger ones first as soon as this waltz is over\nso that we'll have the table to ourselves.\"\n\n\"Were you dancing?\" asked Gabriel.\n\n\"Of course I was. Didn't you see me? What row had you with Molly Ivors?\"\n\n\"No row. Why? Did she say so?\"\n\n\"Something like that. I'm trying to get that Mr. D'Arcy to sing. He's\nfull of conceit, I think.\"\n\n\"There was no row,\" said Gabriel moodily, \"only she wanted me to go for\na trip to the west of Ireland and I said I wouldn't.\"\n\nHis wife clasped her hands excitedly and gave a little jump.\n\n\"O, do go, Gabriel,\" she cried. \"I'd love to see Galway again.\"\n\n\"You can go if you like,\" said Gabriel coldly.\n\nShe looked at him for a moment, then turned to Mrs. Malins and said:\n\n\"There's a nice husband for you, Mrs. Malins.\"\n\nWhile she was threading her way back across the room Mrs. Malins,\nwithout adverting to the interruption, went on to tell Gabriel what\nbeautiful places there were in Scotland and beautiful scenery. Her\nson-in-law brought them every year to the lakes and they used to go\nfishing. Her son-in-law was a splendid fisher. One day he caught a\nbeautiful big fish and the man in the hotel cooked it for their dinner.\n\nGabriel hardly heard what she said. Now that supper was coming near he\nbegan to think again about his speech and about the quotation. When he\nsaw Freddy Malins coming across the room to visit his mother Gabriel\nleft the chair free for him and retired into the embrasure of the\nwindow. The room had already cleared and from the back room came the\nclatter of plates and knives. Those who still remained in the\ndrawing-room seemed tired of dancing and were conversing quietly in little\ngroups. Gabriel's warm trembling fingers tapped the cold pane of the\nwindow. How cool it must be outside! How pleasant it would be to walk\nout alone, first along by the river and then through the park! The snow\nwould be lying on the branches of the trees and forming a bright cap on\nthe top of the Wellington Monument. How much more pleasant it would be\nthere than at the supper-table!\n\nHe ran over the headings of his speech: Irish hospitality, sad memories,\nthe Three Graces, Paris, the quotation from Browning. He repeated to\nhimself a phrase he had written in his review: \"One feels that one is\nlistening to a thought-tormented music.\" Miss Ivors had praised the\nreview. Was she sincere? Had she really any life of her own behind all\nher propagandism? There had never been any ill-feeling between them\nuntil that night. It unnerved him to think that she would be at the\nsupper-table, looking up at him while he spoke with her critical\nquizzing eyes. Perhaps she would not be sorry to see him fail in his\nspeech. An idea came into his mind and gave him courage. He would\nsay, alluding to Aunt Kate and Aunt Julia: \"Ladies and Gentlemen, the\ngeneration which is now on the wane among us may have had its faults but\nfor my part I think it had certain qualities of hospitality, of humour,\nof humanity, which the new and very serious and hypereducated generation\nthat is growing up around us seems to me to lack.\" Very good: that\nwas one for Miss Ivors. What did he care that his aunts were only two\nignorant old women?\n\nA murmur in the room attracted his attention. Mr. Browne was advancing\nfrom the door, gallantly escorting Aunt Julia, who leaned upon his arm,\nsmiling and hanging her head. An irregular musketry of applause escorted\nher also as far as the piano and then, as Mary Jane seated herself on\nthe stool, and Aunt Julia, no longer smiling, half turned so as to pitch\nher voice fairly into the room, gradually ceased. Gabriel recognised\nthe prelude. It was that of an old song of Aunt Julia's--Arrayed for the\nBridal. Her voice, strong and clear in tone, attacked with great spirit\nthe runs which embellish the air and though she sang very rapidly she\ndid not miss even the smallest of the grace notes. To follow the\nvoice, without looking at the singer's face, was to feel and share the\nexcitement of swift and secure flight. Gabriel applauded loudly with all\nthe others at the close of the song and loud applause was borne in from\nthe invisible supper-table. It sounded so genuine that a little\ncolour struggled into Aunt Julia's face as she bent to replace in the\nmusic-stand the old leather-bound songbook that had her initials on the\ncover. Freddy Malins, who had listened with his head perched sideways to\nhear her better, was still applauding when everyone else had ceased and\ntalking animatedly to his mother who nodded her head gravely and slowly\nin acquiescence. At last, when he could clap no more, he stood up\nsuddenly and hurried across the room to Aunt Julia whose hand he seized\nand held in both his hands, shaking it when words failed him or the\ncatch in his voice proved too much for him.\n\n\"I was just telling my mother,\" he said, \"I never heard you sing so\nwell, never. No, I never heard your voice so good as it is tonight. Now!\nWould you believe that now? That's the truth. Upon my word and honour\nthat's the truth. I never heard your voice sound so fresh and so... so\nclear and fresh, never.\"\n\nAunt Julia smiled broadly and murmured something about compliments as\nshe released her hand from his grasp. Mr. Browne extended his open\nhand towards her and said to those who were near him in the manner of a\nshowman introducing a prodigy to an audience:\n\n\"Miss Julia Morkan, my latest discovery!\"\n\nHe was laughing very heartily at this himself when Freddy Malins turned\nto him and said:\n\n\"Well, Browne, if you're serious you might make a worse discovery. All\nI can say is I never heard her sing half so well as long as I am coming\nhere. And that's the honest truth.\"\n\n\"Neither did I,\" said Mr. Browne. \"I think her voice has greatly\nimproved.\"\n\nAunt Julia shrugged her shoulders and said with meek pride:\n\n\"Thirty years ago I hadn't a bad voice as voices go.\"\n\n\"I often told Julia,\" said Aunt Kate emphatically, \"that she was simply\nthrown away in that choir. But she never would be said by me.\"\n\nShe turned as if to appeal to the good sense of the others against a\nrefractory child while Aunt Julia gazed in front of her, a vague smile\nof reminiscence playing on her face.\n\n\"No,\" continued Aunt Kate, \"she wouldn't be said or led by anyone,\nslaving there in that choir night and day, night and day. Six o'clock on\nChristmas morning! And all for what?\"\n\n\"Well, isn't it for the honour of God, Aunt Kate?\" asked Mary Jane,\ntwisting round on the piano-stool and smiling.\n\nAunt Kate turned fiercely on her niece and said:\n\n\"I know all about the honour of God, Mary Jane, but I think it's not at\nall honourable for the pope to turn out the women out of the choirs that\nhave slaved there all their lives and put little whipper-snappers of\nboys over their heads. I suppose it is for the good of the Church if the\npope does it. But it's not just, Mary Jane, and it's not right.\"\n\nShe had worked herself into a passion and would have continued in\ndefence of her sister for it was a sore subject with her but Mary Jane,\nseeing that all the dancers had come back, intervened pacifically:\n\n\"Now, Aunt Kate, you're giving scandal to Mr. Browne who is of the other\npersuasion.