DUBLINERS

By James Joyce

CONTENTS

The Sisters 

An Encounter 

Araby 

Eveline 

After the Race 

Two Gallants 

The Boarding House 

A Little Cloud 

Counterparts 

Clay 

A Painful Case 

Ivy Day in the Committee Room 

A Mother 

Grace 

The Dead

DUBLINERS

THE SISTERS

THERE was no hope for him this time: it was the third stroke. Night 

after night I had passed the house (it was vacation time) and studied 

the lighted square of window: and night after night I had found it 

lighted in the same way, faintly and evenly. If he was dead, I thought, 

I would see the reflection of candles on the darkened blind for I knew 

that two candles must be set at the head of a corpse. He had often said 

to me: "I am not long for this world," and I had thought his words idle. 

Now I knew they were true. Every night as I gazed up at the window 

I said softly to myself the word paralysis. It had always sounded 

strangely in my ears, like the word gnomon in the Euclid and the word 

simony in the Catechism. But now it sounded to me like the name of some 

maleficent and sinful being. It filled me with fear, and yet I longed to 

be nearer to it and to look upon its deadly work.

Old Cotter was sitting at the fire, smoking, when I came downstairs 

to supper. While my aunt was ladling out my stirabout he said, as if 

returning to some former remark of his:

"No, I wouldn't say he was exactly... but there was something queer... 

there was something uncanny about him. I'll tell you my opinion...."

He began to puff at his pipe, no doubt arranging his opinion in his 

mind. Tiresome old fool! When we knew him first he used to be rather 

interesting, talking of faints and worms; but I soon grew tired of him 

and his endless stories about the distillery.

"I have my own theory about it," he said. "I think it was one of 

those... peculiar cases.... But it's hard to say...."

He began to puff again at his pipe without giving us his theory. My 

uncle saw me staring and said to me:

"Well, so your old friend is gone, you'll be sorry to hear."

"Who?" said I.

"Father Flynn."

"Is he dead?"

"Mr. Cotter here has just told us. He was passing by the house."

I knew that I was under observation so I continued eating as if the news 

had not interested me. My uncle explained to old Cotter.

"The youngster and he were great friends. The old chap taught him a 

great deal, mind you; and they say he had a great wish for him."

"God have mercy on his soul," said my aunt piously.

Old Cotter looked at me for a while. I felt that his little beady black 

eyes were examining me but I would not satisfy him by looking up from my 

plate. He returned to his pipe and finally spat rudely into the grate.

"I wouldn't like children of mine," he said, "to have too much to say to 

a man like that."

"How do you mean, Mr. Cotter?" asked my aunt.

"What I mean is," said old Cotter, "it's bad for children. My idea is: 

let a young lad run about and play with young lads of his own age and 

not be... Am I right, Jack?"

"That's my principle, too," said my uncle. "Let him learn to box his 

corner. That's what I'm always saying to that Rosicrucian there: take 

exercise. Why, when I was a nipper every morning of my life I had a cold 

bath, winter and summer. And that's what stands to me now. Education 

is all very fine and large.... Mr. Cotter might take a pick of that leg 

mutton," he added to my aunt.

"No, no, not for me," said old Cotter.

My aunt brought the dish from the safe and put it on the table.

"But why do you think it's not good for children, Mr. Cotter?" she 

asked.

"It's bad for children," said old Cotter, "because their mind are so 

impressionable. When children see things like that, you know, it has an 

effect...."

I crammed my mouth with stirabout for fear I might give utterance to my 

anger. Tiresome old red-nosed imbecile!

It was late when I fell asleep. Though I was angry with old Cotter for 

alluding to me as a child, I puzzled my head to extract meaning from his 

unfinished sentences. In the dark of my room I imagined that I saw again 

the heavy grey face of the paralytic. I drew the blankets over my head 

and tried to think of Christmas. But the grey face still followed me. It 

murmured, and I understood that it desired to confess something. I felt 

my soul receding into some pleasant and vicious region; and there again 

I found it waiting for me. It began to confess to me in a murmuring 

voice and I wondered why it smiled continually and why the lips were so 

moist with spittle. But then I remembered that it had died of paralysis 

and I felt that I too was smiling feebly as if to absolve the simoniac 

of his sin.

The next morning after breakfast I went down to look at the little house 

in Great Britain Street. It was an unassuming shop, registered under 

the vague name of Drapery. The drapery consisted mainly of children's 

bootees and umbrellas; and on ordinary days a notice used to hang in the 

window, saying: Umbrellas Re-covered. No notice was visible now for 

the shutters were up. A crape bouquet was tied to the doorknocker with 

ribbon. Two poor women and a telegram boy were reading the card pinned 

on the crape. I also approached and read:

July 1st, 1895 The Rev. James Flynn (formerly of S. Catherine's Church, 

Meath Street), aged sixty-five years. R. I. P.

The reading of the card persuaded me that he was dead and I was 

disturbed to find myself at check. Had he not been dead I would have 

gone into the little dark room behind the shop to find him sitting in 

his arm-chair by the fire, nearly smothered in his great-coat. Perhaps 

my aunt would have given me a packet of High Toast for him and this 

present would have roused him from his stupefied doze. It was always I 

who emptied the packet into his black snuff-box for his hands trembled 

too much to allow him to do this without spilling half the snuff about 

the floor. Even as he raised his large trembling hand to his nose little 

clouds of smoke dribbled through his fingers over the front of his coat. 

It may have been these constant showers of snuff which gave his ancient 

priestly garments their green faded look for the red handkerchief, 

blackened, as it always was, with the snuff-stains of a week, with which 

he tried to brush away the fallen grains, was quite inefficacious.

I wished to go in and look at him but I had not the courage to knock. I 

walked away slowly along the sunny side of the street, reading all the 

theatrical advertisements in the shop-windows as I went. I found it 

strange that neither I nor the day seemed in a mourning mood and I felt 

even annoyed at discovering in myself a sensation of freedom as if I had 

been freed from something by his death. I wondered at this for, as my 

uncle had said the night before, he had taught me a great deal. He had 

studied in the Irish college in Rome and he had taught me to pronounce 

Latin properly. He had told me stories about the catacombs and about 

Napoleon Bonaparte, and he had explained to me the meaning of the 

different ceremonies of the Mass and of the different vestments worn 

by the priest. Sometimes he had amused himself by putting difficult 

questions to me, asking me what one should do in certain circumstances 

or whether such and such sins were mortal or venial or only 

imperfections. His questions showed me how complex and mysterious were 

certain institutions of the Church which I had always regarded as 

the simplest acts. The duties of the priest towards the Eucharist and 

towards the secrecy of the confessional seemed so grave to me that I 

wondered how anybody had ever found in himself the courage to undertake 

them; and I was not surprised when he told me that the fathers of the 

Church had written books as thick as the Post Office Directory and as 

closely printed as the law notices in the newspaper, elucidating all 

these intricate questions. Often when I thought of this I could make 

no answer or only a very foolish and halting one upon which he used 

to smile and nod his head twice or thrice. Sometimes he used to put me 

through the responses of the Mass which he had made me learn by heart; 

and, as I pattered, he used to smile pensively and nod his head, now and 

then pushing huge pinches of snuff up each nostril alternately. When he 

smiled he used to uncover his big discoloured teeth and let his tongue 

lie upon his lower lip--a habit which had made me feel uneasy in the 

beginning of our acquaintance before I knew him well.

As I walked along in the sun I remembered old Cotter's words and tried 

to remember what had happened afterwards in the dream. I remembered 

that I had noticed long velvet curtains and a swinging lamp of antique 

fashion. I felt that I had been very far away, in some land where the 

customs were strange--in Persia, I thought.... But I could not remember 

the end of the dream.

In the evening my aunt took me with her to visit the house of mourning. 

It was after sunset; but the window-panes of the houses that looked 

to the west reflected the tawny gold of a great bank of clouds. Nannie 

received us in the hall; and, as it would have been unseemly to have 

shouted at her, my aunt shook hands with her for all. The old woman 

pointed upwards interrogatively and, on my aunt's nodding, proceeded to 

toil up the narrow staircase before us, her bowed head being scarcely 

above the level of the banister-rail. At the first landing she stopped 

and beckoned us forward encouragingly towards the open door of the 

dead-room. My aunt went in and the old woman, seeing that I hesitated to 

enter, began to beckon to me again repeatedly with her hand.

I went in on tiptoe. The room through the lace end of the blind was 

suffused with dusky golden light amid which the candles looked like pale 

thin flames. He had been coffined. Nannie gave the lead and we three 

knelt down at the foot of the bed. I pretended to pray but I could not 

gather my thoughts because the old woman's mutterings distracted me. I 

noticed how clumsily her skirt was hooked at the back and how the heels 

of her cloth boots were trodden down all to one side. The fancy came to 

me that the old priest was smiling as he lay there in his coffin.

But no. When we rose and went up to the head of the bed I saw that he 

was not smiling. There he lay, solemn and copious, vested as for the 

altar, his large hands loosely retaining a chalice. His face was very 

truculent, grey and massive, with black cavernous nostrils and circled 

by a scanty white fur. There was a heavy odour in the room--the flowers.

We crossed ourselves and came away. In the little room downstairs we 

found Eliza seated in his arm-chair in state. I groped my way towards my 

usual chair in the corner while Nannie went to the sideboard and brought 

out a decanter of sherry and some wine-glasses. She set these on the 

table and invited us to take a little glass of wine. Then, at her 

sister's bidding, she filled out the sherry into the glasses and passed 

them to us. She pressed me to take some cream crackers also but I 

declined because I thought I would make too much noise eating them. She 

seemed to be somewhat disappointed at my refusal and went over quietly 

to the sofa where she sat down behind her sister. No one spoke: we all 

gazed at the empty fireplace.

My aunt waited until Eliza sighed and then said:

"Ah, well, he's gone to a better world."

Eliza sighed again and bowed her head in assent. My aunt fingered the 

stem of her wine-glass before sipping a little.

"Did he... peacefully?" she asked.

"Oh, quite peacefully, ma'am," said Eliza. "You couldn't tell when the 

breath went out of him. He had a beautiful death, God be praised."

"And everything...?"

"Father O'Rourke was in with him a Tuesday and anointed him and prepared 

him and all."

"He knew then?"

"He was quite resigned."

"He looks quite resigned," said my aunt.

"That's what the woman we had in to wash him said. She said he just 

looked as if he was asleep, he looked that peaceful and resigned. No one 

would think he'd make such a beautiful corpse."

"Yes, indeed," said my aunt.

She sipped a little more from her glass and said:

"Well, Miss Flynn, at any rate it must be a great comfort for you to 

know that you did all you could for him. You were both very kind to him, 

I must say."

Eliza smoothed her dress over her knees.

"Ah, poor James!" she said. "God knows we done all we could, as poor as 

we are--we wouldn't see him want anything while he was in it."

Nannie had leaned her head against the sofa-pillow and seemed about to 

fall asleep.

"There's poor Nannie," said Eliza, looking at her, "she's wore out. All 

the work we had, she and me, getting in the woman to wash him and then 

laying him out and then the coffin and then arranging about the Mass in 

the chapel. Only for Father O'Rourke I don't know what we'd done at all. 

It was him brought us all them flowers and them two candlesticks out of 

the chapel and wrote out the notice for the Freeman's General and took 

charge of all the papers for the cemetery and poor James's insurance."

"Wasn't that good of him?" said my aunt

Eliza closed her eyes and shook her head slowly.

"Ah, there's no friends like the old friends," she said, "when all is 

said and done, no friends that a body can trust."

"Indeed, that's true," said my aunt. "And I'm sure now that he's gone to 

his eternal reward he won't forget you and all your kindness to him."

"Ah, poor James!" said Eliza. "He was no great trouble to us. You 

wouldn't hear him in the house any more than now. Still, I know he's 

gone and all to that...."

"It's when it's all over that you'll miss him," said my aunt.

"I know that," said Eliza. "I won't be bringing him in his cup of 

beef-tea any me, nor you, ma'am, sending him his snuff. Ah, poor James!"

She stopped, as if she were communing with the past and then said 

shrewdly:

"Mind you, I noticed there was something queer coming over him latterly. 

Whenever I'd bring in his soup to him there I'd find him with his 

breviary fallen to the floor, lying back in the chair and his mouth 

open."

She laid a finger against her nose and frowned: then she continued:

"But still and all he kept on saying that before the summer was over 

he'd go out for a drive one fine day just to see the old house again 

where we were all born down in Irishtown and take me and Nannie with 

him. If we could only get one of them new-fangled carriages that makes 

no noise that Father O'Rourke told him about, them with the rheumatic 

wheels, for the day cheap--he said, at Johnny Rush's over the way there 

and drive out the three of us together of a Sunday evening. He had his 

mind set on that.... Poor James!"

"The Lord have mercy on his soul!" said my aunt.

Eliza took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes with it. Then she put 

it back again in her pocket and gazed into the empty grate for some time 

without speaking.

"He was too scrupulous always," she said. "The duties of the priesthood 

was too much for him. And then his life was, you might say, crossed."

"Yes," said my aunt. "He was a disappointed man. You could see that."

A silence took possession of the little room and, under cover of it, I 

approached the table and tasted my sherry and then returned quietly to 

my chair in the comer. Eliza seemed to have fallen into a deep revery. 

We waited respectfully for her to break the silence: and after a long 

pause she said slowly:

"It was that chalice he broke.... That was the beginning of it. Of 

course, they say it was all right, that it contained nothing, I mean. 

But still.... They say it was the boy's fault. But poor James was so 

nervous, God be merciful to him!"

"And was that it?" said my aunt. "I heard something...."

Eliza nodded.

"That affected his mind," she said. "After that he began to mope by 

himself, talking to no one and wandering about by himself. So one night 

he was wanted for to go on a call and they couldn't find him anywhere. 

They looked high up and low down; and still they couldn't see a sight 

of him anywhere. So then the clerk suggested to try the chapel. So 

then they got the keys and opened the chapel and the clerk and Father 

O'Rourke and another priest that was there brought in a light for to 

look for him.... And what do you think but there he was, sitting up by 

himself in the dark in his confession-box, wide-awake and laughing-like 

softly to himself?"

She stopped suddenly as if to listen. I too listened; but there was no 

sound in the house: and I knew that the old priest was lying still in 

his coffin as we had seen him, solemn and truculent in death, an idle 

chalice on his breast.

Eliza resumed:

"Wide-awake and laughing-like to himself.... So then, of course, when 

they saw that, that made them think that there was something gone wrong 

with him...."

AN ENCOUNTER

IT WAS Joe Dillon who introduced the Wild West to us. He had a little 

library made up of old numbers of The Union Jack, Pluck and The 

Halfpenny Marvel. Every evening after school we met in his back garden 

and arranged Indian battles. He and his fat young brother Leo, the 

idler, held the loft of the stable while we tried to carry it by storm; 

or we fought a pitched battle on the grass. But, however well we fought, 

we never won siege or battle and all our bouts ended with Joe Dillon's 

war dance of victory. His parents went to eight-o'clock mass every 

morning in Gardiner Street and the peaceful odour of Mrs. Dillon was 

prevalent in the hall of the house. But he played too fiercely for us 

who were younger and more timid. He looked like some kind of an Indian 

when he capered round the garden, an old tea-cosy on his head, beating a 

tin with his fist and yelling:

"Ya! yaka, yaka, yaka!"

Everyone was incredulous when it was reported that he had a vocation for 

the priesthood. Nevertheless it was true.

A spirit of unruliness diffused itself among us and, under its 

influence, differences of culture and constitution were waived. We 

banded ourselves together, some boldly, some in jest and some almost in 

fear: and of the number of these latter, the reluctant Indians who 

were afraid to seem studious or lacking in robustness, I was one. The 

adventures related in the literature of the Wild West were remote from 

my nature but, at least, they opened doors of escape. I liked better 

some American detective stories which were traversed from time to time 

by unkempt fierce and beautiful girls. Though there was nothing wrong 

in these stories and though their intention was sometimes literary 

they were circulated secretly at school. One day when Father Butler was 

hearing the four pages of Roman History clumsy Leo Dillon was discovered 

with a copy of The Halfpenny Marvel.

"This page or this page? This page Now, Dillon, up! 'Hardly had the 

day'... Go on! What day? 'Hardly had the day dawned'... Have you studied 

it? What have you there in your pocket?"

Everyone's heart palpitated as Leo Dillon handed up the paper and 

everyone assumed an innocent face. Father Butler turned over the pages, 

frowning.

"What is this rubbish?" he said. "The Apache Chief! Is this what you 

read instead of studying your Roman History? Let me not find any more 

of this wretched stuff in this college. The man who wrote it, I suppose, 

was some wretched fellow who writes these things for a drink. I'm 

surprised at boys like you, educated, reading such stuff. I could 

understand it if you were... National School boys. Now, Dillon, I advise 

you strongly, get at your work or..."

This rebuke during the sober hours of school paled much of the glory of 

the Wild West for me and the confused puffy face of Leo Dillon awakened 

one of my consciences. But when the restraining influence of the school 

was at a distance I began to hunger again for wild sensations, for the 

escape which those chronicles of disorder alone seemed to offer me. The 

mimic warfare of the evening became at last as wearisome to me as the 

routine of school in the morning because I wanted real adventures to 

happen to myself. But real adventures, I reflected, do not happen to 

people who remain at home: they must be sought abroad.

The summer holidays were near at hand when I made up my mind to break 

out of the weariness of school-life for one day at least. With Leo Dillon 

and a boy named Mahony I planned a day's miching. Each of us saved up 

sixpence. We were to meet at ten in the morning on the Canal Bridge. 

Mahony's big sister was to write an excuse for him and Leo Dillon was to 

tell his brother to say he was sick. We arranged to go along the Wharf 

Road until we came to the ships, then to cross in the ferryboat and walk 

out to see the Pigeon House. Leo Dillon was afraid we might meet Father 

Butler or someone out of the college; but Mahony asked, very sensibly, 

what would Father Butler be doing out at the Pigeon House. We were 

reassured: and I brought the first stage of the plot to an end by 

collecting sixpence from the other two, at the same time showing them 

my own sixpence. When we were making the last arrangements on the eve we 

were all vaguely excited. We shook hands, laughing, and Mahony said:

"Till tomorrow, mates!"

That night I slept badly. In the morning I was firstcomer to the bridge 

as I lived nearest. I hid my books in the long grass near the ashpit at 

the end of the garden where nobody ever came and hurried along the canal 

bank. It was a mild sunny morning in the first week of June. I sat up 

on the coping of the bridge admiring my frail canvas shoes which I had 

diligently pipeclayed overnight and watching the docile horses pulling 

a tramload of business people up the hill. All the branches of the tall 

trees which lined the mall were gay with little light green leaves and 

the sunlight slanted through them on to the water. The granite stone of 

the bridge was beginning to be warm and I began to pat it with my hands 

in time to an air in my head. I was very happy.

When I had been sitting there for five or ten minutes I saw Mahony's 

grey suit approaching. He came up the hill, smiling, and clambered 

up beside me on the bridge. While we were waiting he brought out 

the catapult which bulged from his inner pocket and explained some 

improvements which he had made in it. I asked him why he had brought it 

and he told me he had brought it to have some gas with the birds. Mahony 

used slang freely, and spoke of Father Butler as Old Bunser. We waited 

on for a quarter of an hour more but still there was no sign of Leo 

Dillon. Mahony, at last, jumped down and said:

"Come along. I knew Fatty'd funk it."

"And his sixpence...?" I said.

"That's forfeit," said Mahony. "And so much the better for us--a bob and 

a tanner instead of a bob."

We walked along the North Strand Road till we came to the Vitriol Works 

and then turned to the right along the Wharf Road. Mahony began to play 

the Indian as soon as we were out of public sight. He chased a crowd 

of ragged girls, brandishing his unloaded catapult and, when two ragged 

boys began, out of chivalry, to fling stones at us, he proposed that we 

should charge them. I objected that the boys were too small and so we 

walked on, the ragged troop screaming after us: "Swaddlers! 

Swaddlers!" thinking that we were Protestants because Mahony, who was 

dark-complexioned, wore the silver badge of a cricket club in his cap. 

When we came to the Smoothing Iron we arranged a siege; but it was a 

failure because you must have at least three. We revenged ourselves on 

Leo Dillon by saying what a funk he was and guessing how many he would 

get at three o'clock from Mr. Ryan.

We came then near the river. We spent a long time walking about the 

noisy streets flanked by high stone walls, watching the working of 

cranes and engines and often being shouted at for our immobility by the 

drivers of groaning carts. It was noon when we reached the quays and as 

all the labourers seemed to be eating their lunches, we bought two big 

currant buns and sat down to eat them on some metal piping beside the 

river. We pleased ourselves with the spectacle of Dublin's commerce--the 

barges signalled from far away by their curls of woolly smoke, the brown 

fishing fleet beyond Ringsend, the big white sailing-vessel which was 

being discharged on the opposite quay. Mahony said it would be right 

skit to run away to sea on one of those big ships and even I, looking at 

the high masts, saw, or imagined, the geography which had been scantily 

dosed to me at school gradually taking substance under my eyes. School 

and home seemed to recede from us and their influences upon us seemed to 

wane.

We crossed the Liffey in the ferryboat, paying our toll to be 

transported in the company of two labourers and a little Jew with a bag. 

We were serious to the point of solemnity, but once during the short 

voyage our eyes met and we laughed. When we landed we watched the 

discharging of the graceful threemaster which we had observed from the 

other quay. Some bystander said that she was a Norwegian vessel. I went 

to the stern and tried to decipher the legend upon it but, failing to do 

so, I came back and examined the foreign sailors to see had any of them 

green eyes for I had some confused notion.... The sailors' eyes were 

blue and grey and even black. The only sailor whose eyes could have been 

called green was a tall man who amused the crowd on the quay by calling 

out cheerfully every time the planks fell:

"All right! All right!"

When we were tired of this sight we wandered slowly into Ringsend. The 

day had grown sultry, and in the windows of the grocers' shops musty 

biscuits lay bleaching. We bought some biscuits and chocolate which 

we ate sedulously as we wandered through the squalid streets where the 

families of the fishermen live. We could find no dairy and so we went 

into a huckster's shop and bought a bottle of raspberry lemonade each. 

Refreshed by this, Mahony chased a cat down a lane, but the cat escaped 

into a wide field. We both felt rather tired and when we reached the 

field we made at once for a sloping bank over the ridge of which we 

could see the Dodder.

It was too late and we were too tired to carry out our project of 

visiting the Pigeon House. We had to be home before four o'clock lest 

our adventure should be discovered. Mahony looked regretfully at his 

catapult and I had to suggest going home by train before he regained 

any cheerfulness. The sun went in behind some clouds and left us to our 

jaded thoughts and the crumbs of our provisions.

There was nobody but ourselves in the field. When we had lain on the 

bank for some time without speaking I saw a man approaching from the far 

end of the field. I watched him lazily as I chewed one of those green 

stems on which girls tell fortunes. He came along by the bank slowly. He 

walked with one hand upon his hip and in the other hand he held a stick 

with which he tapped the turf lightly. He was shabbily dressed in a suit 

of greenish-black and wore what we used to call a jerry hat with a high 

crown. He seemed to be fairly old for his moustache was ashen-grey. When 

he passed at our feet he glanced up at us quickly and then continued his 

way. We followed him with our eyes and saw that when he had gone on for 

perhaps fifty paces he turned about and began to retrace his steps. He 

walked towards us very slowly, always tapping the ground with his stick, 

so slowly that I thought he was looking for something in the grass.

He stopped when he came level with us and bade us goodday. We answered 

him and he sat down beside us on the slope slowly and with great care. 

He began to talk of the weather, saying that it would be a very hot 

summer and adding that the seasons had changed gready since he was a 

boy--a long time ago. He said that the happiest time of one's life was 

undoubtedly one's schoolboy days and that he would give anything to be 

young again. While he expressed these sentiments which bored us a little 

we kept silent. Then he began to talk of school and of books. He asked 

us whether we had read the poetry of Thomas Moore or the works of Sir 

Walter Scott and Lord Lytton. I pretended that I had read every book he 

mentioned so that in the end he said:

"Ah, I can see you are a bookworm like myself. Now," he added, pointing 

to Mahony who was regarding us with open eyes, "he is different; he goes 

in for games."

He said he had all Sir Walter Scott's works and all Lord Lytton's works 

at home and never tired of reading them. "Of course," he said, "there 

were some of Lord Lytton's works which boys couldn't read." Mahony asked 

why couldn't boys read them--a question which agitated and pained me 

because I was afraid the man would think I was as stupid as Mahony. The 

man, however, only smiled. I saw that he had great gaps in his mouth 

between his yellow teeth. Then he asked us which of us had the most 

sweethearts. Mahony mentioned lightly that he had three totties. The man 

asked me how many I had. I answered that I had none. He did not believe 

me and said he was sure I must have one. I was silent.

"Tell us," said Mahony pertly to the man, "how many have you yourself?"

The man smiled as before and said that when he was our age he had lots 

of sweethearts.

"Every boy," he said, "has a little sweetheart."

His attitude on this point struck me as strangely liberal in a man 

of his age. In my heart I thought that what he said about boys and 

sweethearts was reasonable. But I disliked the words in his mouth and I 

wondered why he shivered once or twice as if he feared something or felt 

a sudden chill. As he proceeded I noticed that his accent was good. He 

began to speak to us about girls, saying what nice soft hair they had 

and how soft their hands were and how all girls were not so good as they 

seemed to be if one only knew. There was nothing he liked, he said, so 

much as looking at a nice young girl, at her nice white hands and her 

beautiful soft hair. He gave me the impression that he was repeating 

something which he had learned by heart or that, magnetised by some 

words of his own speech, his mind was slowly circling round and round in 

the same orbit. At times he spoke as if he were simply alluding to some 

fact that everybody knew, and at times he lowered his voice and spoke 

mysteriously as if he were telling us something secret which he did not 

wish others to overhear. He repeated his phrases over and over again, 

varying them and surrounding them with his monotonous voice. I continued 

to gaze towards the foot of the slope, listening to him.

After a long while his monologue paused. He stood up slowly, saying 

that he had to leave us for a minute or so, a few minutes, and, without 

changing the direction of my gaze, I saw him walking slowly away from us 

towards the near end of the field. We remained silent when he had gone. 

After a silence of a few minutes I heard Mahony exclaim:

"I say! Look what he's doing!"

As I neither answered nor raised my eyes Mahony exclaimed again:

"I say... He's a queer old josser!"

"In case he asks us for our names," I said "let you be Murphy and I'll 

be Smith."

We said nothing further to each other. I was still considering whether 

I would go away or not when the man came back and sat down beside us 

again. Hardly had he sat down when Mahony, catching sight of the cat 

which had escaped him, sprang up and pursued her across the field. The 

man and I watched the chase. The cat escaped once more and Mahony began 

to throw stones at the wall she had escaladed. Desisting from this, he 

began to wander about the far end of the field, aimlessly.

After an interval the man spoke to me. He said that my friend was a very 

rough boy and asked did he get whipped often at school. I was going to 

reply indignantly that we were not National School boys to be whipped, 

as he called it; but I remained silent. He began to speak on the subject 

of chastising boys. His mind, as if magnetised again by his speech, 

seemed to circle slowly round and round its new centre. He said that 

when boys were that kind they ought to be whipped and well whipped. When 

a boy was rough and unruly there was nothing would do him any good but a 

good sound whipping. A slap on the hand or a box on the ear was no good: 

what he wanted was to get a nice warm whipping. I was surprised at this 

sentiment and involuntarily glanced up at his face. As I did so I met 

the gaze of a pair of bottle-green eyes peering at me from under a 

twitching forehead. I turned my eyes away again.

The man continued his monologue. He seemed to have forgotten his recent 

liberalism. He said that if ever he found a boy talking to girls or 

having a girl for a sweetheart he would whip him and whip him; and that 

would teach him not to be talking to girls. And if a boy had a girl 

for a sweetheart and told lies about it then he would give him such 

a whipping as no boy ever got in this world. He said that there was 

nothing in this world he would like so well as that. He described to 

me how he would whip such a boy as if he were unfolding some elaborate 

mystery. He would love that, he said, better than anything in this 

world; and his voice, as he led me monotonously through the mystery, 

grew almost affectionate and seemed to plead with me that I should 

understand him.

I waited till his monologue paused again. Then I stood up abruptly. Lest 

I should betray my agitation I delayed a few moments pretending to fix 

my shoe properly and then, saying that I was obliged to go, I bade him 

good-day. I went up the slope calmly but my heart was beating quickly 

with fear that he would seize me by the ankles. When I reached the top 

of the slope I turned round and, without looking at him, called loudly 

across the field:

"Murphy!"

My voice had an accent of forced bravery in it and I was ashamed of my 

paltry stratagem. I had to call the name again before Mahony saw me 

and hallooed in answer. How my heart beat as he came running across the 

field to me! He ran as if to bring me aid. And I was penitent; for in my 

heart I had always despised him a little.

ARABY

NORTH RICHMOND STREET being blind, was a quiet street except at the hour 

when the Christian Brothers' School set the boys free. An uninhabited 

house of two storeys stood at the blind end, detached from its 

neighbours in a square ground The other houses of the street, 

conscious of decent lives within them, gazed at one another with brown 

imperturbable faces.

The former tenant of our house, a priest, had died in the back 

drawing-room. Air, musty from having been long enclosed, hung in all 

the rooms, and the waste room behind the kitchen was littered with old 

useless papers. Among these I found a few paper-covered books, the pages 

of which were curled and damp: The Abbot, by Walter Scott, The Devout 

Communicant and The Memoirs of Vidocq. I liked the last best because 

its leaves were yellow. The wild garden behind the house contained a 

central apple-tree and a few straggling bushes under one of which 

I found the late tenant's rusty bicycle-pump. He had been a very 

charitable priest; in his will he had left all his money to institutions 

and the furniture of his house to his sister.

When the short days of winter came dusk fell before we had well eaten 

our dinners. When we met in the street the houses had grown sombre. The 

space of sky above us was the colour of ever-changing violet and towards 

it the lamps of the street lifted their feeble lanterns. The cold air 

stung us and we played till our bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed in the 

silent street. The career of our play brought us through the dark muddy 

lanes behind the houses where we ran the gauntlet of the rough tribes 

from the cottages, to the back doors of the dark dripping gardens where 

odours arose from the ashpits, to the dark odorous stables where a 

coachman smoothed and combed the horse or shook music from the buckled 

harness. When we returned to the street light from the kitchen windows 

had filled the areas. If my uncle was seen turning the corner we hid in 

the shadow until we had seen him safely housed. Or if Mangan's sister 

came out on the doorstep to call her brother in to his tea we watched 

her from our shadow peer up and down the street. We waited to see 

whether she would remain or go in and, if she remained, we left our 

shadow and walked up to Mangan's steps resignedly. She was waiting 

for us, her figure defined by the light from the half-opened door. Her 

brother always teased her before he obeyed and I stood by the railings 

looking at her. Her dress swung as she moved her body and the soft rope 

of her hair tossed from side to side.

Every morning I lay on the floor in the front parlour watching her door. 

The blind was pulled down to within an inch of the sash so that I could 

not be seen. When she came out on the doorstep my heart leaped. I ran 

to the hall, seized my books and followed her. I kept her brown figure 

always in my eye and, when we came near the point at which our ways 

diverged, I quickened my pace and passed her. This happened morning 

after morning. I had never spoken to her, except for a few casual words, 

and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood.

Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to romance. On 

Saturday evenings when my aunt went marketing I had to go to carry 

some of the parcels. We walked through the flaring streets, jostled 

by drunken men and bargaining women, amid the curses of labourers, the 

shrill litanies of shop-boys who stood on guard by the barrels of pigs' 

cheeks, the nasal chanting of street-singers, who sang a come-all-you 

about O'Donovan Rossa, or a ballad about the troubles in our native 

land. These noises converged in a single sensation of life for me: I 

imagined that I bore my chalice safely through a throng of foes. Her 

name sprang to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I 

myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I could not 

tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to pour itself out 

into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did not know whether I 

would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to her, how I could tell 

her of my confused adoration. But my body was like a harp and her words 

and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.

One evening I went into the back drawing-room in which the priest had 

died. It was a dark rainy evening and there was no sound in the house. 

Through one of the broken panes I heard the rain impinge upon the earth, 

the fine incessant needles of water playing in the sodden beds. Some 

distant lamp or lighted window gleamed below me. I was thankful that I 

could see so little. All my senses seemed to desire to veil themselves 

and, feeling that I was about to slip from them, I pressed the palms of 

my hands together until they trembled, murmuring: "O love! O love!" many 

times.

At last she spoke to me. When she addressed the first words to me I was 

so confused that I did not know what to answer. She asked me was I going 

to Araby. I forgot whether I answered yes or no. It would be a splendid 

bazaar, she said she would love to go.

"And why can't you?" I asked.

While she spoke she turned a silver bracelet round and round her wrist. 

She could not go, she said, because there would be a retreat that week 

in her convent. Her brother and two other boys were fighting for their 

caps and I was alone at the railings. She held one of the spikes, bowing 

her head towards me. The light from the lamp opposite our door caught 

the white curve of her neck, lit up her hair that rested there and, 

falling, lit up the hand upon the railing. It fell over one side of her 

dress and caught the white border of a petticoat, just visible as she 

stood at ease.

"It's well for you," she said.

"If I go," I said, "I will bring you something."

What innumerable follies laid waste my waking and sleeping thoughts 

after that evening! I wished to annihilate the tedious intervening days. 

I chafed against the work of school. At night in my bedroom and by day 

in the classroom her image came between me and the page I strove to 

read. The syllables of the word Araby were called to me through the 

silence in which my soul luxuriated and cast an Eastern enchantment over 

me. I asked for leave to go to the bazaar on Saturday night. My aunt 

was surprised and hoped it was not some Freemason affair. I answered few 

questions in class. I watched my master's face pass from amiability to 

sternness; he hoped I was not beginning to idle. I could not call my 

wandering thoughts together. I had hardly any patience with the serious 

work of life which, now that it stood between me and my desire, seemed 

to me child's play, ugly monotonous child's play.

On Saturday morning I reminded my uncle that I wished to go to the 

bazaar in the evening. He was fussing at the hallstand, looking for the 

hat-brush, and answered me curtly:

"Yes, boy, I know."

As he was in the hall I could not go into the front parlour and lie at 

the window. I left the house in bad humour and walked slowly towards the 

school. The air was pitilessly raw and already my heart misgave me.

When I came home to dinner my uncle had not yet been home. Still it was 

early. I sat staring at the clock for some time and when its ticking 

began to irritate me, I left the room. I mounted the staircase and 

gained the upper part of the house. The high cold empty gloomy rooms 

liberated me and I went from room to room singing. From the front window 

I saw my companions playing below in the street. Their cries reached me 

weakened and indistinct and, leaning my forehead against the cool glass, 

I looked over at the dark house where she lived. I may have stood 

there for an hour, seeing nothing but the brown-clad figure cast by my 

imagination, touched discreetly by the lamplight at the curved neck, at 

the hand upon the railings and at the border below the dress.

When I came downstairs again I found Mrs. Mercer sitting at the fire. 

She was an old garrulous woman, a pawnbroker's widow, who collected 

used stamps for some pious purpose. I had to endure the gossip of the 

tea-table. The meal was prolonged beyond an hour and still my uncle did 

not come. Mrs. Mercer stood up to go: she was sorry she couldn't wait 

any longer, but it was after eight o'clock and she did not like to be 

out late as the night air was bad for her. When she had gone I began to 

walk up and down the room, clenching my fists. My aunt said:

"I'm afraid you may put off your bazaar for this night of Our Lord."

At nine o'clock I heard my uncle's latchkey in the halldoor. I heard him 

talking to himself and heard the hallstand rocking when it had received 

the weight of his overcoat. I could interpret these signs. When he was 

midway through his dinner I asked him to give me the money to go to the 

bazaar. He had forgotten.

"The people are in bed and after their first sleep now," he said.

I did not smile. My aunt said to him energetically:

"Can't you give him the money and let him go? You've kept him late 

enough as it is."

My uncle said he was very sorry he had forgotten. He said he believed in 

the old saying: "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy." He asked 

me where I was going and, when I had told him a second time he asked me 

did I know The Arab's Farewell to his Steed. When I left the kitchen he 

was about to recite the opening lines of the piece to my aunt.

I held a florin tightly in my hand as I strode down Buckingham Street 

towards the station. The sight of the streets thronged with buyers and 

glaring with gas recalled to me the purpose of my journey. I took my 

seat in a third-class carriage of a deserted train. After an intolerable 

delay the train moved out of the station slowly. It crept onward among 

ruinous house and over the twinkling river. At Westland Row Station a 

crowd of people pressed to the carriage doors; but the porters moved 

them back, saying that it was a special train for the bazaar. I remained 

alone in the bare carriage. In a few minutes the train drew up beside an 

improvised wooden platform. I passed out on to the road and saw by the 

lighted dial of a clock that it was ten minutes to ten. In front of me 

was a large building which displayed the magical name.

I could not find any sixpenny entrance and, fearing that the bazaar 

would be closed, I passed in quickly through a turnstile, handing a 

shilling to a weary-looking man. I found myself in a big hall girdled at 

half its height by a gallery. Nearly all the stalls were closed and the 

greater part of the hall was in darkness. I recognised a silence like 

that which pervades a church after a service. I walked into the centre 

of the bazaar timidly. A few people were gathered about the stalls which 

were still open. Before a curtain, over which the words Cafe Chantant 

were written in coloured lamps, two men were counting money on a salver. 

I listened to the fall of the coins.

Remembering with difficulty why I had come I went over to one of the 

stalls and examined porcelain vases and flowered tea-sets. At the 

door of the stall a young lady was talking and laughing with two young 

gentlemen. I remarked their English accents and listened vaguely to 

their conversation.

"O, I never said such a thing!"

"O, but you did!"

"O, but I didn't!"

"Didn't she say that?"

"Yes. I heard her."

"O, there's a... fib!"

Observing me the young lady came over and asked me did I wish to buy 

anything. The tone of her voice was not encouraging; she seemed to have 

spoken to me out of a sense of duty. I looked humbly at the great jars 

that stood like eastern guards at either side of the dark entrance to 

the stall and murmured:

"No, thank you."

The young lady changed the position of one of the vases and went back to 

the two young men. They began to talk of the same subject. Once or twice 

the young lady glanced at me over her shoulder.

I lingered before her stall, though I knew my stay was useless, to make 

my interest in her wares seem the more real. Then I turned away slowly 

and walked down the middle of the bazaar. I allowed the two pennies to 

fall against the sixpence in my pocket. I heard a voice call from one 

end of the gallery that the light was out. The upper part of the hall 

was now completely dark.

Gazing up into the darkness I saw myself as a creature driven and 

derided by vanity; and my eyes burned with anguish and anger.

EVELINE

SHE sat at the window watching the evening invade the avenue. Her head 

was leaned against the window curtains and in her nostrils was the odour 

of dusty cretonne. She was tired.

Few people passed. The man out of the last house passed on his way 

home; she heard his footsteps clacking along the concrete pavement and 

afterwards crunching on the cinder path before the new red houses. One 

time there used to be a field there in which they used to play every 

evening with other people's children. Then a man from Belfast bought 

the field and built houses in it--not like their little brown houses but 

bright brick houses with shining roofs. The children of the avenue used 

to play together in that field--the Devines, the Waters, the Dunns, 

little Keogh the cripple, she and her brothers and sisters. Ernest, 

however, never played: he was too grown up. Her father used often to 

hunt them in out of the field with his blackthorn stick; but usually 

little Keogh used to keep nix and call out when he saw her father 

coming. Still they seemed to have been rather happy then. Her father was 

not so bad then; and besides, her mother was alive. That was a long time 

ago; she and her brothers and sisters were all grown up her mother 

was dead. Tizzie Dunn was dead, too, and the Waters had gone back to 

England. Everything changes. Now she was going to go away like the 

others, to leave her home.

Home! She looked round the room, reviewing all its familiar objects 

which she had dusted once a week for so many years, wondering where on 

earth all the dust came from. Perhaps she would never see again those 

familiar objects from which she had never dreamed of being divided. 

And yet during all those years she had never found out the name of the 

priest whose yellowing photograph hung on the wall above the broken 

harmonium beside the coloured print of the promises made to Blessed 

Margaret Mary Alacoque. He had been a school friend of her father. 

Whenever he showed the photograph to a visitor her father used to pass 

it with a casual word:

"He is in Melbourne now."

She had consented to go away, to leave her home. Was that wise? She 

tried to weigh each side of the question. In her home anyway she had 

shelter and food; she had those whom she had known all her life about 

her. O course she had to work hard, both in the house and at business. 

What would they say of her in the Stores when they found out that she 

had run away with a fellow? Say she was a fool, perhaps; and her place 

would be filled up by advertisement. Miss Gavan would be glad. She 

had always had an edge on her, especially whenever there were people 

listening.

"Miss Hill, don't you see these ladies are waiting?"

"Look lively, Miss Hill, please."

She would not cry many tears at leaving the Stores.

But in her new home, in a distant unknown country, it would not be like 

that. Then she would be married--she, Eveline. People would treat her 

with respect then. She would not be treated as her mother had been. Even 

now, though she was over nineteen, she sometimes felt herself in danger 

of her father's violence. She knew it was that that had given her the 

palpitations. When they were growing up he had never gone for her like 

he used to go for Harry and Ernest, because she was a girl but latterly 

he had begun to threaten her and say what he would do to her only for 

her dead mother's sake. And no she had nobody to protect her. Ernest was 

dead and Harry, who was in the church decorating business, was nearly 

always down somewhere in the country. Besides, the invariable squabble 

for money on Saturday nights had begun to weary her unspeakably. She 

always gave her entire wages--seven shillings--and Harry always sent up 

what he could but the trouble was to get any money from her father. 

He said she used to squander the money, that she had no head, that 

he wasn't going to give her his hard-earned money to throw about the 

streets, and much more, for he was usually fairly bad on Saturday night. 

In the end he would give her the money and ask her had she any intention 

of buying Sunday's dinner. Then she had to rush out as quickly as she 

could and do her marketing, holding her black leather purse tightly in 

her hand as she elbowed her way through the crowds and returning home 

late under her load of provisions. She had hard work to keep the house 

together and to see that the two young children who had been left to her 

charge went to school regularly and got their meals regularly. It was 

hard work--a hard life--but now that she was about to leave it she did 

not find it a wholly undesirable life.

She was about to explore another life with Frank. Frank was very kind, 

manly, open-hearted. She was to go away with him by the night-boat to 

be his wife and to live with him in Buenos Ayres where he had a home 

waiting for her. How well she remembered the first time she had seen 

him; he was lodging in a house on the main road where she used to visit. 

It seemed a few weeks ago. He was standing at the gate, his peaked cap 

pushed back on his head and his hair tumbled forward over a face of 

bronze. Then they had come to know each other. He used to meet her 

outside the Stores every evening and see her home. He took her to see 

The Bohemian Girl and she felt elated as she sat in an unaccustomed part 

of the theatre with him. He was awfully fond of music and sang a little. 

People knew that they were courting and, when he sang about the lass 

that loves a sailor, she always felt pleasantly confused. He used to 

call her Poppens out of fun. First of all it had been an excitement for 

her to have a fellow and then she had begun to like him. He had tales of 

distant countries. He had started as a deck boy at a pound a month on a 

ship of the Allan Line going out to Canada. He told her the names of 

the ships he had been on and the names of the different services. He had 

sailed through the Straits of Magellan and he told her stories of the 

terrible Patagonians. He had fallen on his feet in Buenos Ayres, he 

said, and had come over to the old country just for a holiday. Of 

course, her father had found out the affair and had forbidden her to 

have anything to say to him.

"I know these sailor chaps," he said.

One day he had quarrelled with Frank and after that she had to meet her 

lover secretly.

The evening deepened in the avenue. The white of two letters in her lap 

grew indistinct. One was to Harry; the other was to her father. Ernest 

had been her favourite but she liked Harry too. Her father was becoming 

old lately, she noticed; he would miss her. Sometimes he could be very 

nice. Not long before, when she had been laid up for a day, he had read 

her out a ghost story and made toast for her at the fire. Another day, 

when their mother was alive, they had all gone for a picnic to the Hill 

of Howth. She remembered her father putting on her mothers bonnet to 

make the children laugh.

Her time was running out but she continued to sit by the window, 

leaning her head against the window curtain, inhaling the odour of dusty 

cretonne. Down far in the avenue she could hear a street organ playing. 

She knew the air Strange that it should come that very night to remind 

her of the promise to her mother, her promise to keep the home together 

as long as she could. She remembered the last night of her mother's 

illness; she was again in the close dark room at the other side of the 

hall and outside she heard a melancholy air of Italy. The organ-player 

had been ordered to go away and given sixpence. She remembered her 

father strutting back into the sickroom saying:

"Damned Italians! coming over here!"

As she mused the pitiful vision of her mother's life laid its spell on 

the very quick of her being--that life of commonplace sacrifices closing 

in final craziness. She trembled as she heard again her mother's voice 

saying constantly with foolish insistence:

"Derevaun Seraun! Derevaun Seraun!"

She stood up in a sudden impulse of terror. Escape! She must escape! 

Frank would save her. He would give her life, perhaps love, too. But she 

wanted to live. Why should she be unhappy? She had a right to happiness. 

Frank would take her in his arms, fold her in his arms. He would save 

her.

She stood among the swaying crowd in the station at the North Wall. He 

held her hand and she knew that he was speaking to her, saying something 

about the passage over and over again. The station was full of soldiers 

with brown baggages. Through the wide doors of the sheds she caught a 

glimpse of the black mass of the boat, lying in beside the quay wall, 

with illumined portholes. She answered nothing. She felt her cheek pale 

and cold and, out of a maze of distress, she prayed to God to direct 

her, to show her what was her duty. The boat blew a long mournful 

whistle into the mist. If she went, tomorrow she would be on the sea 

with Frank, steaming towards Buenos Ayres. Their passage had been 

booked. Could she still draw back after all he had done for her? Her 

distress awoke a nausea in her body and she kept moving her lips in 

silent fervent prayer.

A bell clanged upon her heart. She felt him seize her hand:

"Come!"

All the seas of the world tumbled about her heart. He was drawing her 

into them: he would drown her. She gripped with both hands at the iron 

railing.

"Come!"

No! No! No! It was impossible. Her hands clutched the iron in frenzy. 

Amid the seas she sent a cry of anguish.

"Eveline! Evvy!"

He rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to follow. He was shouted 

at to go on but he still called to her. She set her white face to him, 

passive, like a helpless animal. Her eyes gave him no sign of love or 

farewell or recognition.

AFTER THE RACE

THE cars came scudding in towards Dublin, running evenly like pellets 

in the groove of the Naas Road. At the crest of the hill at Inchicore 

sightseers had gathered in clumps to watch the cars careering homeward 

and through this channel of poverty and inaction the Continent sped its 

wealth and industry. Now and again the clumps of people raised the cheer 

of the gratefully oppressed. Their sympathy, however, was for the blue 

cars--the cars of their friends, the French.