\"\n\nAunt Kate turned to Mr. Browne, who was grinning at this allusion to his\nreligion, and said hastily:\n\n\"O, I don't question the pope's being right. I'm only a stupid old woman\nand I wouldn't presume to do such a thing. But there's such a thing as\ncommon everyday politeness and gratitude. And if I were in Julia's place\nI'd tell that Father Healey straight up to his face...\"\n\n\"And besides, Aunt Kate,\" said Mary Jane, \"we really are all hungry and\nwhen we are hungry we are all very quarrelsome.\"\n\n\"And when we are thirsty we are also quarrelsome,\" added Mr. Browne.\n\n\"So that we had better go to supper,\" said Mary Jane, \"and finish the\ndiscussion afterwards.\"\n\nOn the landing outside the drawing-room Gabriel found his wife and Mary\nJane trying to persuade Miss Ivors to stay for supper. But Miss Ivors,\nwho had put on her hat and was buttoning her cloak, would not stay.\nShe did not feel in the least hungry and she had already overstayed her\ntime.\n\n\"But only for ten minutes, Molly,\" said Mrs. Conroy. \"That won't delay\nyou.\"\n\n\"To take a pick itself,\" said Mary Jane, \"after all your dancing.\"\n\n\"I really couldn't,\" said Miss Ivors.\n\n\"I am afraid you didn't enjoy yourself at all,\" said Mary Jane\nhopelessly.\n\n\"Ever so much, I assure you,\" said Miss Ivors, \"but you really must let\nme run off now.\"\n\n\"But how can you get home?\" asked Mrs. Conroy.\n\n\"O, it's only two steps up the quay.\"\n\nGabriel hesitated a moment and said:\n\n\"If you will allow me, Miss Ivors, I'll see you home if you are really\nobliged to go.\"\n\nBut Miss Ivors broke away from them.\n\n\"I won't hear of it,\" she cried. \"For goodness' sake go in to your\nsuppers and don't mind me. I'm quite well able to take care of myself.\"\n\n\"Well, you're the comical girl, Molly,\" said Mrs. Conroy frankly.\n\n\"Beannacht libh,\" cried Miss Ivors, with a laugh, as she ran down the\nstaircase.\n\nMary Jane gazed after her, a moody puzzled expression on her face,\nwhile Mrs. Conroy leaned over the banisters to listen for the hall-door.\nGabriel asked himself was he the cause of her abrupt departure. But she\ndid not seem to be in ill humour: she had gone away laughing. He stared\nblankly down the staircase.\n\nAt the moment Aunt Kate came toddling out of the supper-room, almost\nwringing her hands in despair.\n\n\"Where is Gabriel?\" she cried. \"Where on earth is Gabriel? There's\neveryone waiting in there, stage to let, and nobody to carve the goose!\"\n\n\"Here I am, Aunt Kate!\" cried Gabriel, with sudden animation, \"ready to\ncarve a flock of geese, if necessary.\"\n\nA fat brown goose lay at one end of the table and at the other end, on\na bed of creased paper strewn with sprigs of parsley, lay a great ham,\nstripped of its outer skin and peppered over with crust crumbs, a neat\npaper frill round its shin and beside this was a round of spiced beef.\nBetween these rival ends ran parallel lines of side-dishes: two little\nminsters of jelly, red and yellow; a shallow dish full of blocks\nof blancmange and red jam, a large green leaf-shaped dish with a\nstalk-shaped handle, on which lay bunches of purple raisins and peeled\nalmonds, a companion dish on which lay a solid rectangle of Smyrna\nfigs, a dish of custard topped with grated nutmeg, a small bowl full of\nchocolates and sweets wrapped in gold and silver papers and a glass vase\nin which stood some tall celery stalks. In the centre of the table there\nstood, as sentries to a fruit-stand which upheld a pyramid of oranges\nand American apples, two squat old-fashioned decanters of cut glass, one\ncontaining port and the other dark sherry. On the closed square piano\na pudding in a huge yellow dish lay in waiting and behind it were three\nsquads of bottles of stout and ale and minerals, drawn up according to\nthe colours of their uniforms, the first two black, with brown and\nred labels, the third and smallest squad white, with transverse green\nsashes.\n\nGabriel took his seat boldly at the head of the table and, having looked\nto the edge of the carver, plunged his fork firmly into the goose. He\nfelt quite at ease now for he was an expert carver and liked nothing\nbetter than to find himself at the head of a well-laden table.\n\n\"Miss Furlong, what shall I send you?\" he asked. \"A wing or a slice of\nthe breast?\"\n\n\"Just a small slice of the breast.\"\n\n\"Miss Higgins, what for you?\"\n\n\"O, anything at all, Mr. Conroy.\"\n\nWhile Gabriel and Miss Daly exchanged plates of goose and plates of ham\nand spiced beef Lily went from guest to guest with a dish of hot floury\npotatoes wrapped in a white napkin. This was Mary Jane's idea and she\nhad also suggested apple sauce for the goose but Aunt Kate had said that\nplain roast goose without any apple sauce had always been good enough\nfor her and she hoped she might never eat worse. Mary Jane waited on\nher pupils and saw that they got the best slices and Aunt Kate and Aunt\nJulia opened and carried across from the piano bottles of stout and ale\nfor the gentlemen and bottles of minerals for the ladies. There was a\ngreat deal of confusion and laughter and noise, the noise of orders\nand counter-orders, of knives and forks, of corks and glass-stoppers.\nGabriel began to carve second helpings as soon as he had finished the\nfirst round without serving himself. Everyone protested loudly so that\nhe compromised by taking a long draught of stout for he had found the\ncarving hot work. Mary Jane settled down quietly to her supper but Aunt\nKate and Aunt Julia were still toddling round the table, walking on\neach other's heels, getting in each other's way and giving each other\nunheeded orders. Mr. Browne begged of them to sit down and eat their\nsuppers and so did Gabriel but they said there was time enough, so that,\nat last, Freddy Malins stood up and, capturing Aunt Kate, plumped her\ndown on her chair amid general laughter.\n\nWhen everyone had been well served Gabriel said, smiling:\n\n\"Now, if anyone wants a little more of what vulgar people call stuffing\nlet him or her speak.\"\n\nA chorus of voices invited him to begin his own supper and Lily came\nforward with three potatoes which she had reserved for him.\n\n\"Very well,\" said Gabriel amiably, as he took another preparatory\ndraught, \"kindly forget my existence, ladies and gentlemen, for a few\nminutes.\"\n\nHe set to his supper and took no part in the conversation with which the\ntable covered Lily's removal of the plates. The subject of talk was the\nopera company which was then at the Theatre Royal. Mr. Bartell D'Arcy,\nthe tenor, a dark-complexioned young man with a smart moustache, praised\nvery highly the leading contralto of the company but Miss Furlong\nthought she had a rather vulgar style of production. Freddy Malins said\nthere was a Negro chieftain singing in the second part of the Gaiety\npantomime who had one of the finest tenor voices he had ever heard.\n\n\"Have you heard him?\" he asked Mr. Bartell D'Arcy across the table.\n\n\"No,\" answered Mr. Bartell D'Arcy carelessly.\n\n\"Because,\" Freddy Malins explained, \"now I'd be curious to hear your\nopinion of him. I think he has a grand voice.\"\n\n\"It takes Teddy to find out the really good things,\" said Mr. Browne\nfamiliarly to the table.\n\n\"And why couldn't he have a voice too?\" asked Freddy Malins sharply. \"Is\nit because he's only a black?\"\n\nNobody answered this question and Mary Jane led the table back to the\nlegitimate opera. One of her pupils had given her a pass for Mignon.\nOf course it was very fine, she said, but it made her think of poor\nGeorgina Burns. Mr. Browne could go back farther still, to the old\nItalian companies that used to come to Dublin--Tietjens, Ilma de Murzka,\nCampanini, the great Trebelli, Giuglini, Ravelli, Aramburo. Those were\nthe days, he said, when there was something like singing to be heard in\nDublin. He told too of how the top gallery of the old Royal used to be\npacked night after night, of how one night an Italian tenor had sung\nfive encores to Let me like a Soldier fall, introducing a high C every\ntime, and of how the gallery boys would sometimes in their enthusiasm\nunyoke the horses from the carriage of some great prima donna and pull\nher themselves through the streets to her hotel. Why did they never play\nthe grand old operas now, he asked, Dinorah, Lucrezia Borgia? Because\nthey could not get the voices to sing them: that was why.\n\n\"Oh, well,\" said Mr. Bartell D'Arcy, \"I presume there are as good\nsingers today as there were then.\"\n\n\"Where are they?\" asked Mr. Browne defiantly.\n\n\"In London, Paris, Milan,\" said Mr. Bartell D'Arcy warmly. \"I suppose\nCaruso, for example, is quite as good, if not better than any of the men\nyou have mentioned.\"\n\n\"Maybe so,\" said Mr. Browne. \"But I may tell you I doubt it strongly.\"\n\n\"O, I'd give anything to hear Caruso sing,\" said Mary Jane.\n\n\"For me,\" said Aunt Kate, who had been picking a bone, \"there was only\none tenor. To please me, I mean. But I suppose none of you ever heard of\nhim.\"\n\n\"Who was he, Miss Morkan?\" asked Mr. Bartell D'Arcy politely.\n\n\"His name,\" said Aunt Kate, \"was Parkinson. I heard him when he was in\nhis prime and I think he had then the purest tenor voice that was ever\nput into a man's throat.\"\n\n\"Strange,\" said Mr. Bartell D'Arcy. \"I never even heard of him.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes, Miss Morkan is right,\" said Mr. Browne. \"I remember hearing\nof old Parkinson but he's too far back for me.\"\n\n\"A beautiful, pure, sweet, mellow English tenor,\" said Aunt Kate with\nenthusiasm.\n\nGabriel having finished, the huge pudding was transferred to the table.\nThe clatter of forks and spoons began again. Gabriel's wife served out\nspoonfuls of the pudding and passed the plates down the table. Midway\ndown they were held up by Mary Jane, who replenished them with raspberry\nor orange jelly or with blancmange and jam. The pudding was of Aunt\nJulia's making and she received praises for it from all quarters. She\nherself said that it was not quite brown enough.\n\n\"Well, I hope, Miss Morkan,\" said Mr. Browne, \"that I'm brown enough for\nyou because, you know, I'm all brown.\"\n\nAll the gentlemen, except Gabriel, ate some of the pudding out of\ncompliment to Aunt Julia. As Gabriel never ate sweets the celery had\nbeen left for him. Freddy Malins also took a stalk of celery and ate it\nwith his pudding. He had been told that celery was a capital thing for\nthe blood and he was just then under doctor's care. Mrs. Malins, who had\nbeen silent all through the supper, said that her son was going down to\nMount Melleray in a week or so. The table then spoke of Mount Melleray,\nhow bracing the air was down there, how hospitable the monks were and\nhow they never asked for a penny-piece from their guests.\n\n\"And do you mean to say,\" asked Mr. Browne incredulously, \"that a chap\ncan go down there and put up there as if it were a hotel and live on the\nfat of the land and then come away without paying anything?\"\n\n\"O, most people give some donation to the monastery when they leave.\"\nsaid Mary Jane.\n\n\"I wish we had an institution like that in our Church,\" said Mr. Browne\ncandidly.\n\nHe was astonished to hear that the monks never spoke, got up at two in\nthe morning and slept in their coffins. He asked what they did it for.\n\n\"That's the rule of the order,\" said Aunt Kate firmly.\n\n\"Yes, but why?\" asked Mr. Browne.\n\nAunt Kate repeated that it was the rule, that was all. Mr. Browne still\nseemed not to understand. Freddy Malins explained to him, as best he\ncould, that the monks were trying to make up for the sins committed by\nall the sinners in the outside world. The explanation was not very clear\nfor Mr. Browne grinned and said:\n\n\"I like that idea very much but wouldn't a comfortable spring bed do\nthem as well as a coffin?\"\n\n\"The coffin,\" said Mary Jane, \"is to remind them of their last end.\"\n\nAs the subject had grown lugubrious it was buried in a silence of the\ntable during which Mrs. Malins could be heard saying to her neighbour in\nan indistinct undertone:\n\n\"They are very good men, the monks, very pious men.\"\n\nThe raisins and almonds and figs and apples and oranges and chocolates\nand sweets were now passed about the table and Aunt Julia invited all\nthe guests to have either port or sherry. At first Mr. Bartell D'Arcy\nrefused to take either but one of his neighbours nudged him and\nwhispered something to him upon which he allowed his glass to be filled.\nGradually as the last glasses were being filled the conversation\nceased. A pause followed, broken only by the noise of the wine and by\nunsettlings of chairs. The Misses Morkan, all three, looked down at\nthe tablecloth. Someone coughed once or twice and then a few gentlemen\npatted the table gently as a signal for silence. The silence came and\nGabriel pushed back his chair.\n\nThe patting at once grew louder in encouragement and then ceased\naltogether. Gabriel leaned his ten trembling fingers on the tablecloth\nand smiled nervously at the company. Meeting a row of upturned faces he\nraised his eyes to the chandelier. The piano was playing a waltz tune\nand he could hear the skirts sweeping against the drawing-room door.\nPeople, perhaps, were standing in the snow on the quay outside, gazing\nup at the lighted windows and listening to the waltz music. The air was\npure there. In the distance lay the park where the trees were weighted\nwith snow. The Wellington Monument wore a gleaming cap of snow that\nflashed westward over the white field of Fifteen Acres.\n\nHe began:\n\n\"Ladies and Gentlemen,\n\n\"It has fallen to my lot this evening, as in years past, to perform a\nvery pleasing task but a task for which I am afraid my poor powers as a\nspeaker are all too inadequate.\"\n\n\"No, no!\" said Mr. Browne.\n\n\"But, however that may be, I can only ask you tonight to take the will\nfor the deed and to lend me your attention for a few moments while\nI endeavour to express to you in words what my feelings are on this\noccasion.\n\n\"Ladies and Gentlemen, it is not the first time that we have gathered\ntogether under this hospitable roof, around this hospitable board. It is\nnot the first time that we have been the recipients--or perhaps, I had\nbetter say, the victims--of the hospitality of certain good ladies.\"\n\nHe made a circle in the air with his arm and paused. Everyone laughed or\nsmiled at Aunt Kate and Aunt Julia and Mary Jane who all turned crimson\nwith pleasure. Gabriel went on more boldly:\n\n\"I feel more strongly with every recurring year that our country has\nno tradition which does it so much honour and which it should guard so\njealously as that of its hospitality. It is a tradition that is unique\nas far as my experience goes (and I have visited not a few places\nabroad) among the modern nations. Some would say, perhaps, that with us\nit is rather a failing than anything to be boasted of. But granted even\nthat, it is, to my mind, a princely failing, and one that I trust will\nlong be cultivated among us. Of one thing, at least, I am sure. As long\nas this one roof shelters the good ladies aforesaid--and I wish from my\nheart it may do so for many and many a long year to come--the tradition\nof genuine warm-hearted courteous Irish hospitality, which our\nforefathers have handed down to us and which we in turn must hand down\nto our descendants, is still alive among us.