The French, moreover, were virtual victors. Their team had finished 

solidly; they had been placed second and third and the driver of the 

winning German car was reported a Belgian. Each blue car, therefore, 

received a double measure of welcome as it topped the crest of the hill 

and each cheer of welcome was acknowledged with smiles and nods by those 

in the car. In one of these trimly built cars was a party of four 

young men whose spirits seemed to be at present well above the level 

of successful Gallicism: in fact, these four young men were almost 

hilarious. They were Charles Segouin, the owner of the car; Andre 

Riviere, a young electrician of Canadian birth; a huge Hungarian named 

Villona and a neatly groomed young man named Doyle. Segouin was in good 

humour because he had unexpectedly received some orders in advance (he 

was about to start a motor establishment in Paris) and Riviere was in 

good humour because he was to be appointed manager of the establishment; 

these two young men (who were cousins) were also in good humour because 

of the success of the French cars. Villona was in good humour because he 

had had a very satisfactory luncheon; and besides he was an optimist by 

nature. The fourth member of the party, however, was too excited to be 

genuinely happy.

He was about twenty-six years of age, with a soft, light brown moustache 

and rather innocent-looking grey eyes. His father, who had begun life as 

an advanced Nationalist, had modified his views early. He had made his 

money as a butcher in Kingstown and by opening shops in Dublin and in 

the suburbs he had made his money many times over. He had also been 

fortunate enough to secure some of the police contracts and in the end 

he had become rich enough to be alluded to in the Dublin newspapers as a 

merchant prince. He had sent his son to England to be educated in a big 

Catholic college and had afterwards sent him to Dublin University to 

study law. Jimmy did not study very earnestly and took to bad courses 

for a while. He had money and he was popular; and he divided his time 

curiously between musical and motoring circles. Then he had been sent 

for a term to Cambridge to see a little life. His father, remonstrative, 

but covertly proud of the excess, had paid his bills and brought him 

home. It was at Cambridge that he had met Segouin. They were not much 

more than acquaintances as yet but Jimmy found great pleasure in the 

society of one who had seen so much of the world and was reputed to 

own some of the biggest hotels in France. Such a person (as his father 

agreed) was well worth knowing, even if he had not been the charming 

companion he was. Villona was entertaining also--a brilliant 

pianist--but, unfortunately, very poor.

The car ran on merrily with its cargo of hilarious youth. The two 

cousins sat on the front seat; Jimmy and his Hungarian friend sat 

behind. Decidedly Villona was in excellent spirits; he kept up a deep 

bass hum of melody for miles of the road The Frenchmen flung their 

laughter and light words over their shoulders and often Jimmy had 

to strain forward to catch the quick phrase. This was not altogether 

pleasant for him, as he had nearly always to make a deft guess at the 

meaning and shout back a suitable answer in the face of a high wind. 

Besides Villona's humming would confuse anybody; the noise of the car, 

too.

Rapid motion through space elates one; so does notoriety; so does 

the possession of money. These were three good reasons for Jimmy's 

excitement. He had been seen by many of his friends that day in the 

company of these Continentals. At the control Segouin had presented him 

to one of the French competitors and, in answer to his confused murmur 

of compliment, the swarthy face of the driver had disclosed a line of 

shining white teeth. It was pleasant after that honour to return to the 

profane world of spectators amid nudges and significant looks. Then as 

to money--he really had a great sum under his control. Segouin, perhaps, 

would not think it a great sum but Jimmy who, in spite of temporary 

errors, was at heart the inheritor of solid instincts knew well with 

what difficulty it had been got together. This knowledge had previously 

kept his bills within the limits of reasonable recklessness, and if he 

had been so conscious of the labour latent in money when there had been 

question merely of some freak of the higher intelligence, how much more 

so now when he was about to stake the greater part of his substance! It 

was a serious thing for him.

Of course, the investment was a good one and Segouin had managed to give 

the impression that it was by a favour of friendship the mite of Irish 

money was to be included in the capital of the concern. Jimmy had a 

respect for his father's shrewdness in business matters and in this case 

it had been his father who had first suggested the investment; money to 

be made in the motor business, pots of money. Moreover Segouin had the 

unmistakable air of wealth. Jimmy set out to translate into days' work 

that lordly car in which he sat. How smoothly it ran. In what style they 

had come careering along the country roads! The journey laid a magical 

finger on the genuine pulse of life and gallantly the machinery of human 

nerves strove to answer the bounding courses of the swift blue animal.

They drove down Dame Street. The street was busy with unusual 

traffic, loud with the horns of motorists and the gongs of impatient 

tram-drivers. Near the Bank Segouin drew up and Jimmy and his friend 

alighted. A little knot of people collected on the footpath to pay 

homage to the snorting motor. The party was to dine together that 

evening in Segouin's hotel and, meanwhile, Jimmy and his friend, who was 

staying with him, were to go home to dress. The car steered out slowly 

for Grafton Street while the two young men pushed their way through 

the knot of gazers. They walked northward with a curious feeling of 

disappointment in the exercise, while the city hung its pale globes of 

light above them in a haze of summer evening.

In Jimmy's house this dinner had been pronounced an occasion. A certain 

pride mingled with his parents' trepidation, a certain eagerness, also, 

to play fast and loose for the names of great foreign cities have at 

least this virtue. Jimmy, too, looked very well when he was dressed and, 

as he stood in the hall giving a last equation to the bows of his dress 

tie, his father may have felt even commercially satisfied at having 

secured for his son qualities often unpurchaseable. His father, 

therefore, was unusually friendly with Villona and his manner expressed 

a real respect for foreign accomplishments; but this subtlety of his 

host was probably lost upon the Hungarian, who was beginning to have a 

sharp desire for his dinner.

The dinner was excellent, exquisite. Segouin, Jimmy decided, had a very 

refined taste. The party was increased by a young Englishman named Routh 

whom Jimmy had seen with Segouin at Cambridge. The young men supped in 

a snug room lit by electric candle lamps. They talked volubly and with 

little reserve. Jimmy, whose imagination was kindling, conceived the 

lively youth of the Frenchmen twined elegantly upon the firm framework 

of the Englishman's manner. A graceful image of his, he thought, and a 

just one. He admired the dexterity with which their host directed the 

conversation. The five young men had various tastes and their tongues 

had been loosened. Villona, with immense respect, began to discover to 

the mildly surprised Englishman the beauties of the English madrigal, 

deploring the loss of old instruments. Riviere, not wholly ingenuously, 

undertook to explain to Jimmy the triumph of the French mechanicians. 

The resonant voice of the Hungarian was about to prevail in ridicule of 

the spurious lutes of the romantic painters when Segouin shepherded his 

party into politics. Here was congenial ground for all. Jimmy, under 

generous influences, felt the buried zeal of his father wake to life 

within him: he aroused the torpid Routh at last. The room grew doubly 

hot and Segouin's task grew harder each moment: there was even danger 

of personal spite. The alert host at an opportunity lifted his glass 

to Humanity and, when the toast had been drunk, he threw open a window 

significantly.

That night the city wore the mask of a capital. The five young men 

strolled along Stephen's Green in a faint cloud of aromatic smoke. They 

talked loudly and gaily and their cloaks dangled from their shoulders. 

The people made way for them. At the corner of Grafton Street a short 

fat man was putting two handsome ladies on a car in charge of another 

fat man. The car drove off and the short fat man caught sight of the 

party.

"Andre."

"It's Farley!"

A torrent of talk followed. Farley was an American. No one knew very 

well what the talk was about. Villona and Riviere were the noisiest, 

but all the men were excited. They got up on a car, squeezing themselves 

together amid much laughter. They drove by the crowd, blended now into 

soft colours, to a music of merry bells. They took the train at Westland 

Row and in a few seconds, as it seemed to Jimmy, they were walking out 

of Kingstown Station. The ticket-collector saluted Jimmy; he was an old 

man:

"Fine night, sir!"

It was a serene summer night; the harbour lay like a darkened mirror at 

their feet. They proceeded towards it with linked arms, singing Cadet 

Roussel in chorus, stamping their feet at every:

"Ho! Ho! Hohe, vraiment!"

They got into a rowboat at the slip and made out for the American's 

yacht. There was to be supper, music, cards. Villona said with 

conviction:

"It is delightful!"

There was a yacht piano in the cabin. Villona played a waltz for Farley 

and Riviere, Farley acting as cavalier and Riviere as lady. Then 

an impromptu square dance, the men devising original figures. What 

merriment! Jimmy took his part with a will; this was seeing life, at 

least. Then Farley got out of breath and cried "Stop!" A man brought in 

a light supper, and the young men sat down to it for form's sake. They 

drank, however: it was Bohemian. They drank Ireland, England, France, 

Hungary, the United States of America. Jimmy made a speech, a long 

speech, Villona saying: "Hear! hear!" whenever there was a pause. There 

was a great clapping of hands when he sat down. It must have been a good 

speech. Farley clapped him on the back and laughed loudly. What jovial 

fellows! What good company they were!

Cards! cards! The table was cleared. Villona returned quietly to his 

piano and played voluntaries for them. The other men played game after 

game, flinging themselves boldly into the adventure. They drank the 

health of the Queen of Hearts and of the Queen of Diamonds. Jimmy felt 

obscurely the lack of an audience: the wit was flashing. Play ran very 

high and paper began to pass. Jimmy did not know exactly who was 

winning but he knew that he was losing. But it was his own fault for 

he frequently mistook his cards and the other men had to calculate his 

I.O.U.'s for him. They were devils of fellows but he wished they would 

stop: it was getting late. Someone gave the toast of the yacht The Belle 

of Newport and then someone proposed one great game for a finish.

The piano had stopped; Villona must have gone up on deck. It was a 

terrible game. They stopped just before the end of it to drink for 

luck. Jimmy understood that the game lay between Routh and Segouin. What 

excitement! Jimmy was excited too; he would lose, of course. How much 

had he written away? The men rose to their feet to play the last tricks. 

talking and gesticulating. Routh won. The cabin shook with the young 

men's cheering and the cards were bundled together. They began then to 

gather in what they had won. Farley and Jimmy were the heaviest losers.

He knew that he would regret in the morning but at present he was glad 

of the rest, glad of the dark stupor that would cover up his folly. He 

leaned his elbows on the table and rested his head between his hands, 

counting the beats of his temples. The cabin door opened and he saw the 

Hungarian standing in a shaft of grey light:

"Daybreak, gentlemen!"

TWO GALLANTS

THE grey warm evening of August had descended upon the city and a mild 

warm air, a memory of summer, circulated in the streets. The streets, 

shuttered for the repose of Sunday, swarmed with a gaily coloured crowd. 

Like illumined pearls the lamps shone from the summits of their tall 

poles upon the living texture below which, changing shape and hue 

unceasingly, sent up into the warm grey evening air an unchanging 

unceasing murmur.

Two young men came down the hill of Rutland Square. On of them was just 

bringing a long monologue to a close. The other, who walked on the verge 

of the path and was at times obliged to step on to the road, owing to 

his companion's rudeness, wore an amused listening face. He was squat 

and ruddy. A yachting cap was shoved far back from his forehead and the 

narrative to which he listened made constant waves of expression break 

forth over his face from the corners of his nose and eyes and mouth. 

Little jets of wheezing laughter followed one another out of his 

convulsed body. His eyes, twinkling with cunning enjoyment, glanced at 

every moment towards his companion's face. Once or twice he rearranged 

the light waterproof which he had slung over one shoulder in toreador 

fashion. His breeches, his white rubber shoes and his jauntily slung 

waterproof expressed youth. But his figure fell into rotundity at the 

waist, his hair was scant and grey and his face, when the waves of 

expression had passed over it, had a ravaged look.

When he was quite sure that the narrative had ended he laughed 

noiselessly for fully half a minute. Then he said:

"Well!... That takes the biscuit!"

His voice seemed winnowed of vigour; and to enforce his words he added 

with humour:

"That takes the solitary, unique, and, if I may so call it, recherche 

biscuit!"

He became serious and silent when he had said this. His tongue was tired 

for he had been talking all the afternoon in a public-house in Dorset 

Street. Most people considered Lenehan a leech but, in spite of this 

reputation, his adroitness and eloquence had always prevented his 

friends from forming any general policy against him. He had a brave 

manner of coming up to a party of them in a bar and of holding himself 

nimbly at the borders of the company until he was included in a round. 

He was a sporting vagrant armed with a vast stock of stories, limericks 

and riddles. He was insensitive to all kinds of discourtesy. No one 

knew how he achieved the stern task of living, but his name was vaguely 

associated with racing tissues.

"And where did you pick her up, Corley?" he asked.

Corley ran his tongue swiftly along his upper lip.

"One night, man," he said, "I was going along Dame Street and I spotted 

a fine tart under Waterhouse's clock and said good-night, you know. So 

we went for a walk round by the canal and she told me she was a slavey 

in a house in Baggot Street. I put my arm round her and squeezed her a 

bit that night. Then next Sunday, man, I met her by appointment. We vent 

out to Donnybrook and I brought her into a field there. She told me she 

used to go with a dairyman.... It was fine, man. Cigarettes every night 

she'd bring me and paying the tram out and back. And one night she 

brought me two bloody fine cigars--O, the real cheese, you know, that 

the old fellow used to smoke.... I was afraid, man, she'd get in the 

family way. But she's up to the dodge."

"Maybe she thinks you'll marry her," said Lenehan.

"I told her I was out of a job," said Corley. "I told her I was in 

Pim's. She doesn't know my name. I was too hairy to tell her that. But 

she thinks I'm a bit of class, you know."

Lenehan laughed again, noiselessly.

"Of all the good ones ever I heard," he said, "that emphatically takes 

the biscuit."

Corley's stride acknowledged the compliment. The swing of his burly body 

made his friend execute a few light skips from the path to the roadway 

and back again. Corley was the son of an inspector of police and he had 

inherited his father's frame and gut. He walked with his hands by his 

sides, holding himself erect and swaying his head from side to side. His 

head was large, globular and oily; it sweated in all weathers; and his 

large round hat, set upon it sideways, looked like a bulb which had 

grown out of another. He always stared straight before him as if he were 

on parade and, when he wished to gaze after someone in the street, it 

was necessary for him to move his body from the hips. At present he was 

about town. Whenever any job was vacant a friend was always ready to 

give him the hard word. He was often to be seen walking with policemen 

in plain clothes, talking earnestly. He knew the inner side of all 

affairs and was fond of delivering final judgments. He spoke without 

listening to the speech of his companions. His conversation was mainly 

about himself what he had said to such a person and what such a person 

had said to him and what he had said to settle the matter. When he 

reported these dialogues he aspirated the first letter of his name after 

the manner of Florentines.

Lenehan offered his friend a cigarette. As the two young men walked on 

through the crowd Corley occasionally turned to smile at some of the 

passing girls but Lenehan's gaze was fixed on the large faint moon 

circled with a double halo. He watched earnestly the passing of the grey 

web of twilight across its face. At length he said:

"Well... tell me, Corley, I suppose you'll be able to pull it off all 

right, eh?"

Corley closed one eye expressively as an answer.

"Is she game for that?" asked Lenehan dubiously. "You can never know 

women."

"She's all right," said Corley. "I know the way to get around her, man. 

She's a bit gone on me."

"You're what I call a gay Lothario," said Lenehan. "And the proper kind 

of a Lothario, too!"

A shade of mockery relieved the servility of his manner. To save himself 

he had the habit of leaving his flattery open to the interpretation of 

raillery. But Corley had not a subtle mind.

"There's nothing to touch a good slavey," he affirmed. "Take my tip for 

it."

"By one who has tried them all," said Lenehan.

"First I used to go with girls, you know," said Corley, unbosoming; 

"girls off the South Circular. I used to take them out, man, on the 

tram somewhere and pay the tram or take them to a band or a play at the 

theatre or buy them chocolate and sweets or something that way. I used 

to spend money on them right enough," he added, in a convincing tone, as 

if he was conscious of being disbelieved.

But Lenehan could well believe it; he nodded gravely.

"I know that game," he said, "and it's a mug's game."

"And damn the thing I ever got out of it," said Corley.

"Ditto here," said Lenehan.

"Only off of one of them," said Corley.

He moistened his upper lip by running his tongue along it. The 

recollection brightened his eyes. He too gazed at the pale disc of the 

moon, now nearly veiled, and seemed to meditate.

"She was... a bit of all right," he said regretfully.

He was silent again. Then he added:

"She's on the turf now. I saw her driving down Earl Street one night 

with two fellows with her on a car."

"I suppose that's your doing," said Lenehan.

"There was others at her before me," said Corley philosophically.

This time Lenehan was inclined to disbelieve. He shook his head to and 

fro and smiled.

"You know you can't kid me, Corley," he said.

"Honest to God!" said Corley. "Didn't she tell me herself?"

Lenehan made a tragic gesture.

"Base betrayer!" he said.

As they passed along the railings of Trinity College, Lenehan skipped 

out into the road and peered up at the clock.

"Twenty after," he said.

"Time enough," said Corley. "She'll be there all right. I always let her 

wait a bit."

Lenehan laughed quietly.

"Ecod! Corley, you know how to take them," he said.

"I'm up to all their little tricks," Corley confessed.

"But tell me," said Lenehan again, "are you sure you can bring it off 

all right? You know it's a ticklish job. They're damn close on that 

point. Eh?... What?"

His bright, small eyes searched his companion's face for reassurance. 

Corley swung his head to and fro as if to toss aside an insistent 

insect, and his brows gathered.

"I'll pull it off," he said. "Leave it to me, can't you?"

Lenehan said no more. He did not wish to ruffle his friend's temper, to 

be sent to the devil and told that his advice was not wanted. A little 

tact was necessary. But Corley's brow was soon smooth again. His 

thoughts were running another way.

"She's a fine decent tart," he said, with appreciation; "that's what she 

is."

They walked along Nassau Street and then turned into Kildare Street. Not 

far from the porch of the club a harpist stood in the roadway, playing 

to a little ring of listeners. He plucked at the wires heedlessly, 

glancing quickly from time to time at the face of each new-comer and 

from time to time, wearily also, at the sky. His harp, too, heedless 

that her coverings had fallen about her knees, seemed weary alike of the 

eyes of strangers and of her master's hands. One hand played in the 

bass the melody of Silent, O Moyle, while the other hand careered in the 

treble after each group of notes. The notes of the air sounded deep and 

full.

The two young men walked up the street without speaking, the mournful 

music following them. When they reached Stephen's Green they crossed the 

road. Here the noise of trams, the lights and the crowd released them 

from their silence.

"There she is!" said Corley.

At the corner of Hume Street a young woman was standing. She wore a blue 

dress and a white sailor hat. She stood on the curbstone, swinging a 

sunshade in one hand. Lenehan grew lively.

"Let's have a look at her, Corley," he said.

Corley glanced sideways at his friend and an unpleasant grin appeared on 

his face.

"Are you trying to get inside me?" he asked.

"Damn it!" said Lenehan boldly, "I don't want an introduction. All I 

want is to have a look at her. I'm not going to eat her."

"O... A look at her?" said Corley, more amiably. "Well... I'll tell you 

what. I'll go over and talk to her and you can pass by."

"Right!" said Lenehan.

Corley had already thrown one leg over the chains when Lenehan called 

out:

"And after? Where will we meet?"

"Half ten," answered Corley, bringing over his other leg.

"Where?"

"Corner of Merrion Street. We'll be coming back."

"Work it all right now," said Lenehan in farewell.

Corley did not answer. He sauntered across the road swaying his head 

from side to side. His bulk, his easy pace, and the solid sound of his 

boots had something of the conqueror in them. He approached the young 

woman and, without saluting, began at once to converse with her. She 

swung her umbrella more quickly and executed half turns on her heels. 

Once or twice when he spoke to her at close quarters she laughed and 

bent her head.

Lenehan observed them for a few minutes. Then he walked rapidly along 

beside the chains at some distance and crossed the road obliquely. As he 

approached Hume Street corner he found the air heavily scented and his 

eyes made a swift anxious scrutiny of the young woman's appearance. She 

had her Sunday finery on. Her blue serge skirt was held at the waist by 

a belt of black leather. The great silver buckle of her belt seemed to 

depress the centre of her body, catching the light stuff of her white 

blouse like a clip. She wore a short black jacket with mother-of-pearl 

buttons and a ragged black boa. The ends of her tulle collarette had 

been carefully disordered and a big bunch of red flowers was pinned 

in her bosom stems upwards. Lenehan's eyes noted approvingly her stout 

short muscular body. Rank rude health glowed in her face, on her fat red 

cheeks and in her unabashed blue eyes. Her features were blunt. She had 

broad nostrils, a straggling mouth which lay open in a contented leer, 

and two projecting front teeth. As he passed Lenehan took off his cap 

and, after about ten seconds, Corley returned a salute to the air. This 

he did by raising his hand vaguely and pensively changing the angle of 

position of his hat.

Lenehan walked as far as the Shelbourne Hotel where he halted and 

waited. After waiting for a little time he saw them coming towards him 

and, when they turned to the right, he followed them, stepping lightly 

in his white shoes, down one side of Merrion Square. As he walked on 

slowly, timing his pace to theirs, he watched Corley's head which turned 

at every moment towards the young woman's face like a big ball revolving 

on a pivot. He kept the pair in view until he had seen them climbing the 

stairs of the Donnybrook tram; then he turned about and went back the 

way he had come.

Now that he was alone his face looked older. His gaiety seemed to 

forsake him and, as he came by the railings of the Duke's Lawn, he 

allowed his hand to run along them. The air which the harpist had played 

began to control his movements His softly padded feet played the melody 

while his fingers swept a scale of variations idly along the railings 

after each group of notes.

He walked listlessly round Stephen's Green and then down Grafton Street. 

Though his eyes took note of many elements of the crowd through which 

he passed they did so morosely. He found trivial all that was meant to 

charm him and did not answer the glances which invited him to be bold. 

He knew that he would have to speak a great deal, to invent and to amuse 

and his brain and throat were too dry for such a task. The problem of 

how he could pass the hours till he met Corley again troubled him a 

little. He could think of no way of passing them but to keep on walking. 

He turned to the left when he came to the corner of Rutland Square and 

felt more at ease in the dark quiet street, the sombre look of which 

suited his mood. He paused at last before the window of a poor-looking 

shop over which the words Refreshment Bar were printed in white letters. 

On the glass of the window were two flying inscriptions: Ginger Beer and 

Ginger Ale. A cut ham was exposed on a great blue dish while near it 

on a plate lay a segment of very light plum-pudding. He eyed this food 

earnestly for some time and then, after glancing warily up and down the 

street, went into the shop quickly.

He was hungry for, except some biscuits which he had asked two grudging 

curates to bring him, he had eaten nothing since breakfast-time. He 

sat down at an uncovered wooden table opposite two work-girls and a 

mechanic. A slatternly girl waited on him.

"How much is a plate of peas?" he asked.

"Three halfpence, sir," said the girl.

"Bring me a plate of peas," he said, "and a bottle of ginger beer."

He spoke roughly in order to belie his air of gentility for his entry 

had been followed by a pause of talk. His face was heated. To appear 

natural he pushed his cap back on his head and planted his elbows on the 

table. The mechanic and the two work-girls examined him point by point 

before resuming their conversation in a subdued voice. The girl brought 

him a plate of grocer's hot peas, seasoned with pepper and vinegar, a 

fork and his ginger beer. He ate his food greedily and found it so good 

that he made a note of the shop mentally. When he had eaten all the peas 

he sipped his ginger beer and sat for some time thinking of Corley's 

adventure. In his imagination he beheld the pair of lovers walking along 

some dark road; he heard Corley's voice in deep energetic gallantries 

and saw again the leer of the young woman's mouth. This vision made 

him feel keenly his own poverty of purse and spirit. He was tired 

of knocking about, of pulling the devil by the tail, of shifts and 

intrigues. He would be thirty-one in November. Would he never get a good 

job? Would he never have a home of his own? He thought how pleasant it 

would be to have a warm fire to sit by and a good dinner to sit down to. 

He had walked the streets long enough with friends and with girls. He 

knew what those friends were worth: he knew the girls too. Experience 

had embittered his heart against the world. But all hope had not left 

him. He felt better after having eaten than he had felt before, less 

weary of his life, less vanquished in spirit. He might yet be able to 

settle down in some snug corner and live happily if he could only come 

across some good simple-minded girl with a little of the ready.

He paid twopence halfpenny to the slatternly girl and went out of the 

shop to begin his wandering again. He went into Capel Street and walked 

along towards the City Hall. Then he turned into Dame Street. At the 

corner of George's Street he met two friends of his and stopped to 

converse with them. He was glad that he could rest from all his walking. 

His friends asked him had he seen Corley and what was the latest. He 

replied that he had spent the day with Corley. His friends talked 

very little. They looked vacantly after some figures in the crowd and 

sometimes made a critical remark. One said that he had seen Mac an hour 

before in Westmoreland Street. At this Lenehan said that he had been 

with Mac the night before in Egan's. The young man who had seen Mac 

in Westmoreland Street asked was it true that Mac had won a bit over 

a billiard match. Lenehan did not know: he said that Holohan had stood 

them drinks in Egan's.

He left his friends at a quarter to ten and went up George's Street. 

He turned to the left at the City Markets and walked on into Grafton 

Street. The crowd of girls and young men had thinned and on his way 

up the street he heard many groups and couples bidding one another 

good-night. He went as far as the clock of the College of Surgeons: it 

was on the stroke of ten. He set off briskly along the northern side 

of the Green hurrying for fear Corley should return too soon. When he 

reached the corner of Merrion Street he took his stand in the shadow of 

a lamp and brought out one of the cigarettes which he had reserved and 

lit it. He leaned against the lamp-post and kept his gaze fixed on the 

part from which he expected to see Corley and the young woman return.

His mind became active again. He wondered had Corley managed it 

successfully. He wondered if he had asked her yet or if he would leave 

it to the last. He suffered all the pangs and thrills of his friend's 

situation as well as those of his own. But the memory of Corley's slowly 

revolving head calmed him somewhat: he was sure Corley would pull it off 

all right. All at once the idea struck him that perhaps Corley had seen 

her home by another way and given him the slip. His eyes searched the 

street: there was no sign of them. Yet it was surely half-an-hour since 

he had seen the clock of the College of Surgeons. Would Corley do 

a thing like that? He lit his last cigarette and began to smoke it 

nervously. He strained his eyes as each tram stopped at the far corner 

of the square. They must have gone home by another way. The paper of his 

cigarette broke and he flung it into the road with a curse.

Suddenly he saw them coming towards him. He started with delight and 

keeping close to his lamp-post tried to read the result in their walk. 

They were walking quickly, the young woman taking quick short steps, 

while Corley kept beside her with his long stride. They did not seem to 

be speaking. An intimation of the result pricked him like the point of a 

sharp instrument. He knew Corley would fail; he knew it was no go.

They turned down Baggot Street and he followed them at once, taking the 

other footpath. When they stopped he stopped too. They talked for a few 

moments and then the young woman went down the steps into the area of 

a house. Corley remained standing at the edge of the path, a little 

distance from the front steps. Some minutes passed. Then the hall-door 

was opened slowly and cautiously. A woman came running down the front 

steps and coughed. Corley turned and went towards her. His broad figure 

hid hers from view for a few seconds and then she reappeared running 

up the steps. The door closed on her and Corley began to walk swiftly 

towards Stephen's Green.

Lenehan hurried on in the same direction. Some drops of light rain fell. 

He took them as a warning and, glancing back towards the house which the 

young woman had entered to see that he was not observed, he ran eagerly 

across the road. Anxiety and his swift run made him pant. He called out:

"Hallo, Corley!"

Corley turned his head to see who had called him, and then continued 

walking as before. Lenehan ran after him, settling the waterproof on his 

shoulders with one hand.

"Hallo, Corley!" he cried again.

He came level with his friend and looked keenly in his face. He could 

see nothing there.

"Well?" he said. "Did it come off?"

They had reached the corner of Ely Place. Still without answering, 

Corley swerved to the left and went up the side street. His features 

were composed in stern calm. Lenehan kept up with his friend, breathing 

uneasily. He was baffled and a note of menace pierced through his voice.

"Can't you tell us?" he said. "Did you try her?"

Corley halted at the first lamp and stared grimly before him. Then 

with a grave gesture he extended a hand towards the light and, smiling, 

opened it slowly to the gaze of his disciple. A small gold coin shone in 

the palm.

THE BOARDING HOUSE

MRS. MOONEY was a butcher's daughter. She was a woman who was quite 

able to keep things to herself: a determined woman. She had married her 

father's foreman and opened a butcher's shop near Spring Gardens. But as 

soon as his father-in-law was dead Mr. Mooney began to go to the devil. 

He drank, plundered the till, ran headlong into debt. It was no use 

making him take the pledge: he was sure to break out again a few days 

after. By fighting his wife in the presence of customers and by buying 

bad meat he ruined his business. One night he went for his wife with the 

cleaver and she had to sleep a neighbour's house.

After that they lived apart. She went to the priest and got a separation 

from him with care of the children. She would give him neither money 

nor food nor house-room; and so he was obliged to enlist himself as a 

sheriff's man. He was a shabby stooped little drunkard with a white face 

and a white moustache white eyebrows, pencilled above his little eyes, 

which were veined and raw; and all day long he sat in the bailiff's 

room, waiting to be put on a job. Mrs. Mooney, who had taken what 

remained of her money out of the butcher business and set up a boarding 

house in Hardwicke Street, was a big imposing woman. Her house had a 

floating population made up of tourists from Liverpool and the Isle 

of Man and, occasionally, artistes from the music halls. Its resident 

population was made up of clerks from the city. She governed the house 

cunningly and firmly, knew when to give credit, when to be stern and 

when to let things pass. All the resident young men spoke of her as The 

Madam.

Mrs. Mooney's young men paid fifteen shillings a week for board and 

lodgings (beer or stout at dinner excluded). They shared in common 

tastes and occupations and for this reason they were very chummy with 

one another. They discussed with one another the chances of favourites 

and outsiders. Jack Mooney, the Madam's son, who was clerk to a 

commission agent in Fleet Street, had the reputation of being a hard 

case. He was fond of using soldiers' obscenities: usually he came home 

in the small hours. When he met his friends he had always a good one 

to tell them and he was always sure to be on to a good thing-that is to 

say, a likely horse or a likely artiste. He was also handy with the mits 

and sang comic songs. On Sunday nights there would often be a reunion in 

Mrs. Mooney's front drawing-room. The music-hall artistes would oblige; 

and Sheridan played waltzes and polkas and vamped accompaniments. Polly 

Mooney, the Madam's daughter, would also sing. She sang:

I'm a... naughty girl. 

You needn't sham: 

You know I am.

Polly was a slim girl of nineteen; she had light soft hair and a small 

full mouth. Her eyes, which were grey with a shade of green through 

them, had a habit of glancing upwards when she spoke with anyone, which 

made her look like a little perverse madonna. Mrs. Mooney had first 

sent her daughter to be a typist in a corn-factor's office but, as a 

disreputable sheriff's man used to come every other day to the office, 

asking to be allowed to say a word to his daughter, she had taken her 

daughter home again and set her to do housework. As Polly was very 

lively the intention was to give her the run of the young men. Besides 

young men like to feel that there is a young woman not very far away. 

Polly, of course, flirted with the young men but Mrs. Mooney, who was a 

shrewd judge, knew that the young men were only passing the time away: 

none of them meant business. Things went on so for a long time and Mrs. 

Mooney began to think of sending Polly back to typewriting when she 

noticed that something was going on between Polly and one of the young 

men. She watched the pair and kept her own counsel.

Polly knew that she was being watched, but still her mother's persistent 

silence could not be misunderstood. There had been no open complicity 

between mother and daughter, no open understanding but, though people 

in the house began to talk of the affair, still Mrs. Mooney did not 

intervene. Polly began to grow a little strange in her manner and the 

young man was evidently perturbed. At last, when she judged it to be the 

right moment, Mrs. Mooney intervened. She dealt with moral problems as a 

cleaver deals with meat: and in this case she had made up her mind.

It was a bright Sunday morning of early summer, promising heat, but with 

a fresh breeze blowing. All the windows of the boarding house were open 

and the lace curtains ballooned gently towards the street beneath the 

raised sashes. The belfry of George's Church sent out constant peals and 

worshippers, singly or in groups, traversed the little circus before 

the church, revealing their purpose by their self-contained demeanour 

no less than by the little volumes in their gloved hands. Breakfast 

was over in the boarding house and the table of the breakfast-room was 

covered with plates on which lay yellow streaks of eggs with morsels 

of bacon-fat and bacon-rind. Mrs. Mooney sat in the straw arm-chair 

and watched the servant Mary remove the breakfast things. She mad Mary 

collect the crusts and pieces of broken bread to help to make Tuesday's 

bread-pudding. When the table was cleared, the broken bread collected, 

the sugar and butter safe under lock and key, she began to reconstruct 

the interview which she had had the night before with Polly. Things were 

as she had suspected: she had been frank in her questions and Polly had 

been frank in her answers. Both had been somewhat awkward, of course. 

She had been made awkward by her not wishing to receive the news in too 

cavalier a fashion or to seem to have connived and Polly had been 

made awkward not merely because allusions of that kind always made her 

awkward but also because she did not wish it to be thought that in 

her wise innocence she had divined the intention behind her mother's 

tolerance.

Mrs. Mooney glanced instinctively at the little gilt clock on the 

mantelpiece as soon as she had become aware through her revery that the 

bells of George's Church had stopped ringing. It was seventeen minutes 

past eleven: she would have lots of time to have the matter out with Mr. 

Doran and then catch short twelve at Marlborough Street. She was sure 

she would win. To begin with she had all the weight of social opinion 

on her side: she was an outraged mother. She had allowed him to live 

beneath her roof, assuming that he was a man of honour and he had simply 

abused her hospitality. He was thirty-four or thirty-five years of age, 

so that youth could not be pleaded as his excuse; nor could ignorance 

be his excuse since he was a man who had seen something of the world. He 

had simply taken advantage of Polly's youth and inexperience: that was 

evident. The question was: What reparation would he make?

There must be reparation made in such case. It is all very well for 

the man: he can go his ways as if nothing had happened, having had his 

moment of pleasure, but the girl has to bear the brunt. Some mothers 

would be content to patch up such an affair for a sum of money; she had 

known cases of it. But she would not do so. For her only one reparation 

could make up for the loss of her daughter's honour: marriage.

She counted all her cards again before sending Mary up to Doran's room 

to say that she wished to speak with him. She felt sure she would win. 

He was a serious young man, not rakish or loud-voiced like the others. 

If it had been Mr. Sheridan or Mr. Meade or Bantam Lyons her task would 

have been much harder. She did not think he would face publicity. All 

the lodgers in the house knew something of the affair; details had been 

invented by some. Besides, he had been employed for thirteen years in a 

great Catholic wine-merchant's office and publicity would mean for him, 

perhaps, the loss of his job. Whereas if he agreed all might be well. 

She knew he had a good screw for one thing and she suspected he had a 

bit of stuff put by.

Nearly the half-hour! She stood up and surveyed herself in the 

pier-glass. The decisive expression of her great florid face satisfied 

her and she thought of some mothers she knew who could not get their 

daughters off their hands.

Mr. Doran was very anxious indeed this Sunday morning. He had made two 

attempts to shave but his hand had been so unsteady that he had been 

obliged to desist. Three days' reddish beard fringed his jaws and every 

two or three minutes a mist gathered on his glasses so that he had 

to take them off and polish them with his pocket-handkerchief. The 

recollection of his confession of the night before was a cause of acute 

pain to him; the priest had drawn out every ridiculous detail of the 

affair and in the end had so magnified his sin that he was almost 

thankful at being afforded a loophole of reparation. The harm was done. 

What could he do now but marry her or run away? He could not brazen it 

out. The affair would be sure to be talked of and his employer would 

be certain to hear of it. Dublin is such a small city: everyone knows 

everyone else's business. He felt his heart leap warmly in his throat as 

he heard in his excited imagination old Mr. Leonard calling out in his 

rasping voice: "Send Mr. Doran here, please."

All his long years of service gone for nothing! All his industry and 

diligence thrown away! As a young man he had sown his wild oats, of 

course; he had boasted of his free-thinking and denied the existence of 

God to his companions in public-houses. But that was all passed and done 

with... nearly. He still bought a copy of Reynolds's Newspaper every 

week but he attended to his religious duties and for nine-tenths of the 

year lived a regular life. He had money enough to settle down on; it was 

not that. But the family would look down on her. First of all there 

was her disreputable father and then her mother's boarding house was 

beginning to get a certain fame. He had a notion that he was being had. 

He could imagine his friends talking of the affair and laughing. She was 

a little vulgar; some times she said "I seen" and "If I had've known." 

But what would grammar matter if he really loved her? He could not make 

up his mind whether to like her or despise her for what she had done. Of 

course he had done it too. His instinct urged him to remain free, not to 

marry. Once you are married you are done for, it said.

While he was sitting helplessly on the side of the bed in shirt and 

trousers she tapped lightly at his door and entered. She told him all, 

that she had made a clean breast of it to her mother and that her mother 

would speak with him that morning. She cried and threw her arms round 

his neck, saying:

"O Bob! Bob! What am I to do? What am I to do at all?"

She would put an end to herself, she said.

He comforted her feebly, telling her not to cry, that it would be all 

right, never fear. He felt against his shirt the agitation of her bosom.

It was not altogether his fault that it had happened. He remembered 

well, with the curious patient memory of the celibate, the first casual 

caresses her dress, her breath, her fingers had given him. Then late one 

night as he was undressing for she had tapped at his door, timidly. She 

wanted to relight her candle at his for hers had been blown out by a 

gust. It was her bath night. She wore a loose open combing-jacket of 

printed flannel. Her white instep shone in the opening of her furry 

slippers and the blood glowed warmly behind her perfumed skin. From her 

hands and wrists too as she lit and steadied her candle a faint perfume 

arose.

On nights when he came in very late it was she who warmed up his dinner. 

He scarcely knew what he was eating feeling her beside him alone, at 

night, in the sleeping house. And her thoughtfulness! If the night was 

anyway cold or wet or windy there was sure to be a little tumbler of 

punch ready for him. Perhaps they could be happy together....

They used to go upstairs together on tiptoe, each with a candle, and on 

the third landing exchange reluctant goodnights. They used to kiss. He 

remembered well her eyes, the touch of her hand and his delirium....

But delirium passes. He echoed her phrase, applying it to himself: "What 

am I to do?" The instinct of the celibate warned him to hold back. But 

the sin was there; even his sense of honour told him that reparation 

must be made for such a sin.

While he was sitting with her on the side of the bed Mary came to the 

door and said that the missus wanted to see him in the parlour. He stood 

up to put on his coat and waistcoat, more helpless than ever. When he 

was dressed he went over to her to comfort her. It would be all right, 

never fear. He left her crying on the bed and moaning softly: "O my 

God!"

Going down the stairs his glasses became so dimmed with moisture that 

he had to take them off and polish them. He longed to ascend through the 

roof and fly away to another country where he would never hear again 

of his trouble, and yet a force pushed him downstairs step by step. 

The implacable faces of his employer and of the Madam stared upon his 

discomfiture. On the last flight of stairs he passed Jack Mooney who 

was coming up from the pantry nursing two bottles of Bass. They saluted 

coldly; and the lover's eyes rested for a second or two on a thick 

bulldog face and a pair of thick short arms. When he reached the foot of 

the staircase he glanced up and saw Jack regarding him from the door of 

the return-room.

Suddenly he remembered the night when one of the music-hall artistes, 

a little blond Londoner, had made a rather free allusion to Polly. 

The reunion had been almost broken up on account of Jack's violence. 

Everyone tried to quiet him. The music-hall artiste, a little paler than 

usual, kept smiling and saying that there was no harm meant: but Jack 

kept shouting at him that if any fellow tried that sort of a game on 

with his sister he'd bloody well put his teeth down his throat, so he 

would.

Polly sat for a little time on the side of the bed, crying. Then she 

dried her eyes and went over to the looking-glass. She dipped the end of 

the towel in the water-jug and refreshed her eyes with the cool water. 

She looked at herself in profile and readjusted a hairpin above her ear. 

Then she went back to the bed again and sat at the foot. She regarded 

the pillows for a long time and the sight of them awakened in her mind 

secret, amiable memories. She rested the nape of her neck against the 

cool iron bed-rail and fell into a reverie. There was no longer any 

perturbation visible on her face.

She waited on patiently, almost cheerfully, without alarm, her memories 

gradually giving place to hopes and visions of the future. Her hopes and 

visions were so intricate that she no longer saw the white pillows 

on which her gaze was fixed or remembered that she was waiting for 

anything.

At last she heard her mother calling. She started to her feet and ran to 

the banisters.

"Polly! Polly!"

"Yes, mamma?"

"Come down, dear. Mr. Doran wants to speak to you."

Then she remembered what she had been waiting for.

A LITTLE CLOUD

EIGHT years before he had seen his friend off at the North Wall and 

wished him godspeed. Gallaher had got on. You could tell that at once 

by his travelled air, his well-cut tweed suit, and fearless accent. Few 

fellows had talents like his and fewer still could remain unspoiled 

by such success. Gallaher's heart was in the right place and he had 

deserved to win. It was something to have a friend like that.

Little Chandler's thoughts ever since lunch-time had been of his meeting 

with Gallaher, of Gallaher's invitation and of the great city London 

where Gallaher lived. He was called Little Chandler because, though 

he was but slightly under the average stature, he gave one the idea 

of being a little man. His hands were white and small, his frame was 

fragile, his voice was quiet and his manners were refined. He took the 

greatest care of his fair silken hair and moustache and used perfume 

discreetly on his handkerchief. The half-moons of his nails were perfect 

and when he smiled you caught a glimpse of a row of childish white 

teeth.

As he sat at his desk in the King's Inns he thought what changes those 

eight years had brought. The friend whom he had known under a shabby and 

necessitous guise had become a brilliant figure on the London Press. He 

turned often from his tiresome writing to gaze out of the office window. 

The glow of a late autumn sunset covered the grass plots and walks. It 

cast a shower of kindly golden dust on the untidy nurses and decrepit 

old men who drowsed on the benches; it flickered upon all the moving 

figures--on the children who ran screaming along the gravel paths and 

on everyone who passed through the gardens. He watched the scene and 

thought of life; and (as always happened when he thought of life) he 

became sad. A gentle melancholy took possession of him. He felt how 

useless it was to struggle against fortune, this being the burden of 

wisdom which the ages had bequeathed to him.

He remembered the books of poetry upon his shelves at home. He had 

bought them in his bachelor days and many an evening, as he sat in the 

little room off the hall, he had been tempted to take one down from the 

bookshelf and read out something to his wife. But shyness had always 

held him back; and so the books had remained on their shelves. At times 

he repeated lines to himself and this consoled him.

When his hour had struck he stood up and took leave of his desk and of 

his fellow-clerks punctiliously. He emerged from under the feudal 

arch of the King's Inns, a neat modest figure, and walked swiftly down 

Henrietta Street. The golden sunset was waning and the air had grown 

sharp. A horde of grimy children populated the street. They stood or 

ran in the roadway or crawled up the steps before the gaping doors or 

squatted like mice upon the thresholds. Little Chandler gave them no 

thought. He picked his way deftly through all that minute vermin-like 

life and under the shadow of the gaunt spectral mansions in which the 

old nobility of Dublin had roystered. No memory of the past touched him, 

for his mind was full of a present joy.

He had never been in Corless's but he knew the value of the name. He 

knew that people went there after the theatre to eat oysters and drink 

liqueurs; and he had heard that the waiters there spoke French and 

German. Walking swiftly by at night he had seen cabs drawn up before the 

door and richly dressed ladies, escorted by cavaliers, alight and 

enter quickly. They wore noisy dresses and many wraps. Their faces were 

powdered and they caught up their dresses, when they touched earth, 

like alarmed Atalantas. He had always passed without turning his head 

to look. It was his habit to walk swiftly in the street even by day and 

whenever he found himself in the city late at night he hurried on his 

way apprehensively and excitedly. Sometimes, however, he courted the 

causes of his fear. He chose the darkest and narrowest streets and, 

as he walked boldly forward, the silence that was spread about his 

footsteps troubled him, the wandering, silent figures troubled him; and 

at times a sound of low fugitive laughter made him tremble like a leaf.

He turned to the right towards Capel Street. Ignatius Gallaher on the 

London Press! Who would have thought it possible eight years before? 

Still, now that he reviewed the past, Little Chandler could remember 

many signs of future greatness in his friend. People used to say that 

Ignatius Gallaher was wild Of course, he did mix with a rakish set of 

fellows at that time, drank freely and borrowed money on all sides. 

In the end he had got mixed up in some shady affair, some money 

transaction: at least, that was one version of his flight. But nobody 

denied him talent. There was always a certain... something in Ignatius 

Gallaher that impressed you in spite of yourself. Even when he was out 

at elbows and at his wits' end for money he kept up a bold face. Little 

Chandler remembered (and the remembrance brought a slight flush of pride 

to his cheek) one of Ignatius Gallaher's sayings when he was in a tight 

corner:

"Half time now, boys," he used to say light-heartedly. "Where's my 

considering cap?"

That was Ignatius Gallaher all out; and, damn it, you couldn't but 

admire him for it.

Little Chandler quickened his pace. For the first time in his life he 

felt himself superior to the people he passed. For the first time his 

soul revolted against the dull inelegance of Capel Street. There was no 

doubt about it: if you wanted to succeed you had to go away. You could 

do nothing in Dublin. As he crossed Grattan Bridge he looked down the 

river towards the lower quays and pitied the poor stunted houses. They 

seemed to him a band of tramps, huddled together along the riverbanks, 

their old coats covered with dust and soot, stupefied by the panorama 

of sunset and waiting for the first chill of night bid them arise, shake 

themselves and begone. He wondered whether he could write a poem to 

express his idea. Perhaps Gallaher might be able to get it into some 

London paper for him. Could he write something original? He was not sure 

what idea he wished to express but the thought that a poetic moment had 

touched him took life within him like an infant hope. He stepped onward 

bravely.

Every step brought him nearer to London, farther from his own sober 

inartistic life. A light began to tremble on the horizon of his mind. He 

was not so old--thirty-two. His temperament might be said to be just 

at the point of maturity. There were so many different moods and 

impressions that he wished to express in verse. He felt them within him. 

He tried weigh his soul to see if it was a poet's soul. Melancholy 

was the dominant note of his temperament, he thought, but it was a 

melancholy tempered by recurrences of faith and resignation and simple 

joy. If he could give expression to it in a book of poems perhaps men 

would listen. He would never be popular: he saw that. He could not sway 

the crowd but he might appeal to a little circle of kindred minds. 

The English critics, perhaps, would recognise him as one of the Celtic 

school by reason of the melancholy tone of his poems; besides that, he 

would put in allusions. He began to invent sentences and phrases from 

the notice which his book would get. "Mr. Chandler has the gift of easy 

and graceful verse."... "wistful sadness pervades these poems."... "The 

Celtic note." It was a pity his name was not more Irish-looking. Perhaps 

it would be better to insert his mother's name before the surname: 

Thomas Malone Chandler, or better still: T. Malone Chandler. He would 

speak to Gallaher about it.

He pursued his revery so ardently that he passed his street and had 

to turn back. As he came near Corless's his former agitation began to 

overmaster him and he halted before the door in indecision. Finally he 

opened the door and entered.

The light and noise of the bar held him at the doorways for a few 

moments. He looked about him, but his sight was confused by the shining 

of many red and green wine-glasses The bar seemed to him to be full 

of people and he felt that the people were observing him curiously. He 

glanced quickly to right and left (frowning slightly to make his errand 

appear serious), but when his sight cleared a little he saw that nobody 

had turned to look at him: and there, sure enough, was Ignatius Gallaher 

leaning with his back against the counter and his feet planted far 

apart.

"Hallo, Tommy, old hero, here you are! What is it to be? What will you 

have? I'm taking whisky: better stuff than we get across the water. 