\"\n\nA hearty murmur of assent ran round the table. It shot through\nGabriel's mind that Miss Ivors was not there and that she had gone away\ndiscourteously: and he said with confidence in himself:\n\n\"Ladies and Gentlemen,\n\n\"A new generation is growing up in our midst, a generation actuated by\nnew ideas and new principles. It is serious and enthusiastic for\nthese new ideas and its enthusiasm, even when it is misdirected, is, I\nbelieve, in the main sincere. But we are living in a sceptical and, if\nI may use the phrase, a thought-tormented age: and sometimes I fear that\nthis new generation, educated or hypereducated as it is, will lack those\nqualities of humanity, of hospitality, of kindly humour which belonged\nto an older day. Listening tonight to the names of all those great\nsingers of the past it seemed to me, I must confess, that we were living\nin a less spacious age. Those days might, without exaggeration, be\ncalled spacious days: and if they are gone beyond recall let us hope, at\nleast, that in gatherings such as this we shall still speak of them with\npride and affection, still cherish in our hearts the memory of those\ndead and gone great ones whose fame the world will not willingly let\ndie.\"\n\n\"Hear, hear!\" said Mr. Browne loudly.\n\n\"But yet,\" continued Gabriel, his voice falling into a softer\ninflection, \"there are always in gatherings such as this sadder thoughts\nthat will recur to our minds: thoughts of the past, of youth, of\nchanges, of absent faces that we miss here tonight. Our path through\nlife is strewn with many such sad memories: and were we to brood upon\nthem always we could not find the heart to go on bravely with our work\namong the living. We have all of us living duties and living affections\nwhich claim, and rightly claim, our strenuous endeavours.\n\n\"Therefore, I will not linger on the past. I will not let any gloomy\nmoralising intrude upon us here tonight. Here we are gathered together\nfor a brief moment from the bustle and rush of our everyday routine.\nWe are met here as friends, in the spirit of good-fellowship, as\ncolleagues, also to a certain extent, in the true spirit of camaraderie,\nand as the guests of--what shall I call them?--the Three Graces of the\nDublin musical world.\"\n\nThe table burst into applause and laughter at this allusion. Aunt Julia\nvainly asked each of her neighbours in turn to tell her what Gabriel had\nsaid.\n\n\"He says we are the Three Graces, Aunt Julia,\" said Mary Jane.\n\nAunt Julia did not understand but she looked up, smiling, at Gabriel,\nwho continued in the same vein:\n\n\"Ladies and Gentlemen,\n\n\"I will not attempt to play tonight the part that Paris played on\nanother occasion. I will not attempt to choose between them. The task\nwould be an invidious one and one beyond my poor powers. For when I view\nthem in turn, whether it be our chief hostess herself, whose good heart,\nwhose too good heart, has become a byword with all who know her, or her\nsister, who seems to be gifted with perennial youth and whose singing\nmust have been a surprise and a revelation to us all tonight, or, last\nbut not least, when I consider our youngest hostess, talented, cheerful,\nhard-working and the best of nieces, I confess, Ladies and Gentlemen,\nthat I do not know to which of them I should award the prize.\"\n\nGabriel glanced down at his aunts and, seeing the large smile on Aunt\nJulia's face and the tears which had risen to Aunt Kate's eyes, hastened\nto his close. He raised his glass of port gallantly, while every member\nof the company fingered a glass expectantly, and said loudly:\n\n\"Let us toast them all three together. Let us drink to their health,\nwealth, long life, happiness and prosperity and may they long continue\nto hold the proud and self-won position which they hold in their\nprofession and the position of honour and affection which they hold in\nour hearts.\"\n\nAll the guests stood up, glass in hand, and turning towards the three\nseated ladies, sang in unison, with Mr. Browne as leader:\n\n     For they are jolly gay fellows,\n     For they are jolly gay fellows,\n     For they are jolly gay fellows,\n     Which nobody can deny.\n\nAunt Kate was making frank use of her handkerchief and even Aunt Julia\nseemed moved. Freddy Malins beat time with his pudding-fork and the\nsingers turned towards one another, as if in melodious conference, while\nthey sang with emphasis:\n\n     Unless he tells a lie,\n     Unless he tells a lie.\n\nThen, turning once more towards their hostesses, they sang:\n\n     For they are jolly gay fellows,\n     For they are jolly gay fellows,\n     For they are jolly gay fellows,\n     Which nobody can deny.\n\nThe acclamation which followed was taken up beyond the door of the\nsupper-room by many of the other guests and renewed time after time,\nFreddy Malins acting as officer with his fork on high.\n\n\nThe piercing morning air came into the hall where they were standing so\nthat Aunt Kate said:\n\n\"Close the door, somebody. Mrs. Malins will get her death of cold.\"\n\n\"Browne is out there, Aunt Kate,\" said Mary Jane.\n\n\"Browne is everywhere,\" said Aunt Kate, lowering her voice.\n\nMary Jane laughed at her tone.\n\n\"Really,\" she said archly, \"he is very attentive.\"\n\n\"He has been laid on here like the gas,\" said Aunt Kate in the same\ntone, \"all during the Christmas.\"\n\nShe laughed herself this time good-humouredly and then added quickly:\n\n\"But tell him to come in, Mary Jane, and close the door. I hope to\ngoodness he didn't hear me.\"\n\nAt that moment the hall-door was opened and Mr. Browne came in from the\ndoorstep, laughing as if his heart would break. He was dressed in a long\ngreen overcoat with mock astrakhan cuffs and collar and wore on his head\nan oval fur cap. He pointed down the snow-covered quay from where the\nsound of shrill prolonged whistling was borne in.\n\n\"Teddy will have all the cabs in Dublin out,\" he said.\n\nGabriel advanced from the little pantry behind the office, struggling\ninto his overcoat and, looking round the hall, said:\n\n\"Gretta not down yet?\"\n\n\"She's getting on her things, Gabriel,\" said Aunt Kate.\n\n\"Who's playing up there?\" asked Gabriel.\n\n\"Nobody. They're all gone.\"\n\n\"O no, Aunt Kate,\" said Mary Jane. \"Bartell D'Arcy and Miss O'Callaghan\naren't gone yet.\"\n\n\"Someone is fooling at the piano anyhow,\" said Gabriel.\n\nMary Jane glanced at Gabriel and Mr. Browne and said with a shiver:\n\n\"It makes me feel cold to look at you two gentlemen muffled up like\nthat. I wouldn't like to face your journey home at this hour.\"\n\n\"I'd like nothing better this minute,\" said Mr. Browne stoutly, \"than a\nrattling fine walk in the country or a fast drive with a good spanking\ngoer between the shafts.\"\n\n\"We used to have a very good horse and trap at home,\" said Aunt Julia\nsadly.\n\n\"The never-to-be-forgotten Johnny,\" said Mary Jane, laughing.\n\nAunt Kate and Gabriel laughed too.\n\n\"Why, what was wonderful about Johnny?\" asked Mr. Browne.\n\n\"The late lamented Patrick Morkan, our grandfather, that is,\" explained\nGabriel, \"commonly known in his later years as the old gentleman, was a\nglue-boiler.\"\n\n\"O, now, Gabriel,\" said Aunt Kate, laughing, \"he had a starch mill.\"\n\n\"Well, glue or starch,\" said Gabriel, \"the old gentleman had a horse by\nthe name of Johnny. And Johnny used to work in the old gentleman's mill,\nwalking round and round in order to drive the mill. That was all very\nwell; but now comes the tragic part about Johnny. One fine day the old\ngentleman thought he'd like to drive out with the quality to a military\nreview in the park.\"\n\n\"The Lord have mercy on his soul,\" said Aunt Kate compassionately.\n\n\"Amen,\" said Gabriel. \"So the old gentleman, as I said, harnessed Johnny\nand put on his very best tall hat and his very best stock collar and\ndrove out in grand style from his ancestral mansion somewhere near Back\nLane, I think.\"\n\nEveryone laughed, even Mrs. Malins, at Gabriel's manner and Aunt Kate\nsaid:\n\n\"O, now, Gabriel, he didn't live in Back Lane, really. Only the mill was\nthere.\"\n\n\"Out from the mansion of his forefathers,\" continued Gabriel, \"he drove\nwith Johnny. And everything went on beautifully until Johnny came in\nsight of King Billy's statue: and whether he fell in love with the horse\nKing Billy sits on or whether he thought he was back again in the mill,\nanyhow he began to walk round the statue.\"\n\nGabriel paced in a circle round the hall in his goloshes amid the\nlaughter of the others.\n\n\"Round and round he went,\" said Gabriel, \"and the old gentleman, who was\na very pompous old gentleman, was highly indignant. 'Go on, sir! What\ndo you mean, sir? Johnny! Johnny! Most extraordinary conduct! Can't\nunderstand the horse!'\"\n\nThe peal of laughter which followed Gabriel's imitation of the incident\nwas interrupted by a resounding knock at the hall door. Mary Jane ran to\nopen it and let in Freddy Malins. Freddy Malins, with his hat well back\non his head and his shoulders humped with cold, was puffing and steaming\nafter his exertions.\n\n\"I could only get one cab,\" he said.\n\n\"O, we'll find another along the quay,\" said Gabriel.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Aunt Kate. \"Better not keep Mrs. Malins standing in the\ndraught.\"\n\nMrs. Malins was helped down the front steps by her son and Mr. Browne\nand, after many manoeuvres, hoisted into the cab. Freddy Malins\nclambered in after her and spent a long time settling her on the seat,\nMr. Browne helping him with advice. At last she was settled comfortably\nand Freddy Malins invited Mr. Browne into the cab. There was a good\ndeal of confused talk, and then Mr. Browne got into the cab. The cabman\nsettled his rug over his knees, and bent down for the address. The\nconfusion grew greater and the cabman was directed differently by Freddy\nMalins and Mr. Browne, each of whom had his head out through a window of\nthe cab. The difficulty was to know where to drop Mr. Browne along the\nroute, and Aunt Kate, Aunt Julia and Mary Jane helped the discussion\nfrom the doorstep with cross-directions and contradictions and abundance\nof laughter. As for Freddy Malins he was speechless with laughter.\nHe popped his head in and out of the window every moment to the\ngreat danger of his hat, and told his mother how the discussion was\nprogressing, till at last Mr. Browne shouted to the bewildered cabman\nabove the din of everybody's laughter:\n\n\"Do you know Trinity College?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" said the cabman.\n\n\"Well, drive bang up against Trinity College gates,\" said Mr. Browne,\n\"and then we'll tell you where to go. You understand now?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" said the cabman.\n\n\"Make like a bird for Trinity College.\"\n\n\"Right, sir,\" said the cabman.\n\nThe horse was whipped up and the cab rattled off along the quay amid a\nchorus of laughter and adieus.\n\nGabriel had not gone to the door with the others. He was in a dark part\nof the hall gazing up the staircase. A woman was standing near the top\nof the first flight, in the shadow also. He could not see her face but\nhe could see the terra-cotta and salmon-pink panels of her skirt which\nthe shadow made appear black and white. It was his wife. She was leaning\non the banisters, listening to something. Gabriel was surprised at her\nstillness and strained his ear to listen also. But he could hear little\nsave the noise of laughter and dispute on the front steps, a few chords\nstruck on the piano and a few notes of a man's voice singing.\n\nHe stood still in the gloom of the hall, trying to catch the air that\nthe voice was singing and gazing up at his wife. There was grace and\nmystery in her attitude as if she were a symbol of something. He asked\nhimself what is a woman standing on the stairs in the shadow, listening\nto distant music, a symbol of. If he were a painter he would paint her\nin that attitude. Her blue felt hat would show off the bronze of her\nhair against the darkness and the dark panels of her skirt would show\noff the light ones. Distant Music he would call the picture if he were a\npainter.\n\nThe hall-door was closed; and Aunt Kate, Aunt Julia and Mary Jane came\ndown the hall, still laughing.\n\n\"Well, isn't Freddy terrible?\" said Mary Jane. \"He's really terrible.\"\n\nGabriel said nothing but pointed up the stairs towards where his wife\nwas standing. Now that the hall-door was closed the voice and the piano\ncould be heard more clearly. Gabriel held up his hand for them to be\nsilent. The song seemed to be in the old Irish tonality and the singer\nseemed uncertain both of his words and of his voice. The voice,\nmade plaintive by distance and by the singer's hoarseness, faintly\nilluminated the cadence of the air with words expressing grief:\n\n    O, the rain falls on my heavy locks\n    And the dew wets my skin,\n    My babe lies cold...\n\n\"O,\" exclaimed Mary Jane. \"It's Bartell D'Arcy singing and he wouldn't\nsing all the night. O, I'll get him to sing a song before he goes.\"\n\n\"O, do, Mary Jane,\" said Aunt Kate.\n\nMary Jane brushed past the others and ran to the staircase, but before\nshe reached it the singing stopped and the piano was closed abruptly.\n\n\"O, what a pity!\" she cried. \"Is he coming down, Gretta?\"\n\nGabriel heard his wife answer yes and saw her come down towards them. A\nfew steps behind her were Mr. Bartell D'Arcy and Miss O'Callaghan.\n\n\"O, Mr. D'Arcy,\" cried Mary Jane, \"it's downright mean of you to break\noff like that when we were all in raptures listening to you.\"\n\n\"I have been at him all the evening,\" said Miss O'Callaghan, \"and Mrs.\nConroy, too, and he told us he had a dreadful cold and couldn't sing.\"\n\n\"O, Mr. D'Arcy,\" said Aunt Kate, \"now that was a great fib to tell.\"\n\n\"Can't you see that I'm as hoarse as a crow?\" said Mr. D'Arcy roughly.\n\nHe went into the pantry hastily and put on his overcoat. The others,\ntaken aback by his rude speech, could find nothing to say. Aunt Kate\nwrinkled her brows and made signs to the others to drop the subject. Mr.\nD'Arcy stood swathing his neck carefully and frowning.\n\n\"It's the weather,\" said Aunt Julia, after a pause.