Soda? Lithia? No mineral? I'm the same Spoils the flavour.... Here, 

garcon, bring us two halves of malt whisky, like a good fellow.... Well, 

and how have you been pulling along since I saw you last? Dear God, 

how old we're getting! Do you see any signs of aging in me--eh, what? A 

little grey and thin on the top--what?"

Ignatius Gallaher took off his hat and displayed a large closely cropped 

head. His face was heavy, pale and cleanshaven. His eyes, which were of 

bluish slate-colour, relieved his unhealthy pallor and shone out plainly 

above the vivid orange tie he wore. Between these rival features the 

lips appeared very long and shapeless and colourless. He bent his head 

and felt with two sympathetic fingers the thin hair at the crown. Little 

Chandler shook his head as a denial. Ignatius Galaher put on his hat 

again.

"It pulls you down," he said. "Press life. Always hurry and scurry, 

looking for copy and sometimes not finding it: and then, always to have 

something new in your stuff. Damn proofs and printers, I say, for a few 

days. I'm deuced glad, I can tell you, to get back to the old country. 

Does a fellow good, a bit of a holiday. I feel a ton better since I 

landed again in dear dirty Dublin.... Here you are, Tommy. Water? Say 

when."

Little Chandler allowed his whisky to be very much diluted.

"You don't know what's good for you, my boy," said Ignatius Gallaher. "I 

drink mine neat."

"I drink very little as a rule," said Little Chandler modestly. "An odd 

half-one or so when I meet any of the old crowd: that's all."

"Ah well," said Ignatius Gallaher, cheerfully, "here's to us and to old 

times and old acquaintance."

They clinked glasses and drank the toast.

"I met some of the old gang today," said Ignatius Gallaher. "O'Hara 

seems to be in a bad way. What's he doing?"

"Nothing," said Little Chandler. "He's gone to the dogs."

"But Hogan has a good sit, hasn't he?"

"Yes; he's in the Land Commission."

"I met him one night in London and he seemed to be very flush.... Poor 

O'Hara! Boose, I suppose?"

"Other things, too," said Little Chandler shortly.

Ignatius Gallaher laughed.

"Tommy," he said, "I see you haven't changed an atom. You're the very 

same serious person that used to lecture me on Sunday mornings when I 

had a sore head and a fur on my tongue. You'd want to knock about a bit 

in the world. Have you never been anywhere even for a trip?"

"I've been to the Isle of Man," said Little Chandler.

Ignatius Gallaher laughed.

"The Isle of Man!" he said. "Go to London or Paris: Paris, for choice. 

That'd do you good."

"Have you seen Paris?"

"I should think I have! I've knocked about there a little."

"And is it really so beautiful as they say?" asked Little Chandler.

He sipped a little of his drink while Ignatius Gallaher finished his 

boldly.

"Beautiful?" said Ignatius Gallaher, pausing on the word and on the 

flavour of his drink. "It's not so beautiful, you know. Of course, it is 

beautiful.... But it's the life of Paris; that's the thing. Ah, there's 

no city like Paris for gaiety, movement, excitement...."

Little Chandler finished his whisky and, after some trouble, succeeded 

in catching the barman's eye. He ordered the same again.

"I've been to the Moulin Rouge," Ignatius Gallaher continued when the 

barman had removed their glasses, "and I've been to all the Bohemian 

cafes. Hot stuff! Not for a pious chap like you, Tommy."

Little Chandler said nothing until the barman returned with two glasses: 

then he touched his friend's glass lightly and reciprocated the former 

toast. He was beginning to feel somewhat disillusioned. Gallaher's 

accent and way of expressing himself did not please him. There was 

something vulgar in his friend which he had not observed before. But 

perhaps it was only the result of living in London amid the bustle and 

competition of the Press. The old personal charm was still there under 

this new gaudy manner. And, after all, Gallaher had lived, he had seen 

the world. Little Chandler looked at his friend enviously.

"Everything in Paris is gay," said Ignatius Gallaher. "They believe in 

enjoying life--and don't you think they're right? If you want to enjoy 

yourself properly you must go to Paris. And, mind you, they've a great 

feeling for the Irish there. When they heard I was from Ireland they 

were ready to eat me, man."

Little Chandler took four or five sips from his glass.

"Tell me," he said, "is it true that Paris is so... immoral as they 

say?"

Ignatius Gallaher made a catholic gesture with his right arm.

"Every place is immoral," he said. "Of course you do find spicy bits in 

Paris. Go to one of the students' balls, for instance. That's lively, if 

you like, when the cocottes begin to let themselves loose. You know what 

they are, I suppose?"

"I've heard of them," said Little Chandler.

Ignatius Gallaher drank off his whisky and shook his had.

"Ah," he said, "you may say what you like. There's no woman like the 

Parisienne--for style, for go."

"Then it is an immoral city," said Little Chandler, with timid 

insistence--"I mean, compared with London or Dublin?"

"London!" said Ignatius Gallaher. "It's six of one and half-a-dozen of 

the other. You ask Hogan, my boy. I showed him a bit about London when 

he was over there. He'd open your eye.... I say, Tommy, don't make punch 

of that whisky: liquor up."

"No, really...."

"O, come on, another one won't do you any harm. What is it? The same 

again, I suppose?"

"Well... all right."

"Francois, the same again.... Will you smoke, Tommy?"

Ignatius Gallaher produced his cigar-case. The two friends lit their 

cigars and puffed at them in silence until their drinks were served.

"I'll tell you my opinion," said Ignatius Gallaher, emerging after some 

time from the clouds of smoke in which he had taken refuge, "it's a rum 

world. Talk of immorality! I've heard of cases--what am I saying?--I've 

known them: cases of... immorality...."

Ignatius Gallaher puffed thoughtfully at his cigar and then, in a calm 

historian's tone, he proceeded to sketch for his friend some pictures 

of the corruption which was rife abroad. He summarised the vices of many 

capitals and seemed inclined to award the palm to Berlin. Some things he 

could not vouch for (his friends had told him), but of others he had had 

personal experience. He spared neither rank nor caste. He revealed many 

of the secrets of religious houses on the Continent and described some 

of the practices which were fashionable in high society and ended by 

telling, with details, a story about an English duchess--a story which 

he knew to be true. Little Chandler as astonished.

"Ah, well," said Ignatius Gallaher, "here we are in old jog-along Dublin 

where nothing is known of such things."

"How dull you must find it," said Little Chandler, "after all the other 

places you've seen!"

"Well," said Ignatius Gallaher, "it's a relaxation to come over here, 

you know. And, after all, it's the old country, as they say, isn't it? 

You can't help having a certain feeling for it. That's human nature.... 

But tell me something about yourself. Hogan told me you had... tasted 

the joys of connubial bliss. Two years ago, wasn't it?"

Little Chandler blushed and smiled.

"Yes," he said. "I was married last May twelve months."

"I hope it's not too late in the day to offer my best wishes," said 

Ignatius Gallaher. "I didn't know your address or I'd have done so at 

the time."

He extended his hand, which Little Chandler took.

"Well, Tommy," he said, "I wish you and yours every joy in life, old 

chap, and tons of money, and may you never die till I shoot you. And 

that's the wish of a sincere friend, an old friend. You know that?"

"I know that," said Little Chandler.

"Any youngsters?" said Ignatius Gallaher.

Little Chandler blushed again.

"We have one child," he said.

"Son or daughter?"

"A little boy."

Ignatius Gallaher slapped his friend sonorously on the back.

"Bravo," he said, "I wouldn't doubt you, Tommy."

Little Chandler smiled, looked confusedly at his glass and bit his lower 

lip with three childishly white front teeth.

"I hope you'll spend an evening with us," he said, "before you go 

back. My wife will be delighted to meet you. We can have a little music 

and----"

"Thanks awfully, old chap," said Ignatius Gallaher, "I'm sorry we didn't 

meet earlier. But I must leave tomorrow night."

"Tonight, perhaps...?"

"I'm awfully sorry, old man. You see I'm over here with another 

fellow, clever young chap he is too, and we arranged to go to a little 

card-party. Only for that..."

"O, in that case..."

"But who knows?" said Ignatius Gallaher considerately. "Next year I may 

take a little skip over here now that I've broken the ice. It's only a 

pleasure deferred."

"Very well," said Little Chandler, "the next time you come we must have 

an evening together. That's agreed now, isn't it?"

"Yes, that's agreed," said Ignatius Gallaher. "Next year if I come, 

parole d'honneur."

"And to clinch the bargain," said Little Chandler, "we'll just have one 

more now."

Ignatius Gallaher took out a large gold watch and looked a it.

"Is it to be the last?" he said. "Because you know, I have an a.p."

"O, yes, positively," said Little Chandler.

"Very well, then," said Ignatius Gallaher, "let us have another one as a 

deoc an doruis--that's good vernacular for a small whisky, I believe."

Little Chandler ordered the drinks. The blush which had risen to his 

face a few moments before was establishing itself. A trifle made 

him blush at any time: and now he felt warm and excited. Three small 

whiskies had gone to his head and Gallaher's strong cigar had confused 

his mind, for he was a delicate and abstinent person. The adventure of 

meeting Gallaher after eight years, of finding himself with Gallaher 

in Corless's surrounded by lights and noise, of listening to Gallaher's 

stories and of sharing for a brief space Gallaher's vagrant and 

triumphant life, upset the equipoise of his sensitive nature. He felt 

acutely the contrast between his own life and his friend's and it seemed 

to him unjust. Gallaher was his inferior in birth and education. He was 

sure that he could do something better than his friend had ever done, or 

could ever do, something higher than mere tawdry journalism if he only 

got the chance. What was it that stood in his way? His unfortunate 

timidity He wished to vindicate himself in some way, to assert his 

manhood. He saw behind Gallaher's refusal of his invitation. Gallaher 

was only patronising him by his friendliness just as he was patronising 

Ireland by his visit.

The barman brought their drinks. Little Chandler pushed one glass 

towards his friend and took up the other boldly.

"Who knows?" he said, as they lifted their glasses. "When you come next 

year I may have the pleasure of wishing long life and happiness to Mr. 

and Mrs. Ignatius Gallaher."

Ignatius Gallaher in the act of drinking closed one eye expressively 

over the rim of his glass. When he had drunk he smacked his lips 

decisively, set down his glass and said:

"No blooming fear of that, my boy. I'm going to have my fling first and 

see a bit of life and the world before I put my head in the sack--if I 

ever do."

"Some day you will," said Little Chandler calmly.

Ignatius Gallaher turned his orange tie and slate-blue eyes full upon 

his friend.

"You think so?" he said.

"You'll put your head in the sack," repeated Little Chandler stoutly, 

"like everyone else if you can find the girl."

He had slightly emphasised his tone and he was aware that he had 

betrayed himself; but, though the colour had heightened in his cheek, he 

did not flinch from his friend's gaze. Ignatius Gallaher watched him for 

a few moments and then said:

"If ever it occurs, you may bet your bottom dollar there'll be no 

mooning and spooning about it. I mean to marry money. She'll have a good 

fat account at the bank or she won't do for me."

Little Chandler shook his head.

"Why, man alive," said Ignatius Gallaher, vehemently, "do you know what 

it is? I've only to say the word and tomorrow I can have the woman 

and the cash. You don't believe it? Well, I know it. There are 

hundreds--what am I saying?--thousands of rich Germans and Jews, rotten 

with money, that'd only be too glad.... You wait a while my boy. See if 

I don't play my cards properly. When I go about a thing I mean business, 

I tell you. You just wait."

He tossed his glass to his mouth, finished his drink and laughed loudly. 

Then he looked thoughtfully before him and said in a calmer tone:

"But I'm in no hurry. They can wait. I don't fancy tying myself up to 

one woman, you know."

He imitated with his mouth the act of tasting and made a wry face.

"Must get a bit stale, I should think," he said.

Little Chandler sat in the room off the hall, holding a child in his 

arms. To save money they kept no servant but Annie's young sister Monica 

came for an hour or so in the morning and an hour or so in the evening 

to help. But Monica had gone home long ago. It was a quarter to nine. 

Little Chandler had come home late for tea and, moreover, he had 

forgotten to bring Annie home the parcel of coffee from Bewley's. Of 

course she was in a bad humour and gave him short answers. She said she 

would do without any tea but when it came near the time at which the 

shop at the corner closed she decided to go out herself for a quarter 

of a pound of tea and two pounds of sugar. She put the sleeping child 

deftly in his arms and said:

"Here. Don't waken him."

A little lamp with a white china shade stood upon the table and its 

light fell over a photograph which was enclosed in a frame of crumpled 

horn. It was Annie's photograph. Little Chandler looked at it, pausing 

at the thin tight lips. She wore the pale blue summer blouse which he 

had brought her home as a present one Saturday. It had cost him ten and 

elevenpence; but what an agony of nervousness it had cost him! How 

he had suffered that day, waiting at the shop door until the shop was 

empty, standing at the counter and trying to appear at his ease while 

the girl piled ladies' blouses before him, paying at the desk and 

forgetting to take up the odd penny of his change, being called back by 

the cashier, and finally, striving to hide his blushes as he left the 

shop by examining the parcel to see if it was securely tied. When he 

brought the blouse home Annie kissed him and said it was very pretty and 

stylish; but when she heard the price she threw the blouse on the table 

and said it was a regular swindle to charge ten and elevenpence for it. 

At first she wanted to take it back but when she tried it on she was 

delighted with it, especially with the make of the sleeves, and kissed 

him and said he was very good to think of her.

Hm!...

He looked coldly into the eyes of the photograph and they answered 

coldly. Certainly they were pretty and the face itself was pretty. But 

he found something mean in it. Why was it so unconscious and ladylike? 

The composure of the eyes irritated him. They repelled him and defied 

him: there was no passion in them, no rapture. He thought of what 

Gallaher had said about rich Jewesses. Those dark Oriental eyes, he 

thought, how full they are of passion, of voluptuous longing!... Why had 

he married the eyes in the photograph?

He caught himself up at the question and glanced nervously round the 

room. He found something mean in the pretty furniture which he had 

bought for his house on the hire system. Annie had chosen it herself 

and it reminded him of her. It too was prim and pretty. A dull resentment 

against his life awoke within him. Could he not escape from his little 

house? Was it too late for him to try to live bravely like Gallaher? 

Could he go to London? There was the furniture still to be paid for. If 

he could only write a book and get it published, that might open the way 

for him.

A volume of Byron's poems lay before him on the table. He opened it 

cautiously with his left hand lest he should waken the child and began 

to read the first poem in the book:

Hushed are the winds and still the evening gloom, 

Not e'en a Zephyr wanders through the grove, 

Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb 

And scatter flowers on the dust I love.

He paused. He felt the rhythm of the verse about him in the room. 

How melancholy it was! Could he, too, write like that, express the 

melancholy of his soul in verse? There were so many things he wanted 

to describe: his sensation of a few hours before on Grattan Bridge, for 

example. If he could get back again into that mood....

The child awoke and began to cry. He turned from the page and tried to 

hush it: but it would not be hushed. He began to rock it to and fro in 

his arms but its wailing cry grew keener. He rocked it faster while his 

eyes began to read the second stanza:

Within this narrow cell reclines her clay, 

That clay where once...

It was useless. He couldn't read. He couldn't do anything. The wailing 

of the child pierced the drum of his ear. It was useless, useless! 

He was a prisoner for life. His arms trembled with anger and suddenly 

bending to the child's face he shouted:

"Stop!"

The child stopped for an instant, had a spasm of fright and began to 

scream. He jumped up from his chair and walked hastily up and down the 

room with the child in his arms. It began to sob piteously, losing its 

breath for four or five seconds, and then bursting out anew. The thin 

walls of the room echoed the sound. He tried to soothe it but it sobbed 

more convulsively. He looked at the contracted and quivering face of 

the child and began to be alarmed. He counted seven sobs without a 

break between them and caught the child to his breast in fright. If it 

died!...

The door was burst open and a young woman ran in, panting.

"What is it? What is it?" she cried.

The child, hearing its mother's voice, broke out into a paroxysm of 

sobbing.

"It's nothing, Annie... it's nothing.... He began to cry..."

She flung her parcels on the floor and snatched the child from him.

"What have you done to him?" she cried, glaring into his face.

Little Chandler sustained for one moment the gaze of her eyes and his 

heart closed together as he met the hatred in them. He began to stammer:

"It's nothing.... He... he began to cry.... I couldn't... I didn't do 

anything.... What?"

Giving no heed to him she began to walk up and down the room, clasping 

the child tightly in her arms and murmuring:

"My little man! My little mannie! Was 'ou frightened, love?... There 

now, love! There now!... Lambabaun! Mamma's little lamb of the world!... 

There now!"

Little Chandler felt his cheeks suffused with shame and he stood back 

out of the lamplight. He listened while the paroxysm of the child's 

sobbing grew less and less; and tears of remorse started to his eyes.

COUNTERPARTS

THE bell rang furiously and, when Miss Parker went to the tube, a 

furious voice called out in a piercing North of Ireland accent:

"Send Farrington here!"

Miss Parker returned to her machine, saying to a man who was writing at 

a desk:

"Mr. Alleyne wants you upstairs."

The man muttered "Blast him!" under his breath and pushed back his chair 

to stand up. When he stood up he was tall and of great bulk. He had a 

hanging face, dark wine-coloured, with fair eyebrows and moustache: 

his eyes bulged forward slightly and the whites of them were dirty. 

He lifted up the counter and, passing by the clients, went out of the 

office with a heavy step.

He went heavily upstairs until he came to the second landing, where 

a door bore a brass plate with the inscription Mr. Alleyne. Here he 

halted, puffing with labour and vexation, and knocked. The shrill voice 

cried:

"Come in!"

The man entered Mr. Alleyne's room. Simultaneously Mr. Alleyne, a little 

man wearing gold-rimmed glasses on a cleanshaven face, shot his head up 

over a pile of documents. The head itself was so pink and hairless it 

seemed like a large egg reposing on the papers. Mr. Alleyne did not lose 

a moment:

"Farrington? What is the meaning of this? Why have I always to complain 

of you? May I ask you why you haven't made a copy of that contract 

between Bodley and Kirwan? I told you it must be ready by four o'clock."

"But Mr. Shelley said, sir----"

"Mr. Shelley said, sir.... Kindly attend to what I say and not to 

what Mr. Shelley says, sir. You have always some excuse or another for 

shirking work. Let me tell you that if the contract is not copied before 

this evening I'll lay the matter before Mr. Crosbie.... Do you hear me 

now?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you hear me now?... Ay and another little matter! I might as well be 

talking to the wall as talking to you. Understand once for all that you 

get a half an hour for your lunch and not an hour and a half. How many 

courses do you want, I'd like to know.... Do you mind me now?"

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Alleyne bent his head again upon his pile of papers. The man stared 

fixedly at the polished skull which directed the affairs of Crosbie & 

Alleyne, gauging its fragility. A spasm of rage gripped his throat for 

a few moments and then passed, leaving after it a sharp sensation of 

thirst. The man recognised the sensation and felt that he must have a 

good night's drinking. The middle of the month was passed and, if he 

could get the copy done in time, Mr. Alleyne might give him an order on 

the cashier. He stood still, gazing fixedly at the head upon the pile 

of papers. Suddenly Mr. Alleyne began to upset all the papers, searching 

for something. Then, as if he had been unaware of the man's presence 

till that moment, he shot up his head again, saying:

"Eh? Are you going to stand there all day? Upon my word, Farrington, you 

take things easy!"

"I was waiting to see..."

"Very good, you needn't wait to see. Go downstairs and do your work."

The man walked heavily towards the door and, as he went out of the room, 

he heard Mr. Alleyne cry after him that if the contract was not copied 

by evening Mr. Crosbie would hear of the matter.

He returned to his desk in the lower office and counted the sheets which 

remained to be copied. He took up his pen and dipped it in the ink but 

he continued to stare stupidly at the last words he had written: In no 

case shall the said Bernard Bodley be... The evening was falling and in 

a few minutes they would be lighting the gas: then he could write. He 

felt that he must slake the thirst in his throat. He stood up from his 

desk and, lifting the counter as before, passed out of the office. As he 

was passing out the chief clerk looked at him inquiringly.

"It's all right, Mr. Shelley," said the man, pointing with his finger to 

indicate the objective of his journey.

The chief clerk glanced at the hat-rack, but, seeing the row complete, 

offered no remark. As soon as he was on the landing the man pulled 

a shepherd's plaid cap out of his pocket, put it on his head and ran 

quickly down the rickety stairs. From the street door he walked on 

furtively on the inner side of the path towards the corner and all at 

once dived into a doorway. He was now safe in the dark snug of O'Neill's 

shop, and filling up the little window that looked into the bar with his 

inflamed face, the colour of dark wine or dark meat, he called out:

"Here, Pat, give us a g.p.. like a good fellow."

The curate brought him a glass of plain porter. The man drank it at a 

gulp and asked for a caraway seed. He put his penny on the counter and, 

leaving the curate to grope for it in the gloom, retreated out of the 

snug as furtively as he had entered it.

Darkness, accompanied by a thick fog, was gaining upon the dusk of 

February and the lamps in Eustace Street had been lit. The man went up 

by the houses until he reached the door of the office, wondering whether 

he could finish his copy in time. On the stairs a moist pungent odour of 

perfumes saluted his nose: evidently Miss Delacour had come while he 

was out in O'Neill's. He crammed his cap back again into his pocket and 

re-entered the office, assuming an air of absentmindedness.

"Mr. Alleyne has been calling for you," said the chief clerk severely. 

"Where were you?"

The man glanced at the two clients who were standing at the counter as 

if to intimate that their presence prevented him from answering. As the 

clients were both male the chief clerk allowed himself a laugh.

"I know that game," he said. "Five times in one day is a little bit... 

Well, you better look sharp and get a copy of our correspondence in the 

Delacour case for Mr. Alleyne."

This address in the presence of the public, his run upstairs and the 

porter he had gulped down so hastily confused the man and, as he sat 

down at his desk to get what was required, he realised how hopeless was 

the task of finishing his copy of the contract before half past five. 

The dark damp night was coming and he longed to spend it in the bars, 

drinking with his friends amid the glare of gas and the clatter of 

glasses. He got out the Delacour correspondence and passed out of 

the office. He hoped Mr. Alleyne would not discover that the last two 

letters were missing.

The moist pungent perfume lay all the way up to Mr. Alleyne's room. Miss 

Delacour was a middle-aged woman of Jewish appearance. Mr. Alleyne was 

said to be sweet on her or on her money. She came to the office often 

and stayed a long time when she came. She was sitting beside his desk 

now in an aroma of perfumes, smoothing the handle of her umbrella and 

nodding the great black feather in her hat. Mr. Alleyne had swivelled 

his chair round to face her and thrown his right foot jauntily upon 

his left knee. The man put the correspondence on the desk and bowed 

respectfully but neither Mr. Alleyne nor Miss Delacour took any notice 

of his bow. Mr. Alleyne tapped a finger on the correspondence and then 

flicked it towards him as if to say: "That's all right: you can go."

The man returned to the lower office and sat down again at his desk. 

He stared intently at the incomplete phrase: In no case shall the said 

Bernard Bodley be... and thought how strange it was that the last three 

words began with the same letter. The chief clerk began to hurry Miss 

Parker, saying she would never have the letters typed in time for post. 

The man listened to the clicking of the machine for a few minutes and 

then set to work to finish his copy. But his head was not clear and his 

mind wandered away to the glare and rattle of the public-house. It was a 

night for hot punches. He struggled on with his copy, but when the clock 

struck five he had still fourteen pages to write. Blast it! He couldn't 

finish it in time. He longed to execrate aloud, to bring his fist down 

on something violently. He was so enraged that he wrote Bernard Bernard 

instead of Bernard Bodley and had to begin again on a clean sheet.

He felt strong enough to clear out the whole office singlehanded. His 

body ached to do something, to rush out and revel in violence. All 

the indignities of his life enraged him.... Could he ask the cashier 

privately for an advance? No, the cashier was no good, no damn good: 

he wouldn't give an advance.... He knew where he would meet the boys: 

Leonard and O'Halloran and Nosey Flynn. The barometer of his emotional 

nature was set for a spell of riot.