\n\n\"Yes, everybody has colds,\" said Aunt Kate readily, \"everybody.\"\n\n\"They say,\" said Mary Jane, \"we haven't had snow like it for thirty\nyears; and I read this morning in the newspapers that the snow is\ngeneral all over Ireland.\"\n\n\"I love the look of snow,\" said Aunt Julia sadly.\n\n\"So do I,\" said Miss O'Callaghan. \"I think Christmas is never really\nChristmas unless we have the snow on the ground.\"\n\n\"But poor Mr. D'Arcy doesn't like the snow,\" said Aunt Kate, smiling.\n\nMr. D'Arcy came from the pantry, fully swathed and buttoned, and in\na repentant tone told them the history of his cold. Everyone gave him\nadvice and said it was a great pity and urged him to be very careful of\nhis throat in the night air. Gabriel watched his wife, who did not join\nin the conversation. She was standing right under the dusty fanlight and\nthe flame of the gas lit up the rich bronze of her hair, which he had\nseen her drying at the fire a few days before. She was in the same\nattitude and seemed unaware of the talk about her. At last she turned\ntowards them and Gabriel saw that there was colour on her cheeks and\nthat her eyes were shining. A sudden tide of joy went leaping out of his\nheart.\n\n\"Mr. D'Arcy,\" she said, \"what is the name of that song you were\nsinging?\"\n\n\"It's called The Lass of Aughrim,\" said Mr. D'Arcy, \"but I couldn't\nremember it properly. Why? Do you know it?\"\n\n\"The Lass of Aughrim,\" she repeated. \"I couldn't think of the name.\"\n\n\"It's a very nice air,\" said Mary Jane. \"I'm sorry you were not in voice\ntonight.\"\n\n\"Now, Mary Jane,\" said Aunt Kate, \"don't annoy Mr. D'Arcy. I won't have\nhim annoyed.\"\n\nSeeing that all were ready to start she shepherded them to the door,\nwhere good-night was said:\n\n\"Well, good-night, Aunt Kate, and thanks for the pleasant evening.\"\n\n\"Good-night, Gabriel. Good-night, Gretta!\"\n\n\"Good-night, Aunt Kate, and thanks ever so much. Goodnight, Aunt Julia.\"\n\n\"O, good-night, Gretta, I didn't see you.\"\n\n\"Good-night, Mr. D'Arcy. Good-night, Miss O'Callaghan.\"\n\n\"Good-night, Miss Morkan.\"\n\n\"Good-night, again.\"\n\n\"Good-night, all. Safe home.\"\n\n\"Good-night. Good night.\"\n\nThe morning was still dark. A dull, yellow light brooded over the\nhouses and the river; and the sky seemed to be descending. It was slushy\nunderfoot; and only streaks and patches of snow lay on the roofs, on\nthe parapets of the quay and on the area railings. The lamps were still\nburning redly in the murky air and, across the river, the palace of the\nFour Courts stood out menacingly against the heavy sky.\n\nShe was walking on before him with Mr. Bartell D'Arcy, her shoes in a\nbrown parcel tucked under one arm and her hands holding her skirt up\nfrom the slush. She had no longer any grace of attitude, but Gabriel's\neyes were still bright with happiness. The blood went bounding along his\nveins; and the thoughts went rioting through his brain, proud, joyful,\ntender, valorous.\n\nShe was walking on before him so lightly and so erect that he longed to\nrun after her noiselessly, catch her by the shoulders and say something\nfoolish and affectionate into her ear. She seemed to him so frail that\nhe longed to defend her against something and then to be alone with her.\nMoments of their secret life together burst like stars upon his memory.\nA heliotrope envelope was lying beside his breakfast-cup and he was\ncaressing it with his hand. Birds were twittering in the ivy and the\nsunny web of the curtain was shimmering along the floor: he could not\neat for happiness. They were standing on the crowded platform and he was\nplacing a ticket inside the warm palm of her glove. He was standing\nwith her in the cold, looking in through a grated window at a man making\nbottles in a roaring furnace. It was very cold. Her face, fragrant in\nthe cold air, was quite close to his; and suddenly he called out to the\nman at the furnace:\n\n\"Is the fire hot, sir?\"\n\nBut the man could not hear with the noise of the furnace. It was just as\nwell. He might have answered rudely.\n\nA wave of yet more tender joy escaped from his heart and went coursing\nin warm flood along his arteries. Like the tender fire of stars moments\nof their life together, that no one knew of or would ever know of, broke\nupon and illumined his memory. He longed to recall to her those moments,\nto make her forget the years of their dull existence together and\nremember only their moments of ecstasy. For the years, he felt, had not\nquenched his soul or hers. Their children, his writing, her household\ncares had not quenched all their souls' tender fire. In one letter that\nhe had written to her then he had said: \"Why is it that words like\nthese seem to me so dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender\nenough to be your name?\"\n\nLike distant music these words that he had written years before were\nborne towards him from the past. He longed to be alone with her. When\nthe others had gone away, when he and she were in the room in their hotel,\nthen they would be alone together. He would call her softly:\n\n\"Gretta!\"\n\nPerhaps she would not hear at once: she would be undressing. Then\nsomething in his voice would strike her. She would turn and look at\nhim....\n\nAt the corner of Winetavern Street they met a cab. He was glad of its\nrattling noise as it saved him from conversation. She was looking out of\nthe window and seemed tired. The others spoke only a few words, pointing\nout some building or street. The horse galloped along wearily under the\nmurky morning sky, dragging his old rattling box after his heels,\nand Gabriel was again in a cab with her, galloping to catch the boat,\ngalloping to their honeymoon.\n\nAs the cab drove across O'Connell Bridge Miss O'Callaghan said:\n\n\"They say you never cross O'Connell Bridge without seeing a white\nhorse.\"\n\n\"I see a white man this time,\" said Gabriel.\n\n\"Where?\" asked Mr. Bartell D'Arcy.\n\nGabriel pointed to the statue, on which lay patches of snow. Then he\nnodded familiarly to it and waved his hand.\n\n\"Good-night, Dan,\" he said gaily.\n\nWhen the cab drew up before the hotel, Gabriel jumped out and, in spite\nof Mr. Bartell D'Arcy's protest, paid the driver. He gave the man a\nshilling over his fare. The man saluted and said:\n\n\"A prosperous New Year to you, sir.\"\n\n\"The same to you,\" said Gabriel cordially.\n\nShe leaned for a moment on his arm in getting out of the cab and while\nstanding at the curbstone, bidding the others good-night. She leaned\nlightly on his arm, as lightly as when she had danced with him a few\nhours before. He had felt proud and happy then, happy that she was his,\nproud of her grace and wifely carriage. But now, after the kindling\nagain of so many memories, the first touch of her body, musical and\nstrange and perfumed, sent through him a keen pang of lust. Under cover\nof her silence he pressed her arm closely to his side; and, as they\nstood at the hotel door, he felt that they had escaped from their lives\nand duties, escaped from home and friends and run away together with\nwild and radiant hearts to a new adventure.