His imagination had so abstracted him that his name was called twice 

before he answered. Mr. Alleyne and Miss Delacour were standing outside 

the counter and all the clerks had turn round in anticipation of 

something. The man got up from his desk. Mr. Alleyne began a tirade of 

abuse, saying that two letters were missing. The man answered that he 

knew nothing about them, that he had made a faithful copy. The tirade 

continued: it was so bitter and violent that the man could hardly 

restrain his fist from descending upon the head of the manikin before 

him:

"I know nothing about any other two letters," he said stupidly.

"You--know--nothing. Of course you know nothing," said Mr. Alleyne. 

"Tell me," he added, glancing first for approval to the lady beside him, 

"do you take me for a fool? Do you think me an utter fool?"

The man glanced from the lady's face to the little egg-shaped head and 

back again; and, almost before he was aware of it, his tongue had found 

a felicitous moment:

"I don't think, sir," he said, "that that's a fair question to put to 

me."

There was a pause in the very breathing of the clerks. Everyone was 

astounded (the author of the witticism no less than his neighbours) and 

Miss Delacour, who was a stout amiable person, began to smile broadly. 

Mr. Alleyne flushed to the hue of a wild rose and his mouth twitched 

with a dwarf s passion. He shook his fist in the man's face till it 

seemed to vibrate like the knob of some electric machine:

"You impertinent ruffian! You impertinent ruffian! I'll make short work 

of you! Wait till you see! You'll apologise to me for your impertinence 

or you'll quit the office instanter! You'll quit this, I'm telling you, 

or you'll apologise to me!"

He stood in a doorway opposite the office watching to see if the cashier 

would come out alone. All the clerks passed out and finally the cashier 

came out with the chief clerk. It was no use trying to say a word to him 

when he was with the chief clerk. The man felt that his position was bad 

enough. He had been obliged to offer an abject apology to Mr. Alleyne 

for his impertinence but he knew what a hornet's nest the office would 

be for him. He could remember the way in which Mr. Alleyne had hounded 

little Peake out of the office in order to make room for his own nephew. 

He felt savage and thirsty and revengeful, annoyed with himself and with 

everyone else. Mr. Alleyne would never give him an hour's rest; his life 

would be a hell to him. He had made a proper fool of himself this time. 

Could he not keep his tongue in his cheek? But they had never pulled 

together from the first, he and Mr. Alleyne, ever since the day Mr. 

Alleyne had overheard him mimicking his North of Ireland accent to amuse 

Higgins and Miss Parker: that had been the beginning of it. He might 

have tried Higgins for the money, but sure Higgins never had anything 

for himself. A man with two establishments to keep up, of course he 

couldn't....

He felt his great body again aching for the comfort of the public-house. 

The fog had begun to chill him and he wondered could he touch Pat in 

O'Neill's. He could not touch him for more than a bob--and a bob was 

no use. Yet he must get money somewhere or other: he had spent his 

last penny for the g.p. and soon it would be too late for getting money 

anywhere. Suddenly, as he was fingering his watch-chain, he thought of 

Terry Kelly's pawn-office in Fleet Street. That was the dart! Why didn't 

he think of it sooner?

He went through the narrow alley of Temple Bar quickly, muttering to 

himself that they could all go to hell because he was going to have 

a good night of it. The clerk in Terry Kelly's said A crown! but the 

consignor held out for six shillings; and in the end the six shillings 

was allowed him literally. He came out of the pawn-office joyfully, 

making a little cylinder, of the coins between his thumb and fingers. In 

Westmoreland Street the footpaths were crowded with young men and women 

returning from business and ragged urchins ran here and there yelling 

out the names of the evening editions. The man passed through the crowd, 

looking on the spectacle generally with proud satisfaction and staring 

masterfully at the office-girls. His head was full of the noises of 

tram-gongs and swishing trolleys and his nose already sniffed the 

curling fumes punch. As he walked on he preconsidered the terms in which 

he would narrate the incident to the boys:

"So, I just looked at him--coolly, you know, and looked at her. Then I 

looked back at him again--taking my time, you know. 'I don't think that 

that's a fair question to put to me,' says I."

Nosey Flynn was sitting up in his usual corner of Davy Byrne's and, when 

he heard the story, he stood Farrington a half-one, saying it was as 

smart a thing as ever he heard. Farrington stood a drink in his turn. 

After a while O'Halloran and Paddy Leonard came in and the story was 

repeated to them. O'Halloran stood tailors of malt, hot, all round and 

told the story of the retort he had made to the chief clerk when he was 

in Callan's of Fownes's Street; but, as the retort was after the manner 

of the liberal shepherds in the eclogues, he had to admit that it was 

not as clever as Farrington's retort. At this Farrington told the boys 

to polish off that and have another.

Just as they were naming their poisons who should come in but Higgins! 

Of course he had to join in with the others. The men asked him to give 

his version of it, and he did so with great vivacity for the sight of 

five small hot whiskies was very exhilarating. Everyone roared 

laughing when he showed the way in which Mr. Alleyne shook his fist in 

Farrington's face. Then he imitated Farrington, saying, "And here was my 

nabs, as cool as you please," while Farrington looked at the company out 

of his heavy dirty eyes, smiling and at times drawing forth stray drops 

of liquor from his moustache with the aid of his lower lip.

When that round was over there was a pause. O'Halloran had money but 

neither of the other two seemed to have any; so the whole party left 

the shop somewhat regretfully. At the corner of Duke Street Higgins and 

Nosey Flynn bevelled off to the left while the other three turned back 

towards the city. Rain was drizzling down on the cold streets and, when 

they reached the Ballast Office, Farrington suggested the Scotch House. 

The bar was full of men and loud with the noise of tongues and glasses. 

The three men pushed past the whining match-sellers at the door and 

formed a little party at the corner of the counter. They began to 

exchange stories. Leonard introduced them to a young fellow named 

Weathers who was performing at the Tivoli as an acrobat and knockabout 

artiste. Farrington stood a drink all round. Weathers said he would take 

a small Irish and Apollinaris. Farrington, who had definite notions of 

what was what, asked the boys would they have an Apollinaris too; 

but the boys told Tim to make theirs hot. The talk became theatrical. 

O'Halloran stood a round and then Farrington stood another round, 

Weathers protesting that the hospitality was too Irish. He promised to 

get them in behind the scenes and introduce them to some nice girls. 

O'Halloran said that he and Leonard would go, but that Farrington 

wouldn't go because he was a married man; and Farrington's heavy dirty 

eyes leered at the company in token that he understood he was being 

chaffed. Weathers made them all have just one little tincture at his 

expense and promised to meet them later on at Mulligan's in Poolbeg 

Street.

When the Scotch House closed they went round to Mulligan's. They went 

into the parlour at the back and O'Halloran ordered small hot specials 

all round. They were all beginning to feel mellow. Farrington was just 

standing another round when Weathers came back. Much to Farrington's 

relief he drank a glass of bitter this time. Funds were getting low but 

they had enough to keep them going. Presently two young women with big 

hats and a young man in a check suit came in and sat at a table close 

by. Weathers saluted them and told the company that they were out of the 

Tivoli. Farrington's eyes wandered at every moment in the direction of 

one of the young women. There was something striking in her appearance. 

An immense scarf of peacock-blue muslin was wound round her hat and 

knotted in a great bow under her chin; and she wore bright yellow 

gloves, reaching to the elbow. Farrington gazed admiringly at the plump 

arm which she moved very often and with much grace; and when, after a 

little time, she answered his gaze he admired still more her large dark 

brown eyes. The oblique staring expression in them fascinated him. She 

glanced at him once or twice and, when the party was leaving the room, 

she brushed against his chair and said "O, pardon!" in a London accent. 

He watched her leave the room in the hope that she would look back at 

him, but he was disappointed. He cursed his want of money and cursed all 

the rounds he had stood, particularly all the whiskies and Apolinaris 

which he had stood to Weathers. If there was one thing that he hated it 

was a sponge. He was so angry that he lost count of the conversation of 

his friends.

When Paddy Leonard called him he found that they were talking about 

feats of strength. Weathers was showing his biceps muscle to the company 

and boasting so much that the other two had called on Farrington to 

uphold the national honour. Farrington pulled up his sleeve accordingly 

and showed his biceps muscle to the company. The two arms were examined 

and compared and finally it was agreed to have a trial of strength. The 

table was cleared and the two men rested their elbows on it, clasping 

hands. When Paddy Leonard said "Go!" each was to try to bring down 

the other's hand on to the table. Farrington looked very serious and 

determined.

The trial began. After about thirty seconds Weathers brought his 

opponent's hand slowly down on to the table. Farrington's dark 

wine-coloured face flushed darker still with anger and humiliation at 

having been defeated by such a stripling.

"You're not to put the weight of your body behind it. Play fair," he 

said.

"Who's not playing fair?" said the other.

"Come on again. The two best out of three."

The trial began again. The veins stood out on Farrington's forehead, 

and the pallor of Weathers' complexion changed to peony. Their hands 

and arms trembled under the stress. After a long struggle Weathers again 

brought his opponent's hand slowly on to the table. There was a murmur 

of applause from the spectators. The curate, who was standing beside 

the table, nodded his red head towards the victor and said with stupid 

familiarity:

"Ah! that's the knack!"

"What the hell do you know about it?" said Farrington fiercely, turning 

on the man. "What do you put in your gab for?"

"Sh, sh!" said O'Halloran, observing the violent expression of 

Farrington's face. "Pony up, boys. We'll have just one little smahan 

more and then we'll be off."

A very sullen-faced man stood at the corner of O'Connell Bridge 

waiting for the little Sandymount tram to take him home. He was full 

of smouldering anger and revengefulness. He felt humiliated and 

discontented; he did not even feel drunk; and he had only twopence in 

his pocket. He cursed everything. He had done for himself in the office, 

pawned his watch, spent all his money; and he had not even got drunk. 

He began to feel thirsty again and he longed to be back again in the hot 

reeking public-house. He had lost his reputation as a strong man, having 

been defeated twice by a mere boy. His heart swelled with fury and, when 

he thought of the woman in the big hat who had brushed against him and 

said Pardon! his fury nearly choked him.

His tram let him down at Shelbourne Road and he steered his great body 

along in the shadow of the wall of the barracks. He loathed returning 

to his home. When he went in by the side-door he found the kitchen empty 

and the kitchen fire nearly out. He bawled upstairs:

"Ada! Ada!"

His wife was a little sharp-faced woman who bullied her husband when 

he was sober and was bullied by him when he was drunk. They had five 

children. A little boy came running down the stairs.

"Who is that?" said the man, peering through the darkness.

"Me, pa."

"Who are you? Charlie?"

"No, pa. Tom."

"Where's your mother?"

"She's out at the chapel."

"That's right.... Did she think of leaving any dinner for me?"

"Yes, pa. I--"

"Light the lamp. What do you mean by having the place in darkness? Are 

the other children in bed?"

The man sat down heavily on one of the chairs while the little boy 

lit the lamp. He began to mimic his son's flat accent, saying half to 

himself: "At the chapel. At the chapel, if you please!" When the lamp 

was lit he banged his fist on the table and shouted:

"What's for my dinner?"

"I'm going... to cook it, pa," said the little boy.

The man jumped up furiously and pointed to the fire.

"On that fire! You let the fire out! By God, I'll teach you to do that 

again!"

He took a step to the door and seized the walking-stick which was 

standing behind it.

"I'll teach you to let the fire out!" he said, rolling up his sleeve in 

order to give his arm free play.

The little boy cried "O, pa!" and ran whimpering round the table, but 

the man followed him and caught him by the coat. The little boy looked 

about him wildly but, seeing no way of escape, fell upon his knees.

"Now, you'll let the fire out the next time!" said the man striking at 

him vigorously with the stick. "Take that, you little whelp!"

The boy uttered a squeal of pain as the stick cut his thigh. He clasped 

his hands together in the air and his voice shook with fright.

"O, pa!" he cried. "Don't beat me, pa! And I'll... I'll say a Hail Mary 

for you.... I'll say a Hail Mary for you, pa, if you don't beat me.... 

I'll say a Hail Mary...."

CLAY

THE matron had given her leave to go out as soon as the women's tea was 

over and Maria looked forward to her evening out. The kitchen was 

spick and span: the cook said you could see yourself in the big copper 

boilers. The fire was nice and bright and on one of the side-tables were 

four very big barmbracks. These barmbracks seemed uncut; but if you went 

closer you would see that they had been cut into long thick even slices 

and were ready to be handed round at tea. Maria had cut them herself.

Maria was a very, very small person indeed but she had a very long 

nose and a very long chin. She talked a little through her nose, always 

soothingly: "Yes, my dear," and "No, my dear." She was always sent for 

when the women quarrelled Over their tubs and always succeeded in making 

peace. One day the matron had said to her:

"Maria, you are a veritable peace-maker!"

And the sub-matron and two of the Board ladies had heard the compliment. 

And Ginger Mooney was always saying what she wouldn't do to the dummy 

who had charge of the irons if it wasn't for Maria. Everyone was so fond 

of Maria.

The women would have their tea at six o'clock and she would be able to 

get away before seven. From Ballsbridge to the Pillar, twenty minutes; 

from the Pillar to Drumcondra, twenty minutes; and twenty minutes to buy 

the things. She would be there before eight. She took out her purse with 

the silver clasps and read again the words A Present from Belfast. She 

was very fond of that purse because Joe had brought it to her five years 

before when he and Alphy had gone to Belfast on a Whit-Monday trip. In 

the purse were two half-crowns and some coppers. She would have five 

shillings clear after paying tram fare. What a nice evening they would 

have, all the children singing! Only she hoped that Joe wouldn't come in 

drunk. He was so different when he took any drink.

Often he had wanted her to go and live with them;-but she would have 

felt herself in the way (though Joe's wife was ever so nice with her) 

and she had become accustomed to the life of the laundry. Joe was a good 

fellow. She had nursed him and Alphy too; and Joe used often say:

"Mamma is mamma but Maria is my proper mother."

After the break-up at home the boys had got her that position in the 

Dublin by Lamplight laundry, and she liked it. She used to have such 

a bad opinion of Protestants but now she thought they were very nice 

people, a little quiet and serious, but still very nice people to live 

with. Then she had her plants in the conservatory and she liked looking 

after them. She had lovely ferns and wax-plants and, whenever anyone 

came to visit her, she always gave the visitor one or two slips from 

her conservatory. There was one thing she didn't like and that was the 

tracts on the walks; but the matron was such a nice person to deal with, 

so genteel.

When the cook told her everything was ready she went into the women's 

room and began to pull the big bell. In a few minutes the women began 

to come in by twos and threes, wiping their steaming hands in their 

petticoats and pulling down the sleeves of their blouses over their red 

steaming arms. They settled down before their huge mugs which the cook 

and the dummy filled up with hot tea, already mixed with milk and sugar 

in huge tin cans. Maria superintended the distribution of the barmbrack 

and saw that every woman got her four slices. There was a great deal of 

laughing and joking during the meal. Lizzie Fleming said Maria was sure 

to get the ring and, though Fleming had said that for so many Hallow 

Eves, Maria had to laugh and say she didn't want any ring or man either; 

and when she laughed her grey-green eyes sparkled with disappointed 

shyness and the tip of her nose nearly met the tip of her chin. Then 

Ginger Mooney lifted her mug of tea and proposed Maria's health while 

all the other women clattered with their mugs on the table, and said she 

was sorry she hadn't a sup of porter to drink it in. And Maria laughed 

again till the tip of her nose nearly met the tip of her chin and till 

her minute body nearly shook itself asunder because she knew that Mooney 

meant well though, of course, she had the notions of a common woman.

But wasn't Maria glad when the women had finished their tea and the cook 

and the dummy had begun to clear away the tea-things! She went into 

her little bedroom and, remembering that the next morning was a mass 

morning, changed the hand of the alarm from seven to six. Then she took 

off her working skirt and her house-boots and laid her best skirt out on 

the bed and her tiny dress-boots beside the foot of the bed. She changed 

her blouse too and, as she stood before the mirror, she thought of how 

she used to dress for mass on Sunday morning when she was a young girl; 

and she looked with quaint affection at the diminutive body which she 

had so often adorned, In spite of its years she found it a nice tidy 

little body.

When she got outside the streets were shining with rain and she was glad 

of her old brown waterproof. The tram was full and she had to sit on the 

little stool at the end of the car, facing all the people, with her toes 

barely touching the floor. She arranged in her mind all she was going to 

do and thought how much better it was to be independent and to have your 

own money in your pocket. She hoped they would have a nice evening. She 

was sure they would but she could not help thinking what a pity it was 

Alphy and Joe were not speaking. They were always falling out now but 

when they were boys together they used to be the best of friends: but 

such was life.

She got out of her tram at the Pillar and ferreted her way quickly among 

the crowds. She went into Downes's cake-shop but the shop was so full of 

people that it was a long time before she could get herself attended 

to. She bought a dozen of mixed penny cakes, and at last came out of the 

shop laden with a big bag. Then she thought what else would she buy: she 

wanted to buy something really nice. They would be sure to have plenty 

of apples and nuts. It was hard to know what to buy and all she could 

think of was cake. She decided to buy some plumcake but Downes's 

plumcake had not enough almond icing on top of it so she went over to 

a shop in Henry Street. Here she was a long time in suiting herself and 

the stylish young lady behind the counter, who was evidently a little 

annoyed by her, asked her was it wedding-cake she wanted to buy. That 

made Maria blush and smile at the young lady; but the young lady took it 

all very seriously and finally cut a thick slice of plumcake, parcelled 

it up and said:

"Two-and-four, please."

She thought she would have to stand in the Drumcondra tram because none 

of the young men seemed to notice her but an elderly gentleman made room 

for her. He was a stout gentleman and he wore a brown hard hat; he had 

a square red face and a greyish moustache. Maria thought he was a 

colonel-looking gentleman and she reflected how much more polite he was 

than the young men who simply stared straight before them. The gentleman 

began to chat with her about Hallow Eve and the rainy weather. He 

supposed the bag was full of good things for the little ones and said 

it was only right that the youngsters should enjoy themselves while they 

were young. Maria agreed with him and favoured him with demure nods and 

hems. He was very nice with her, and when she was getting out at the 

Canal Bridge she thanked him and bowed, and he bowed to her and raised 

his hat and smiled agreeably, and while she was going up along the 

terrace, bending her tiny head under the rain, she thought how easy it 

was to know a gentleman even when he has a drop taken.

Everybody said: "O, here's Maria!" when she came to Joe's house. Joe was 

there, having come home from business, and all the children had their 

Sunday dresses on. There were two big girls in from next door and games 

were going on. Maria gave the bag of cakes to the eldest boy, Alphy, to 

divide and Mrs. Donnelly said it was too good of her to bring such a big 

bag of cakes and made all the children say:

"Thanks, Maria."

But Maria said she had brought something special for papa and mamma, 

something they would be sure to like, and she began to look for her 

plumcake. She tried in Downes's bag and then in the pockets of her 

waterproof and then on the hallstand but nowhere could she find it. 

Then she asked all the children had any of them eaten it--by mistake, of 

course--but the children all said no and looked as if they did not like 

to eat cakes if they were to be accused of stealing. Everybody had a 

solution for the mystery and Mrs. Donnelly said it was plain that Maria 

had left it behind her in the tram. Maria, remembering how confused the 

gentleman with the greyish moustache had made her, coloured with shame 

and vexation and disappointment. At the thought of the failure of her 

little surprise and of the two and fourpence she had thrown away for 

nothing she nearly cried outright.

But Joe said it didn't matter and made her sit down by the fire. He 

was very nice with her. He told her all that went on in his office, 

repeating for her a smart answer which he had made to the manager. Maria 

did not understand why Joe laughed so much over the answer he had made 

but she said that the manager must have been a very overbearing person 

to deal with. Joe said he wasn't so bad when you knew how to take him, 

that he was a decent sort so long as you didn't rub him the wrong way. 

Mrs. Donnelly played the piano for the children and they danced and 

sang. Then the two next-door girls handed round the nuts. Nobody could 

find the nutcrackers and Joe was nearly getting cross over it and asked 

how did they expect Maria to crack nuts without a nutcracker. But Maria 

said she didn't like nuts and that they weren't to bother about her. 

Then Joe asked would she take a bottle of stout and Mrs. Donnelly said 

there was port wine too in the house if she would prefer that. Maria 

said she would rather they didn't ask her to take anything: but Joe 

insisted.

So Maria let him have his way and they sat by the fire talking over old 

times and Maria thought she would put in a good word for Alphy. But Joe 

cried that God might strike him stone dead if ever he spoke a word to 

his brother again and Maria said she was sorry she had mentioned the 

matter. Mrs. Donnelly told her husband it was a great shame for him to 

speak that way of his own flesh and blood but Joe said that Alphy was no 

brother of his and there was nearly being a row on the head of it. But 

Joe said he would not lose his temper on account of the night it was 

and asked his wife to open some more stout. The two next-door girls 

had arranged some Hallow Eve games and soon everything was merry again. 

Maria was delighted to see the children so merry and Joe and his wife in 

such good spirits. The next-door girls put some saucers on the table 

and then led the children up to the table, blindfold. One got the 

prayer-book and the other three got the water; and when one of the 

next-door girls got the ring Mrs. Donnelly shook her finger at the 

blushing girl as much as to say: O, I know all about it! They insisted 

then on blindfolding Maria and leading her up to the table to see 

what she would get; and, while they were putting on the bandage, Maria 

laughed and laughed again till the tip of her nose nearly met the tip of 

her chin.

They led her up to the table amid laughing and joking and she put her 

hand out in the air as she was told to do. She moved her hand about here 

and there in the air and descended on one of the saucers. She felt a 

soft wet substance with her fingers and was surprised that nobody spoke 

or took off her bandage. There was a pause for a few seconds; and then 

a great deal of scuffling and whispering. Somebody said something about 

the garden, and at last Mrs. Donnelly said something very cross to one 

of the next-door girls and told her to throw it out at once: that was no 

play. Maria understood that it was wrong that time and so she had to do 

it over again: and this time she got the prayer-book.

After that Mrs. Donnelly played Miss McCloud's Reel for the children 

and Joe made Maria take a glass of wine. Soon they were all quite merry 

again and Mrs. Donnelly said Maria would enter a convent before the year 

was out because she had got the prayer-book. Maria had never seen Joe 

so nice to her as he was that night, so full of pleasant talk and 

reminiscences. She said they were all very good to her.

At last the children grew tired and sleepy and Joe asked Maria would she 

not sing some little song before she went, one of the old songs. Mrs. 

Donnelly said "Do, please, Maria!" and so Maria had to get up and stand 

beside the piano. Mrs. Donnelly bade the children be quiet and listen 

to Maria's song. Then she played the prelude and said "Now, Maria!" and 

Maria, blushing very much began to sing in a tiny quavering voice. She 

sang I Dreamt that I Dwelt, and when she came to the second verse she 

sang again:

I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls 

With vassals and serfs at my side, 

And of all who assembled within those walls 

That I was the hope and the pride.

I had riches too great to count; could boast 

Of a high ancestral name, 

But I also dreamt, which pleased me most, 

That you loved me still the same.

But no one tried to show her her mistake; and when she had ended her 

song Joe was very much moved. He said that there was no time like the 

long ago and no music for him like poor old Balfe, whatever other people 

might say; and his eyes filled up so much with tears that he could not 

find what he was looking for and in the end he had to ask his wife to 

tell him where the corkscrew was.

A PAINFUL CASE

MR. JAMES DUFFY lived in Chapelizod because he wished to live as far as 

possible from the city of which he was a citizen and because he found 

all the other suburbs of Dublin mean, modern and pretentious. He lived 

in an old sombre house and from his windows he could look into the 

disused distillery or upwards along the shallow river on which Dublin is 

built. The lofty walls of his uncarpeted room were free from pictures. 

He had himself bought every article of furniture in the room: a black 

iron bedstead, an iron washstand, four cane chairs, a clothes-rack, 

a coal-scuttle, a fender and irons and a square table on which lay a 

double desk. A bookcase had been made in an alcove by means of shelves 

of white wood. The bed was clothed with white bedclothes and a black 

and scarlet rug covered the foot. A little hand-mirror hung above the 

washstand and during the day a white-shaded lamp stood as the sole 

ornament of the mantelpiece. The books on the white wooden shelves were 

arranged from below upwards according to bulk. A complete Wordsworth 

stood at one end of the lowest shelf and a copy of the Maynooth 

Catechism, sewn into the cloth cover of a notebook, stood at one end of 

the top shelf. Writing materials were always on the desk. In the desk 

lay a manuscript translation of Hauptmann's Michael Kramer, the stage 

directions of which were written in purple ink, and a little sheaf of 

papers held together by a brass pin. In these sheets a sentence was 

inscribed from time to time and, in an ironical moment, the headline of 

an advertisement for Bile Beans had been pasted on to the first sheet. 

On lifting the lid of the desk a faint fragrance escaped--the fragrance 

of new cedarwood pencils or of a bottle of gum or of an overripe apple 

which might have been left there and forgotten.

Mr. Duffy abhorred anything which betokened physical or mental disorder. 

A mediaeval doctor would have called him saturnine. His face, which 

carried the entire tale of his years, was of the brown tint of Dublin 

streets. On his long and rather large head grew dry black hair and a 

tawny moustache did not quite cover an unamiable mouth. His cheekbones 

also gave his face a harsh character; but there was no harshness in the 

eyes which, looking at the world from under their tawny eyebrows, gave 

the impression of a man ever alert to greet a redeeming instinct in 

others but often disappointed. He lived at a little distance from his 

body, regarding his own acts with doubtful side-glasses. He had an odd 

autobiographical habit which led him to compose in his mind from time 

to time a short sentence about himself containing a subject in the third 

person and a predicate in the past tense. He never gave alms to beggars 

and walked firmly, carrying a stout hazel.

He had been for many years cashier of a private bank in Baggot Street. 

Every morning he came in from Chapelizod by tram. At midday he went 

to Dan Burke's and took his lunch--a bottle of lager beer and a small 

trayful of arrowroot biscuits. At four o'clock he was set free. He dined 

in an eating-house in George's Street where he felt himself safe from 

the society o Dublin's gilded youth and where there was a certain plain 

honesty in the bill of fare. His evenings were spent either before his 

landlady's piano or roaming about the outskirts of the city. His liking 

for Mozart's music brought him sometimes to an opera or a concert: these 

were the only dissipations of his life.

He had neither companions nor friends, church nor creed. He lived his 

spiritual life without any communion with others, visiting his relatives 

at Christmas and escorting them to the cemetery when they died. He 

performed these two social duties for old dignity's sake but conceded 

nothing further to the conventions which regulate the civic life. He 

allowed himself to think that in certain circumstances he would rob 

his hank but, as these circumstances never arose, his life rolled out 

evenly--an adventureless tale.

One evening he found himself sitting beside two ladies in the Rotunda. 

The house, thinly peopled and silent, gave distressing prophecy of 

failure. The lady who sat next him looked round at the deserted house 

once or twice and then said:

"What a pity there is such a poor house tonight! It's so hard on people 

to have to sing to empty benches."

He took the remark as an invitation to talk. He was surprised that 

she seemed so little awkward. While they talked he tried to fix her 

permanently in his memory. When he learned that the young girl beside 

her was her daughter he judged her to be a year or so younger than 

himself. Her face, which must have been handsome, had remained 

intelligent. It was an oval face with strongly marked features. The eyes 

were very dark blue and steady. Their gaze began with a defiant note 

but was confused by what seemed a deliberate swoon of the pupil into the 

iris, revealing for an instant a temperament of great sensibility. The 

pupil reasserted itself quickly, this half-disclosed nature fell again 

under the reign of prudence, and her astrakhan jacket, moulding a bosom 

of a certain fullness, struck the note of defiance more definitely.

He met her again a few weeks afterwards at a concert in Earlsfort 

Terrace and seized the moments when her daughter's attention was 

diverted to become intimate. She alluded once or twice to her husband 

but her tone was not such as to make the allusion a warning. Her name 

was Mrs. Sinico. Her husband's great-great-grandfather had come from 

Leghorn. Her husband was captain of a mercantile boat plying between 

Dublin and Holland; and they had one child.

Meeting her a third time by accident he found courage to make an 

appointment. She came. This was the first of many meetings; they met 

always in the evening and chose the most quiet quarters for their walks 

together. Mr. Duffy, however, had a distaste for underhand ways and, 

finding that they were compelled to meet stealthily, he forced her to 

ask him to her house. Captain Sinico encouraged his visits, thinking 

that his daughter's hand was in question. He had dismissed his wife so 

sincerely from his gallery of pleasures that he did not suspect that 

anyone else would take an interest in her. As the husband was often 

away and the daughter out giving music lessons Mr. Duffy had many 

opportunities of enjoying the lady's society. Neither he nor she had had 

any such adventure before and neither was conscious of any incongruity. 

Little by little he entangled his thoughts with hers. He lent her books, 

provided her with ideas, shared his intellectual life with her. She 

listened to all.

Sometimes in return for his theories she gave out some fact of her own 

life. With almost maternal solicitude she urged him to let his nature 

open to the full: she became his confessor. He told her that for some 

time he had assisted at the meetings of an Irish Socialist Party where 

he had felt himself a unique figure amidst a score of sober workmen in 

a garret lit by an inefficient oil-lamp. When the party had divided into 

three sections, each under its own leader and in its own garret, he had 

discontinued his attendances. The workmen's discussions, he said, 

were too timorous; the interest they took in the question of wages was 

inordinate. He felt that they were hard-featured realists and that they 

resented an exactitude which was the produce of a leisure not within 

their reach. No social revolution, he told her, would be likely to 

strike Dublin for some centuries.

She asked him why did he not write out his thoughts. For what, he asked 

her, with careful scorn. To compete with phrasemongers, incapable of 

thinking consecutively for sixty seconds? To submit himself to the 

criticisms of an obtuse middle class which entrusted its morality to 

policemen and its fine arts to impresarios?

He went often to her little cottage outside Dublin; often they spent 

their evenings alone. Little by little, as their thoughts entangled, 

they spoke of subjects less remote. Her companionship was like a warm 

soil about an exotic. Many times she allowed the dark to fall upon 

them, refraining from lighting the lamp. The dark discreet room, their 

isolation, the music that still vibrated in their ears united them. 

This union exalted him, wore away the rough edges of his character, 

emotionalised his mental life. Sometimes he caught himself listening to 

the sound of his own voice. He thought that in her eyes he would ascend 

to an angelical stature; and, as he attached the fervent nature of his 

companion more and more closely to him, he heard the strange impersonal 

voice which he recognised as his own, insisting on the soul's incurable 

loneliness. We cannot give ourselves, it said: we are our own. The end 

of these discourses was that one night during which she had shown every 

sign of unusual excitement, Mrs. Sinico caught up his hand passionately 

and pressed it to her cheek.

Mr. Duffy was very much surprised. Her interpretation of his words 

disillusioned him. He did not visit her for a week, then he wrote to her 

asking her to meet him. As he did not wish their last interview to be 

troubled by the influence of their ruined confessional they meet in a 

little cakeshop near the Parkgate. It was cold autumn weather but in 

spite of the cold they wandered up and down the roads of the Park for 

nearly three hours. They agreed to break off their intercourse: every 

bond, he said, is a bond to sorrow. When they came out of the Park they 

walked in silence towards the tram; but here she began to tremble 

so violently that, fearing another collapse on her part, he bade her 

good-bye quickly and left her. A few days later he received a parcel 

containing his books and music.

Four years passed. Mr. Duffy returned to his even way of life. His room 

still bore witness of the orderliness of his mind. Some new pieces of 

music encumbered the music-stand in the lower room and on his shelves 

stood two volumes by Nietzsche: Thus Spake Zarathustra and The Gay 

Science. He wrote seldom in the sheaf of papers which lay in his desk. 

One of his sentences, written two months after his last interview with 

Mrs. Sinico, read: Love between man and man is impossible because there 

must not be sexual intercourse and friendship between man and woman is 

impossible because there must be sexual intercourse. He kept away from 

concerts lest he should meet her. His father died; the junior partner of 

the bank retired. And still every morning he went into the city by 

tram and every evening walked home from the city after having dined 

moderately in George's Street and read the evening paper for dessert.

One evening as he was about to put a morsel of corned beef and cabbage 

into his mouth his hand stopped. His eyes fixed themselves on a 

paragraph in the evening paper which he had propped against the 

water-carafe. He replaced the morsel of food on his plate and read the 

paragraph attentively. Then he drank a glass of water, pushed his plate 

to one side, doubled the paper down before him between his elbows and 

read the paragraph over and over again. The cabbage began to deposit a 

cold white grease on his plate. The girl came over to him to ask was 

his dinner not properly cooked. He said it was very good and ate a few 

mouthfuls of it with difficulty. Then he paid his bill and went out.

He walked along quickly through the November twilight, his stout hazel 

stick striking the ground regularly, the fringe of the buff Mail peeping 

out of a side-pocket of his tight reefer overcoat. On the lonely road 

which leads from the Parkgate to Chapelizod he slackened his pace. 

His stick struck the ground less emphatically and his breath, issuing 

irregularly, almost with a sighing sound, condensed in the wintry air. 

When he reached his house he went up at once to his bedroom and, taking 

the paper from his pocket, read the paragraph again by the failing light 

of the window. He read it not aloud, but moving his lips as a priest 

does when he reads the prayers Secreto. This was the paragraph:

DEATH OF A LADY AT SYDNEY PARADE 

A PAINFUL CASE

Today at the City of Dublin Hospital the Deputy Coroner (in the absence 

of Mr. Leverett) held an inquest on the body of Mrs. Emily Sinico, aged 

forty-three years, who was killed at Sydney Parade Station yesterday 

evening. The evidence showed that the deceased lady, while attempting to 

cross the line, was knocked down by the engine of the ten o'clock slow 

train from Kingstown, thereby sustaining injuries of the head and right 

side which led to her death.

James Lennon, driver of the engine, stated that he had been in the 

employment of the railway company for fifteen years. On hearing 

the guard's whistle he set the train in motion and a second or two 

afterwards brought it to rest in response to loud cries. The train was 

going slowly.

P. Dunne, railway porter, stated that as the train was about to start he 

observed a woman attempting to cross the lines. He ran towards her and 

shouted, but, before he could reach her, she was caught by the buffer of 

the engine and fell to the ground.

A juror. "You saw the lady fall?"

Witness. "Yes."

Police Sergeant Croly deposed that when he arrived he found the deceased 

lying on the platform apparently dead. He had the body taken to the 

waiting-room pending the arrival of the ambulance.

Constable 57 corroborated.

Dr. Halpin, assistant house surgeon of the City of Dublin Hospital, 

stated that the deceased had two lower ribs fractured and had sustained 

severe contusions of the right shoulder. The right side of the head 

had been injured in the fall. The injuries were not sufficient to 

have caused death in a normal person. Death, in his opinion, had been 

probably due to shock and sudden failure of the heart's action.

Mr. H. B. Patterson Finlay, on behalf of the railway company, expressed 

his deep regret at the accident. The company had always taken every 

precaution to prevent people crossing the lines except by the bridges, 

both by placing notices in every station and by the use of patent spring 

gates at level crossings. The deceased had been in the habit of crossing 

the lines late at night from platform to platform and, in view of 

certain other circumstances of the case, he did not think the railway 

officials were to blame.

Captain Sinico, of Leoville, Sydney Parade, husband of the deceased, 

also gave evidence. He stated that the deceased was his wife. He was 

not in Dublin at the time of the accident as he had arrived only that 

morning from Rotterdam. They had been married for twenty-two years and 

had lived happily until about two years ago when his wife began to be 

rather intemperate in her habits.

Miss Mary Sinico said that of late her mother had been in the habit 

of going out at night to buy spirits. She, witness, had often tried to 

reason with her mother and had induced her to join a League. She was not 

at home until an hour after the accident. The jury returned a verdict 

in accordance with the medical evidence and exonerated Lennon from all 

blame.

The Deputy Coroner said it was a most painful case, and expressed great 

sympathy with Captain Sinico and his daughter. He urged on the railway 

company to take strong measures to prevent the possibility of similar 

accidents in the future. No blame attached to anyone.

Mr. Duffy raised his eyes from the paper and gazed out of his window on 

the cheerless evening landscape. The river lay quiet beside the empty 

distillery and from time to time a light appeared in some house on the 

Lucan road. What an end! The whole narrative of her death revolted him 

and it revolted him to think that he had ever spoken to her of what he 

held sacred. The threadbare phrases, the inane expressions of sympathy, 

the cautious words of a reporter won over to conceal the details of 

a commonplace vulgar death attacked his stomach. Not merely had she 

degraded herself; she had degraded him. He saw the squalid tract of her 

vice, miserable and malodorous. His soul's companion! He thought of 

the hobbling wretches whom he had seen carrying cans and bottles to 

be filled by the barman. Just God, what an end! Evidently she had been 

unfit to live, without any strength of purpose, an easy prey to habits, 

one of the wrecks on which civilisation has been reared. But that she 

could have sunk so low! Was it possible he had deceived himself 

so utterly about her? He remembered her outburst of that night and 

interpreted it in a harsher sense than he had ever done. He had no 

difficulty now in approving of the course he had taken.

As the light failed and his memory began to wander he thought her hand 

touched his. The shock which had first attacked his stomach was now 

attacking his nerves. He put on his overcoat and hat quickly and went 

out. The cold air met him on the threshold; it crept into the sleeves of 

his coat. When he came to the public-house at Chapelizod Bridge he went 

in and ordered a hot punch.

The proprietor served him obsequiously but did not venture to talk. 

There were five or six workingmen in the shop discussing the value of a 

gentleman's estate in County Kildare They drank at intervals from their 

huge pint tumblers and smoked, spitting often on the floor and sometimes 

dragging the sawdust over their spits with their heavy boots. Mr. Duffy 

sat on his stool and gazed at them, without seeing or hearing them. 

After a while they went out and he called for another punch. He sat a 

long time over it. The shop was very quiet. The proprietor sprawled on 

the counter reading the Herald and yawning. Now and again a tram was 

heard swishing along the lonely road outside.

As he sat there, living over his life with her and evoking alternately 

the two images in which he now conceived her, he realised that she was 

dead, that she had ceased to exist, that she had become a memory. He 

began to feel ill at ease. He asked himself what else could he have 

done. He could not have carried on a comedy of deception with her; he 

could not have lived with her openly. He had done what seemed to him 

best. How was he to blame? Now that she was gone he understood how 

lonely her life must have been, sitting night after night alone in that 

room. His life would be lonely too until he, too, died, ceased to exist, 

became a memory--if anyone remembered him.

It was after nine o'clock when he left the shop. The night was cold and 

gloomy. He entered the Park by the first gate and walked along under the 

gaunt trees. He walked through the bleak alleys where they had walked 

four years before. She seemed to be near him in the darkness. At moments 

he seemed to feel her voice touch his ear, her hand touch his. He stood 

still to listen. Why had he withheld life from her? Why had he sentenced 

her to death? He felt his moral nature falling to pieces.

When he gained the crest of the Magazine Hill he halted and looked 

along the river towards Dublin, the lights of which burned redly and 

hospitably in the cold night. He looked down the slope and, at the base, 

in the shadow of the wall of the Park, he saw some human figures lying. 

Those venal and furtive loves filled him with despair. He gnawed the 

rectitude of his life; he felt that he had been outcast from life's 

feast. One human being had seemed to love him and he had denied her life 

and happiness: he had sentenced her to ignominy, a death of shame. He 

knew that the prostrate creatures down by the wall were watching him and 

wished him gone. No one wanted him; he was outcast from life's feast. 

He turned his eyes to the grey gleaming river, winding along towards 

Dublin. Beyond the river he saw a goods train winding out of Kingsbridge 

Station, like a worm with a fiery head winding through the darkness, 

obstinately and laboriously. It passed slowly out of sight; but still 

he heard in his ears the laborious drone of the engine reiterating the 

syllables of her name.

He turned back the way he had come, the rhythm of the engine pounding 

in his ears. He began to doubt the reality of what memory told him. He 

halted under a tree and allowed the rhythm to die away. He could not 

feel her near him in the darkness nor her voice touch his ear. He 

waited for some minutes listening. He could hear nothing: the night was 

perfectly silent. He listened again: perfectly silent. He felt that he 

was alone.

IVY DAY IN THE COMMITTEE ROOM

OLD JACK raked the cinders together with a piece of cardboard and spread 

them judiciously over the whitening dome of coals. When the dome was 

thinly covered his face lapsed into darkness but, as he set himself to 

fan the fire again, his crouching shadow ascended the opposite wall and 

his face slowly reemerged into light. It was an old man's face, very 

bony and hairy. The moist blue eyes blinked at the fire and the moist 

mouth fell open at times, munching once or twice mechanically when 

it closed. When the cinders had caught he laid the piece of cardboard 

against the wall, sighed and said:

"That's better now, Mr. O'Connor."

Mr. O'Connor, a grey-haired young man, whose face was disfigured by many 

blotches and pimples, had just brought the tobacco for a cigarette 

into a shapely cylinder but when spoken to he undid his handiwork 

meditatively. Then he began to roll the tobacco again meditatively and 

after a moment's thought decided to lick the paper.

"Did Mr. Tierney say when he'd be back?" he asked in a sky falsetto.

"He didn't say."

Mr. O'Connor put his cigarette into his mouth and began search his 

pockets. He took out a pack of thin pasteboard cards.

"I'll get you a match," said the old man.

"Never mind, this'll do," said Mr. O'Connor.

He selected one of the cards and read what was printed on it:

MUNICIPAL ELECTIONS 

---------- 

ROYAL EXCHANGE WARD 

----------

Mr. Richard J. Tierney, P.L.G., respectfully solicits the favour of your 

vote and influence at the coming election in the Royal Exchange Ward.

Mr. O'Connor had been engaged by Tierney's agent to canvass one part of 

the ward but, as the weather was inclement and his boots let in the wet, 

he spent a great part of the day sitting by the fire in the Committee 

Room in Wicklow Street with Jack, the old caretaker. They had been 

sitting thus since the short day had grown dark. It was the sixth of 

October, dismal and cold out of doors.

Mr. O'Connor tore a strip off the card and, lighting it, lit his 

cigarette. As he did so the flame lit up a leaf of dark glossy ivy the 

lapel of his coat. The old man watched him attentively and then, taking 

up the piece of cardboard again, began to fan the fire slowly while his 

companion smoked.

"Ah, yes," he said, continuing, "it's hard to know what way to bring 

up children. Now who'd think he'd turn out like that! I sent him to 

the Christian Brothers and I done what I could him, and there he goes 

boosing about. I tried to make him someway decent."

He replaced the cardboard wearily.

"Only I'm an old man now I'd change his tune for him. I'd take the stick 

to his back and beat him while I could stand over him--as I done many 

a time before. The mother, you know, she cocks him up with this and 

that...."

"That's what ruins children," said Mr. O'Connor.

"To be sure it is," said the old man. "And little thanks you get for it, 

only impudence. He takes th'upper hand of me whenever he sees I've a 

sup taken. What's the world coming to when sons speaks that way to their 

fathers?"

"What age is he?" said Mr. O'Connor.

"Nineteen," said the old man.

"Why don't you put him to something?"

"Sure, amn't I never done at the drunken bowsy ever since he left 

school? 'I won't keep you,' I says. 'You must get a job for yourself.' 

But, sure, it's worse whenever he gets a job; he drinks it all."

Mr. O'Connor shook his head in sympathy, and the old man fell silent, 

gazing into the fire. Someone opened the door of the room and called 

out:

"Hello! Is this a Freemason's meeting?"

"Who's that?" said the old man.

"What are you doing in the dark?" asked a voice.

"Is that you, Hynes?" asked Mr. O'Connor.

"Yes. What are you doing in the dark?" said Mr. Hynes. advancing into 

the light of the fire.

He was a tall, slender young man with a light brown moustache. Imminent 

little drops of rain hung at the brim of his hat and the collar of his 

jacket-coat was turned up.

"Well, Mat," he said to Mr. O'Connor, "how goes it?"

Mr. O'Connor shook his head. The old man left the hearth and after 

stumbling about the room returned with two candlesticks which he thrust 

one after the other into the fire and carried to the table. A denuded 

room came into view and the fire lost all its cheerful colour. The walls 

of the room were bare except for a copy of an election address. In the 

middle of the room was a small table on which papers were heaped.

Mr. Hynes leaned against the mantelpiece and asked:

"Has he paid you yet?"

"Not yet," said Mr. O'Connor. "I hope to God he'll not leave us in the 

lurch tonight."

Mr. Hynes laughed.

"O, he'll pay you. Never fear," he said.

"I hope he'll look smart about it if he means business," said Mr. 

O'Connor.

"What do you think, Jack?" said Mr. Hynes satirically to the old man.

The old man returned to his seat by the fire, saying:

"It isn't but he has it, anyway. Not like the other tinker."

"What other tinker?" said Mr. Hynes.

"Colgan," said the old man scornfully.

"It is because Colgan's a working--man you say that? What's the 

difference between a good honest bricklayer and a publican--eh? Hasn't 

the working-man as good a right to be in the Corporation as anyone 

else--ay, and a better right than those shoneens that are always hat in 

hand before any fellow with a handle to his name? Isn't that so, Mat?" 

said Mr. Hynes, addressing Mr. O'Connor.

"I think you're right," said Mr. O'Connor.

"One man is a plain honest man with no hunker-sliding about him. He goes 

in to represent the labour classes. This fellow you're working for only 

wants to get some job or other."

"Of course, the working-classes should be represented," said the old 

man.

"The working-man," said Mr. Hynes, "gets all kicks and no halfpence. But 

it's labour produces everything. The workingman is not looking for fat 

jobs for his sons and nephews and cousins. The working-man is not going 

to drag the honour of Dublin in the mud to please a German monarch."

"How's that?" said the old man.

"Don't you know they want to present an address of welcome to Edward 

Rex if he comes here next year? What do we want kowtowing to a foreign 

king?"

"Our man won't vote for the address," said Mr. O'Connor. "He goes in on 

the Nationalist ticket."

"Won't he?" said Mr. Hynes. "Wait till you see whether he will or not. I 

know him. Is it Tricky Dicky Tierney?"

"By God! perhaps you're right, Joe," said Mr. O'Connor. "Anyway, I wish 

he'd turn up with the spondulics."

The three men fell silent. The old man began to rake more cinders 

together. Mr. Hynes took off his hat, shook it and then turned down the 

collar of his coat, displaying, as he did so, an ivy leaf in the lapel.

"If this man was alive," he said, pointing to the leaf, "we'd have no 

talk of an address of welcome."

"That's true," said Mr. O'Connor.

"Musha, God be with them times!" said the old man. "There was some life 

in it then."

The room was silent again. Then a bustling little man with a snuffling 

nose and very cold ears pushed in the door. He walked over quickly to 

the fire, rubbing his hands as if he intended to produce a spark from 

them.

"No money, boys," he said.

"Sit down here, Mr. Henchy," said the old man, offering him his chair.

"O, don't stir, Jack, don't stir," said Mr. Henchy

He nodded curtly to Mr. Hynes and sat down on the chair which the old 

man vacated.

"Did you serve Aungier Street?" he asked Mr. O'Connor.

"Yes," said Mr. O'Connor, beginning to search his pockets for memoranda.

"Did you call on Grimes?"

"I did."

"Well? How does he stand?"

"He wouldn't promise. He said: 'I won't tell anyone what way I'm going 

to vote.' But I think he'll be all right."