\n\nAn old man was dozing in a great hooded chair in the hall. He lit a\ncandle in the office and went before them to the stairs. They followed\nhim in silence, their feet falling in soft thuds on the thickly carpeted\nstairs. She mounted the stairs behind the porter, her head bowed in\nthe ascent, her frail shoulders curved as with a burden, her skirt girt\ntightly about her. He could have flung his arms about her hips and held\nher still, for his arms were trembling with desire to seize her and only\nthe stress of his nails against the palms of his hands held the wild\nimpulse of his body in check. The porter halted on the stairs to settle\nhis guttering candle. They halted, too, on the steps below him. In the\nsilence Gabriel could hear the falling of the molten wax into the tray\nand the thumping of his own heart against his ribs.\n\nThe porter led them along a corridor and opened a door. Then he set his\nunstable candle down on a toilet-table and asked at what hour they were\nto be called in the morning.\n\n\"Eight,\" said Gabriel.\n\nThe porter pointed to the tap of the electric-light and began a muttered\napology, but Gabriel cut him short.\n\n\"We don't want any light. We have light enough from the street. And I\nsay,\" he added, pointing to the candle, \"you might remove that handsome\narticle, like a good man.\"\n\nThe porter took up his candle again, but slowly, for he was surprised by\nsuch a novel idea. Then he mumbled good-night and went out. Gabriel shot\nthe lock to.\n\nA ghostly light from the street lamp lay in a long shaft from one window\nto the door. Gabriel threw his overcoat and hat on a couch and crossed\nthe room towards the window. He looked down into the street in order\nthat his emotion might calm a little. Then he turned and leaned against\na chest of drawers with his back to the light. She had taken off her hat\nand cloak and was standing before a large swinging mirror, unhooking her\nwaist. Gabriel paused for a few moments, watching her, and then said:\n\n\"Gretta!\"\n\nShe turned away from the mirror slowly and walked along the shaft of\nlight towards him. Her face looked so serious and weary that the words\nwould not pass Gabriel's lips. No, it was not the moment yet.\n\n\"You looked tired,\" he said.\n\n\"I am a little,\" she answered.\n\n\"You don't feel ill or weak?\"\n\n\"No, tired: that's all.\"\n\nShe went on to the window and stood there, looking out. Gabriel waited\nagain and then, fearing that diffidence was about to conquer him, he\nsaid abruptly:\n\n\"By the way, Gretta!\"\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\n\"You know that poor fellow Malins?\" he said quickly.\n\n\"Yes. What about him?\"\n\n\"Well, poor fellow, he's a decent sort of chap, after all,\" continued\nGabriel in a false voice. \"He gave me back that sovereign I lent him,\nand I didn't expect it, really. It's a pity he wouldn't keep away from\nthat Browne, because he's not a bad fellow, really.\"\n\nHe was trembling now with annoyance. Why did she seem so abstracted? He\ndid not know how he could begin. Was she annoyed, too, about something?\nIf she would only turn to him or come to him of her own accord! To take\nher as she was would be brutal. No, he must see some ardour in her eyes\nfirst. He longed to be master of her strange mood.\n\n\"When did you lend him the pound?\" she asked, after a pause.\n\nGabriel strove to restrain himself from breaking out into brutal\nlanguage about the sottish Malins and his pound. He longed to cry to her\nfrom his soul, to crush her body against his, to overmaster her. But he\nsaid:\n\n\"O, at Christmas, when he opened that little Christmas-card shop in\nHenry Street.\"\n\nHe was in such a fever of rage and desire that he did not hear her come\nfrom the window. She stood before him for an instant, looking at him\nstrangely. Then, suddenly raising herself on tiptoe and resting her\nhands lightly on his shoulders, she kissed him.\n\n\"You are a very generous person, Gabriel,\" she said.\n\nGabriel, trembling with delight at her sudden kiss and at the quaintness\nof her phrase, put his hands on her hair and began smoothing it back,\nscarcely touching it with his fingers. The washing had made it fine and\nbrilliant. His heart was brimming over with happiness. Just when he\nwas wishing for it she had come to him of her own accord. Perhaps her\nthoughts had been running with his. Perhaps she had felt the impetuous\ndesire that was in him, and then the yielding mood had come upon her.\nNow that she had fallen to him so easily, he wondered why he had been so\ndiffident.\n\nHe stood, holding her head between his hands. Then, slipping one arm\nswiftly about her body and drawing her towards him, he said softly:\n\n\"Gretta, dear, what are you thinking about?\"\n\nShe did not answer nor yield wholly to his arm. He said again, softly:\n\n\"Tell me what it is, Gretta. I think I know what is the matter. Do I\nknow?\"\n\nShe did not answer at once. Then she said in an outburst of tears:\n\n\"O, I am thinking about that song, The Lass of Aughrim.\"\n\nShe broke loose from him and ran to the bed and, throwing her arms\nacross the bed-rail, hid her face. Gabriel stood stock-still for a moment\nin astonishment and then followed her. As he passed in the way of the\ncheval-glass he caught sight of himself in full length, his broad,\nwell-filled shirt-front, the face whose expression always puzzled him\nwhen he saw it in a mirror, and his glimmering gilt-rimmed eyeglasses.\nHe halted a few paces from her and said:\n\n\"What about the song? Why does that make you cry?\"\n\nShe raised her head from her arms and dried her eyes with the back of\nher hand like a child. A kinder note than he had intended went into his\nvoice.\n\n\"Why, Gretta?\" he asked.\n\n\"I am thinking about a person long ago who used to sing that song.\"\n\n\"And who was the person long ago?\" asked Gabriel, smiling.\n\n\"It was a person I used to know in Galway when I was living with my\ngrandmother,\" she said.\n\nThe smile passed away from Gabriel's face. A dull anger began to gather\nagain at the back of his mind and the dull fires of his lust began to\nglow angrily in his veins.\n\n\"Someone you were in love with?\" he asked ironically.\n\n\"It was a young boy I used to know,\" she answered, \"named Michael Furey.\nHe used to sing that song, The Lass of Aughrim. He was very delicate.\"\n\nGabriel was silent. He did not wish her to think that he was interested\nin this delicate boy.\n\n\"I can see him so plainly,\" she said, after a moment. \"Such eyes as he\nhad: big, dark eyes! And such an expression in them--an expression!\"\n\n\"O, then, you are in love with him?\" said Gabriel.\n\n\"I used to go out walking with him,\" she said, \"when I was in Galway.\"\n\nA thought flew across Gabriel's mind.\n\n\"Perhaps that was why you wanted to go to Galway with that Ivors girl?\"\nhe said coldly.\n\nShe looked at him and asked in surprise:\n\n\"What for?\"\n\nHer eyes made Gabriel feel awkward. He shrugged his shoulders and said:\n\n\"How do I know? To see him, perhaps.\"\n\nShe looked away from him along the shaft of light towards the window in\nsilence.\n\n\"He is dead,\" she said at length. \"He died when he was only seventeen.\nIsn't it a terrible thing to die so young as that?\"\n\n\"What was he?\" asked Gabriel, still ironically.\n\n\"He was in the gasworks,\" she said.\n\nGabriel felt humiliated by the failure of his irony and by the evocation\nof this figure from the dead, a boy in the gasworks. While he had been\nfull of memories of their secret life together, full of tenderness and\njoy and desire, she had been comparing him in her mind with another. A\nshameful consciousness of his own person assailed him. He saw himself\nas a ludicrous figure, acting as a pennyboy for his aunts, a nervous,\nwell-meaning sentimentalist, orating to vulgarians and idealising his\nown clownish lusts, the pitiable fatuous fellow he had caught a glimpse\nof in the mirror. Instinctively he turned his back more to the light\nlest she might see the shame that burned upon his forehead.\n\nHe tried to keep up his tone of cold interrogation, but his voice when\nhe spoke was humble and indifferent.\n\n\"I suppose you were in love with this Michael Furey, Gretta,\" he said.\n\n\"I was great with him at that time,\" she said.\n\nHer voice was veiled and sad. Gabriel, feeling now how vain it would be\nto try to lead her whither he had purposed, caressed one of her hands\nand said, also sadly:\n\n\"And what did he die of so young, Gretta? Consumption, was it?\"\n\n\"I think he died for me,\" she answered.\n\nA vague terror seized Gabriel at this answer, as if, at that hour when\nhe had hoped to triumph, some impalpable and vindictive being was coming\nagainst him, gathering forces against him in its vague world. But he\nshook himself free of it with an effort of reason and continued to\ncaress her hand. He did not question her again, for he felt that she\nwould tell him of herself. Her hand was warm and moist: it did not\nrespond to his touch, but he continued to caress it just as he had\ncaressed her first letter to him that spring morning.\n\n\"It was in the winter,\" she said, \"about the beginning of the winter\nwhen I was going to leave my grandmother's and come up here to the\nconvent. And he was ill at the time in his lodgings in Galway and\nwouldn't be let out, and his people in Oughterard were written to.\nHe was in decline, they said, or something like that. I never knew\nrightly.\"\n\nShe paused for a moment and sighed.\n\n\"Poor fellow,\" she said. \"He was very fond of me and he was such a\ngentle boy. We used to go out together, walking, you know, Gabriel, like\nthe way they do in the country. He was going to study singing only for\nhis health. He had a very good voice, poor Michael Furey.\"\n\n\"Well; and then?\" asked Gabriel.\n\n\"And then when it came to the time for me to leave Galway and come up to\nthe convent he was much worse and I wouldn't be let see him so I wrote\nhim a letter saying I was going up to Dublin and would be back in the\nsummer, and hoping he would be better then.\"\n\nShe paused for a moment to get her voice under control, and then went\non:\n\n\"Then the night before I left, I was in my grandmother's house in Nuns'\nIsland, packing up, and I heard gravel thrown up against the window.\nThe window was so wet I couldn't see, so I ran downstairs as I was and\nslipped out the back into the garden and there was the poor fellow at\nthe end of the garden, shivering.\"\n\n\"And did you not tell him to go back?\" asked Gabriel.\n\n\"I implored of him to go home at once and told him he would get his\ndeath in the rain. But he said he did not want to live. I can see his\neyes as well as well! He was standing at the end of the wall where there\nwas a tree.\"\n\n\"And did he go home?\" asked Gabriel.\n\n\"Yes, he went home. And when I was only a week in the convent he died\nand he was buried in Oughterard, where his people came from. O, the day\nI heard that, that he was dead!\"\n\nShe stopped, choking with sobs, and, overcome by emotion, flung herself\nface downward on the bed, sobbing in the quilt. Gabriel held her hand\nfor a moment longer, irresolutely, and then, shy of intruding on her\ngrief, let it fall gently and walked quietly to the window.\n\n\nShe was fast asleep.\n\nGabriel, leaning on his elbow, looked for a few moments unresentfully\non her tangled hair and half-open mouth, listening to her deep-drawn\nbreath. So she had had that romance in her life: a man had died for her\nsake. It hardly pained him now to think how poor a part he, her husband,\nhad played in her life. He watched her while she slept, as though he and\nshe had never lived together as man and wife. His curious eyes rested\nlong upon her face and on her hair: and, as he thought of what she must\nhave been then, in that time of her first girlish beauty, a strange,\nfriendly pity for her entered his soul. He did not like to say even to\nhimself that her face was no longer beautiful, but he knew that it was\nno longer the face for which Michael Furey had braved death.\n\nPerhaps she had not told him all the story. His eyes moved to the\nchair over which she had thrown some of her clothes. A petticoat string\ndangled to the floor. One boot stood upright, its limp upper fallen\ndown: the fellow of it lay upon its side. He wondered at his riot of\nemotions of an hour before. From what had it proceeded? From his aunt's\nsupper, from his own foolish speech, from the wine and dancing, the\nmerry-making when saying good-night in the hall, the pleasure of the\nwalk along the river in the snow. Poor Aunt Julia! She, too, would soon\nbe a shade with the shade of Patrick Morkan and his horse. He had\ncaught that haggard look upon her face for a moment when she was singing\nArrayed for the Bridal. Soon, perhaps, he would be sitting in that same\ndrawing-room, dressed in black, his silk hat on his knees. The blinds\nwould be drawn down and Aunt Kate would be sitting beside him, crying\nand blowing her nose and telling him how Julia had died. He would cast\nabout in his mind for some words that might console her, and would find\nonly lame and useless ones. Yes, yes: that would happen very soon.\n\nThe air of the room chilled his shoulders. He stretched himself\ncautiously along under the sheets and lay down beside his wife. One by\none, they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other\nworld, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally\nwith age. He thought of how she who lay beside him had locked in her\nheart for so many years that image of her lover's eyes when he had told\nher that he did not wish to live.\n\nGenerous tears filled Gabriel's eyes. He had never felt like that\nhimself towards any woman, but he knew that such a feeling must be love.\nThe tears gathered more thickly in his eyes and in the partial darkness\nhe imagined he saw the form of a young man standing under a dripping\ntree. Other forms were near. His soul had approached that region where\ndwell the vast hosts of the dead. He was conscious of, but could not\napprehend, their wayward and flickering existence. His own identity was\nfading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself,\nwhich these dead had one time reared and lived in, was dissolving and\ndwindling.\n\nA few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun\nto snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling\nobliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on\nhis journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general\nall over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central\nplain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and,\nfarther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves.\nIt was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the\nhill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the\ncrooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on\nthe barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling\nfaintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of\ntheir last end, upon all the living and the dead."