"Why so?"

"He asked me who the nominators were; and I told him. I mentioned Father 

Burke's name. I think it'll be all right."

Mr. Henchy began to snuffle and to rub his hands over the fire at a 

terrific speed. Then he said:

"For the love of God, Jack, bring us a bit of coal. There must be some 

left."

The old man went out of the room.

"It's no go," said Mr. Henchy, shaking his head. "I asked the little 

shoeboy, but he said: 'Oh, now, Mr. Henchy, when I see work going on 

properly I won't forget you, you may be sure.' Mean little tinker! 

'Usha, how could he be anything else?"

"What did I tell you, Mat?" said Mr. Hynes. "Tricky Dicky Tierney."

"O, he's as tricky as they make 'em," said Mr. Henchy. "He hasn't got 

those little pigs' eyes for nothing. Blast his soul! Couldn't he pay 

up like a man instead of: 'O, now, Mr. Henchy, I must speak to Mr. 

Fanning.... I've spent a lot of money'? Mean little schoolboy of hell! I 

suppose he forgets the time his little old father kept the hand-me-down 

shop in Mary's Lane."

"But is that a fact?" asked Mr. O'Connor.

"God, yes," said Mr. Henchy. "Did you never hear that? And the men 

used to go in on Sunday morning before the houses were open to buy a 

waistcoat or a trousers--moya! But Tricky Dicky's little old father 

always had a tricky little black bottle up in a corner. Do you mind now? 

That's that. That's where he first saw the light."

The old man returned with a few lumps of coal which he placed here and 

there on the fire.

"Thats a nice how-do-you-do," said Mr. O'Connor. "How does he expect us 

to work for him if he won't stump up?"

"I can't help it," said Mr. Henchy. "I expect to find the bailiffs in 

the hall when I go home."

Mr. Hynes laughed and, shoving himself away from the mantelpiece with 

the aid of his shoulders, made ready to leave.

"It'll be all right when King Eddie comes," he said. "Well boys, I'm off 

for the present. See you later. 'Bye, 'bye."

He went out of the room slowly. Neither Mr. Henchy nor the old man said 

anything, but, just as the door was closing, Mr. O'Connor, who had been 

staring moodily into the fire, called out suddenly:

"'Bye, Joe."

Mr. Henchy waited a few moments and then nodded in the direction of the 

door.

"Tell me," he said across the fire, "what brings our friend in here? 

What does he want?"

"'Usha, poor Joe!" said Mr. O'Connor, throwing the end of his cigarette 

into the fire, "he's hard up, like the rest of us."

Mr. Henchy snuffled vigorously and spat so copiously that he nearly put 

out the fire, which uttered a hissing protest.

"To tell you my private and candid opinion," he said, "I think he's a 

man from the other camp. He's a spy of Colgan's, if you ask me. Just go 

round and try and find out how they're getting on. They won't suspect 

you. Do you twig?"

"Ah, poor Joe is a decent skin," said Mr. O'Connor.

"His father was a decent, respectable man," Mr. Henchy admitted. "Poor 

old Larry Hynes! Many a good turn he did in his day! But I'm greatly 

afraid our friend is not nineteen carat. Damn it, I can understand a 

fellow being hard up, but what I can't understand is a fellow sponging. 

Couldn't he have some spark of manhood about him?"

"He doesn't get a warm welcome from me when he comes," said the old man. 

"Let him work for his own side and not come spying around here."

"I don't know," said Mr. O'Connor dubiously, as he took out 

cigarette-papers and tobacco. "I think Joe Hynes is a straight man. 

He's a clever chap, too, with the pen. Do you remember that thing he 

wrote...?"

"Some of these hillsiders and fenians are a bit too clever if ask me," 

said Mr. Henchy. "Do you know what my private and candid opinion is 

about some of those little jokers? I believe half of them are in the pay 

of the Castle."

"There's no knowing," said the old man.

"O, but I know it for a fact," said Mr. Henchy. "They're Castle 

hacks.... I don't say Hynes.... No, damn it, I think he's a stroke above 

that.... But there's a certain little nobleman with a cock-eye--you know 

the patriot I'm alluding to?"

Mr. O'Connor nodded.

"There's a lineal descendant of Major Sirr for you if you like! O, the 

heart's blood of a patriot! That's a fellow now that'd sell his country 

for fourpence--ay--and go down on his bended knees and thank the 

Almighty Christ he had a country to sell."

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in!" said Mr. Henchy.

A person resembling a poor clergyman or a poor actor appeared in the 

doorway. His black clothes were tightly buttoned on his short body 

and it was impossible to say whether he wore a clergyman's collar or 

a layman's, because the collar of his shabby frock-coat, the uncovered 

buttons of which reflected the candlelight, was turned up about his 

neck. He wore a round hat of hard black felt. His face, shining with 

raindrops, had the appearance of damp yellow cheese save where two rosy 

spots indicated the cheekbones. He opened his very long mouth suddenly 

to express disappointment and at the same time opened wide his very 

bright blue eyes to express pleasure and surprise.

"O Father Keon!" said Mr. Henchy, jumping up from his chair. "Is that 

you? Come in!"

"O, no, no, no!" said Father Keon quickly, pursing his lips as if he 

were addressing a child.

"Won't you come in and sit down?"

"No, no, no!" said Father Keon, speaking in a discreet, indulgent, 

velvety voice. "Don't let me disturb you now! I'm just looking for Mr. 

Fanning...."

"He's round at the Black Eagle," said Mr. Henchy. "But won't you come in 

and sit down a minute?"

"No, no, thank you. It was just a little business matter," said Father 

Keon. "Thank you, indeed."

He retreated from the doorway and Mr. Henchy, seizing one of the 

candlesticks, went to the door to light him downstairs.

"O, don't trouble, I beg!"

"No, but the stairs is so dark."

"No, no, I can see.... Thank you, indeed."

"Are you right now?"

"All right, thanks.... Thanks."

Mr. Henchy returned with the candlestick and put it on the table. He sat 

down again at the fire. There was silence for a few moments.

"Tell me, John," said Mr. O'Connor, lighting his cigarette with another 

pasteboard card.

"Hm?"

"What he is exactly?"

"Ask me an easier one," said Mr. Henchy.

"Fanning and himself seem to me very thick. They're often in Kavanagh's 

together. Is he a priest at all?"

"Mmmyes, I believe so.... I think he's what you call black sheep. 

We haven't many of them, thank God! but we have a few.... He's an 

unfortunate man of some kind...."

"And how does he knock it out?" asked Mr. O'Connor.

"That's another mystery."

"Is he attached to any chapel or church or institution or---"

"No," said Mr. Henchy, "I think he's travelling on his own account.... 

God forgive me," he added, "I thought he was the dozen of stout."

"Is there any chance of a drink itself?" asked Mr. O'Connor.

"I'm dry too," said the old man.

"I asked that little shoeboy three times," said Mr. Henchy, "would he 

send up a dozen of stout. I asked him again now, but he was leaning 

on the counter in his shirt-sleeves having a deep goster with Alderman 

Cowley."

"Why didn't you remind him?" said Mr. O'Connor.

"Well, I couldn't go over while he was talking to Alderman Cowley. I 

just waited till I caught his eye, and said: 'About that little matter I 

was speaking to you about....' 'That'll be all right, Mr. H.,' he said. 

Yerra, sure the little hop-o'-my-thumb has forgotten all about it."

"There's some deal on in that quarter," said Mr. O'Connor thoughtfully. 

"I saw the three of them hard at it yesterday at Suffolk Street corner."

"I think I know the little game they're at," said Mr. Henchy. "You must 

owe the City Fathers money nowadays if you want to be made Lord Mayor. 

Then they'll make you Lord Mayor. By God! I'm thinking seriously of 

becoming a City Father myself. What do you think? Would I do for the 

job?"

Mr. O'Connor laughed.

"So far as owing money goes...."

"Driving out of the Mansion House," said Mr. Henchy, "in all my vermin, 

with Jack here standing up behind me in a powdered wig--eh?"

"And make me your private secretary, John."

"Yes. And I'll make Father Keon my private chaplain. We'll have a family 

party."

"Faith, Mr. Henchy," said the old man, "you'd keep up better style than 

some of them. I was talking one day to old Keegan, the porter. 'And 

how do you like your new master, Pat?' says I to him. 'You haven't much 

entertaining now,' says I. 'Entertaining!' says he. 'He'd live on the 

smell of an oil-rag.' And do you know what he told me? Now, I declare to 

God I didn't believe him."

"What?" said Mr. Henchy and Mr. O'Connor.

"He told me: 'What do you think of a Lord Mayor of Dublin sending out 

for a pound of chops for his dinner? How's that for high living?' says 

he. 'Wisha! wisha,' says I. 'A pound of chops,' says he, 'coming into 

the Mansion House.' 'Wisha!' says I, 'what kind of people is going at 

all now?"

At this point there was a knock at the door, and a boy put in his head.

"What is it?" said the old man.

"From the Black Eagle," said the boy, walking in sideways and depositing 

a basket on the floor with a noise of shaken bottles.

The old man helped the boy to transfer the bottles from the basket to 

the table and counted the full tally. After the transfer the boy put his 

basket on his arm and asked:

"Any bottles?"

"What bottles?" said the old man.

"Won't you let us drink them first?" said Mr. Henchy.

"I was told to ask for the bottles."

"Come back tomorrow," said the old man.

"Here, boy!" said Mr. Henchy, "will you run over to O'Farrell's and ask 

him to lend us a corkscrew--for Mr. Henchy, say. Tell him we won't keep 

it a minute. Leave the basket there."

The boy went out and Mr. Henchy began to rub his hands cheerfully, 

saying:

"Ah, well, he's not so bad after all. He's as good as his word, anyhow."

"There's no tumblers," said the old man.

"O, don't let that trouble you, Jack," said Mr. Henchy. "Many's the good 

man before now drank out of the bottle."

"Anyway, it's better than nothing," said Mr. O'Connor.

"He's not a bad sort," said Mr. Henchy, "only Fanning has such a loan of 

him. He means well, you know, in his own tinpot way."

The boy came back with the corkscrew. The old man opened three bottles 

and was handing back the corkscrew when Mr. Henchy said to the boy:

"Would you like a drink, boy?"

"If you please, sir," said the boy.

The old man opened another bottle grudgingly, and handed it to the boy.

"What age are you?" he asked.

"Seventeen," said the boy.

As the old man said nothing further, the boy took the bottle and said: 

"Here's my best respects, sir, to Mr. Henchy," drank the contents, put 

the bottle back on the table and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Then 

he took up the corkscrew and went out of the door sideways, muttering 

some form of salutation.

"That's the way it begins," said the old man.

"The thin edge of the wedge," said Mr. Henchy.

The old man distributed the three bottles which he had opened and the 

men drank from them simultaneously. After having drank each placed his 

bottle on the mantelpiece within hand's reach and drew in a long breath 

of satisfaction.

"Well, I did a good day's work today," said Mr. Henchy, after a pause.

"That so, John?"

"Yes. I got him one or two sure things in Dawson Street, Crofton and 

myself. Between ourselves, you know, Crofton (he's a decent chap, of 

course), but he's not worth a damn as a canvasser. He hasn't a word 

to throw to a dog. He stands and looks at the people while I do the 

talking."

Here two men entered the room. One of them was a very fat man whose blue 

serge clothes seemed to be in danger of falling from his sloping figure. 

He had a big face which resembled a young ox's face in expression, 

staring blue eyes and a grizzled moustache. The other man, who was much 

younger and frailer, had a thin, clean-shaven face. He wore a very high 

double collar and a wide-brimmed bowler hat.

"Hello, Crofton!" said Mr. Henchy to the fat man. "Talk of the devil..."

"Where did the boose come from?" asked the young man. "Did the cow 

calve?"

"O, of course, Lyons spots the drink first thing!" said Mr. O'Connor, 

laughing.

"Is that the way you chaps canvass," said Mr. Lyons, "and Crofton and I 

out in the cold and rain looking for votes?"

"Why, blast your soul," said Mr. Henchy, "I'd get more votes in five 

minutes than you two'd get in a week."

"Open two bottles of stout, Jack," said Mr. O'Connor.

"How can I?" said the old man, "when there's no corkscrew?"

"Wait now, wait now!" said Mr. Henchy, getting up quickly. "Did you ever 

see this little trick?"

He took two bottles from the table and, carrying them to the fire, put 

them on the hob. Then he sat down again by the fire and took another 

drink from his bottle. Mr. Lyons sat on the edge of the table, pushed 

his hat towards the nape of his neck and began to swing his legs.

"Which is my bottle?" he asked.

"This, lad," said Mr. Henchy.

Mr. Crofton sat down on a box and looked fixedly at the other bottle on 

the hob. He was silent for two reasons. The first reason, sufficient in 

itself, was that he had nothing to say; the second reason was that 

he considered his companions beneath him. He had been a canvasser for 

Wilkins, the Conservative, but when the Conservatives had withdrawn 

their man and, choosing the lesser of two evils, given their support to 

the Nationalist candidate, he had been engaged to work for Mr. Tiemey.

In a few minutes an apologetic "Pok!" was heard as the cork flew out 

of Mr. Lyons' bottle. Mr. Lyons jumped off the table, went to the fire, 

took his bottle and carried it back to the table.

"I was just telling them, Crofton," said Mr. Henchy, "that we got a good 

few votes today."

"Who did you get?" asked Mr. Lyons.

"Well, I got Parkes for one, and I got Atkinson for two, and got Ward 

of Dawson Street. Fine old chap he is, too--regular old toff, old 

Conservative! 'But isn't your candidate a Nationalist?' said he. 'He's a 

respectable man,' said I. 'He's in favour of whatever will benefit this 

country. He's a big ratepayer,' I said. 'He has extensive house property 

in the city and three places of business and isn't it to his own 

advantage to keep down the rates? He's a prominent and respected 

citizen,' said I, 'and a Poor Law Guardian, and he doesn't belong to any 

party, good, bad, or indifferent.' That's the way to talk to 'em."

"And what about the address to the King?" said Mr. Lyons, after drinking 

and smacking his lips.

"Listen to me," said Mr. Henchy. "What we want in thus country, as I 

said to old Ward, is capital. The King's coming here will mean an influx 

of money into this country. The citizens of Dublin will benefit by it. 

Look at all the factories down by the quays there, idle! Look at all the 

money there is in the country if we only worked the old industries, the 

mills, the ship-building yards and factories. It's capital we want."

"But look here, John," said Mr. O'Connor. "Why should we welcome the 

King of England? Didn't Parnell himself..."

"Parnell," said Mr. Henchy, "is dead. Now, here's the way I look at it. 

Here's this chap come to the throne after his old mother keeping him out 

of it till the man was grey. He's a man of the world, and he means 

well by us. He's a jolly fine decent fellow, if you ask me, and no damn 

nonsense about him. He just says to himself: 'The old one never went 

to see these wild Irish. By Christ, I'll go myself and see what they're 

like.' And are we going to insult the man when he comes over here on a 

friendly visit? Eh? Isn't that right, Crofton?"

Mr. Crofton nodded his head.

"But after all now," said Mr. Lyons argumentatively, "King Edward's 

life, you know, is not the very..."

"Let bygones be bygones," said Mr. Henchy. "I admire the man personally. 

He's just an ordinary knockabout like you and me. He's fond of his glass 

of grog and he's a bit of a rake, perhaps, and he's a good sportsman. 

Damn it, can't we Irish play fair?"

"That's all very fine," said Mr. Lyons. "But look at the case of Parnell 

now."

"In the name of God," said Mr. Henchy, "where's the analogy between the 

two cases?"

"What I mean," said Mr. Lyons, "is we have our ideals. Why, now, would 

we welcome a man like that? Do you think now after what he did Parnell 

was a fit man to lead us? And why, then, would we do it for Edward the 

Seventh?"

"This is Parnell's anniversary," said Mr. O'Connor, "and don't let 

us stir up any bad blood. We all respect him now that he's dead and 

gone--even the Conservatives," he added, turning to Mr. Crofton.

Pok! The tardy cork flew out of Mr. Crofton's bottle. Mr. Crofton got 

up from his box and went to the fire. As he returned with his capture he 

said in a deep voice:

"Our side of the house respects him, because he was a gentleman."

"Right you are, Crofton!" said Mr. Henchy fiercely. "He was the only man 

that could keep that bag of cats in order. 'Down, ye dogs! Lie down, ye 

curs!' That's the way he treated them. Come in, Joe! Come in!" he called 

out, catching sight of Mr. Hynes in the doorway.

Mr. Hynes came in slowly.

"Open another bottle of stout, Jack," said Mr. Henchy. "O, I forgot 

there's no corkscrew! Here, show me one here and I'll put it at the 

fire."

The old man handed him another bottle and he placed it on the hob.

"Sit down, Joe," said Mr. O'Connor, "we're just talking about the 

Chief."

"Ay, ay!" said Mr. Henchy.

Mr. Hynes sat on the side of the table near Mr. Lyons but said nothing.

"There's one of them, anyhow," said Mr. Henchy, "that didn't renege him. 

By God, I'll say for you, Joe! No, by God, you stuck to him like a man!"

"O, Joe," said Mr. O'Connor suddenly. "Give us that thing you wrote--do 

you remember? Have you got it on you?"

"O, ay!" said Mr. Henchy. "Give us that. Did you ever hear that. 

Crofton? Listen to this now: splendid thing."

"Go on," said Mr. O'Connor. "Fire away, Joe."

Mr. Hynes did not seem to remember at once the piece to which they were 

alluding, but, after reflecting a while, he said:

"O, that thing is it.... Sure, that's old now."

"Out with it, man!" said Mr. O'Connor.

"'Sh, 'sh," said Mr. Henchy. "Now, Joe!"

Mr. Hynes hesitated a little longer. Then amid the silence he took off 

his hat, laid it on the table and stood up. He seemed to be rehearsing 

the piece in his mind. After a rather long pause he announced:

THE DEATH OF PARNELL 

6th October, 1891

He cleared his throat once or twice and then began to recite:

He is dead. Our Uncrowned King is dead. 

O, Erin, mourn with grief and woe 

For he lies dead whom the fell gang 

Of modern hypocrites laid low. 

He lies slain by the coward hounds 

He raised to glory from the mire; 

And Erin's hopes and Erin's dreams 

Perish upon her monarch's pyre. 

In palace, cabin or in cot 

The Irish heart where'er it be 

Is bowed with woe--for he is gone 

Who would have wrought her destiny. 

He would have had his Erin famed, 

The green flag gloriously unfurled, 

Her statesmen, bards and warriors raised 

Before the nations of the World. 

He dreamed (alas, 'twas but a dream!) 

Of Liberty: but as he strove 

To clutch that idol, treachery 

Sundered him from the thing he loved. 

Shame on the coward, caitiff hands 

That smote their Lord or with a kiss 

Betrayed him to the rabble-rout 

Of fawning priests--no friends of his. 

May everlasting shame consume 

The memory of those who tried 

To befoul and smear the exalted name 

Of one who spurned them in his pride. 

He fell as fall the mighty ones, 

Nobly undaunted to the last, 

And death has now united him 

With Erin's heroes of the past. 

No sound of strife disturb his sleep! 

Calmly he rests: no human pain 

Or high ambition spurs him now 

The peaks of glory to attain. 

They had their way: they laid him low. 

But Erin, list, his spirit may 

Rise, like the Phoenix from the flames, 

When breaks the dawning of the day, 

The day that brings us Freedom's reign. 

And on that day may Erin well 

Pledge in the cup she lifts to Joy 

One grief--the memory of Parnell.

Mr. Hynes sat down again on the table. When he had finished his 

recitation there was a silence and then a burst of clapping: even Mr. 

Lyons clapped. The applause continued for a little time. When it had 

ceased all the auditors drank from their bottles in silence.

Pok! The cork flew out of Mr. Hynes' bottle, but Mr. Hynes remained 

sitting flushed and bare-headed on the table. He did not seem to have 

heard the invitation.

"Good man, Joe!" said Mr. O'Connor, taking out his cigarette papers and 

pouch the better to hide his emotion.

"What do you think of that, Crofton?" cried Mr. Henchy. "Isn't that 

fine? What?"

Crofton said that it was a very fine piece of writing.

A MOTHER

MR HOLOHAN, assistant secretary of the Eire Abu Society, had been 

walking up and down Dublin for nearly a month, with his hands and 

pockets full of dirty pieces of paper, arranging about the series of 

concerts. He had a game leg and for this his friends called him Hoppy 

Holohan. He walked up and down constantly, stood by the hour at street 

corners arguing the point and made notes; but in the end it was Mrs. 

Kearney who arranged everything.

Miss Devlin had become Mrs. Kearney out of spite. She had been educated 

in a high-class convent, where she had learned French and music. As 

she was naturally pale and unbending in manner she made few friends at 

school. When she came to the age of marriage she was sent out to many 

houses, where her playing and ivory manners were much admired. She sat 

amid the chilly circle of her accomplishments, waiting for some suitor 

to brave it and offer her a brilliant life. But the young men whom she 

met were ordinary and she gave them no encouragement, trying to console 

her romantic desires by eating a great deal of Turkish Delight in 

secret. However, when she drew near the limit and her friends began 

to loosen their tongues about her, she silenced them by marrying Mr. 

Kearney, who was a bootmaker on Ormond Quay.

He was much older than she. His conversation, which was serious, took 

place at intervals in his great brown beard. After the first year of 

married life, Mrs. Kearney perceived that such a man would wear better 

than a romantic person, but she never put her own romantic ideas away. 

He was sober, thrifty and pious; he went to the altar every first 

Friday, sometimes with her, oftener by himself. But she never weakened 

in her religion and was a good wife to him. At some party in a strange 

house when she lifted her eyebrow ever so slightly he stood up to take 

his leave and, when his cough troubled him, she put the eider-down quilt 

over his feet and made a strong rum punch. For his part, he was a model 

father. By paying a small sum every week into a society, he ensured for 

both his daughters a dowry of one hundred pounds each when they came to 

the age of twenty-four. He sent the older daughter, Kathleen, to a good 

convent, where she learned French and music, and afterward paid her 

fees at the Academy. Every year in the month of July Mrs. Kearney found 

occasion to say to some friend:

"My good man is packing us off to Skerries for a few weeks."

If it was not Skerries it was Howth or Greystones.

When the Irish Revival began to be appreciable Mrs. Kearney determined 

to take advantage of her daughter's name and brought an Irish teacher to 

the house. Kathleen and her sister sent Irish picture postcards to their 

friends and these friends sent back other Irish picture postcards. 

On special Sundays, when Mr. Kearney went with his family to the 

pro-cathedral, a little crowd of people would assemble after mass at 

the corner of Cathedral Street. They were all friends of the 

Kearneys--musical friends or Nationalist friends; and, when they had 

played every little counter of gossip, they shook hands with one 

another all together, laughing at the crossing of so man hands, and said 

good-bye to one another in Irish. Soon the name of Miss Kathleen Kearney 

began to be heard often on people's lips. People said that she was 

very clever at music and a very nice girl and, moreover, that she was 

a believer in the language movement. Mrs. Kearney was well content at 

this. Therefore she was not surprised when one day Mr. Holohan came to 

her and proposed that her daughter should be the accompanist at a 

series of four grand concerts which his Society was going to give in the 

Antient Concert Rooms. She brought him into the drawing-room, made him 

sit down and brought out the decanter and the silver biscuit-barrel. She 

entered heart and soul into the details of the enterprise, advised and 

dissuaded: and finally a contract was drawn up by which Kathleen was to 

receive eight guineas for her services as accompanist at the four grand 

concerts.

As Mr. Holohan was a novice in such delicate matters as the wording of 

bills and the disposing of items for a programme, Mrs. Kearney helped 

him. She had tact. She knew what artistes should go into capitals and 

what artistes should go into small type. She knew that the first tenor 

would not like to come on after Mr. Meade's comic turn. To keep the 

audience continually diverted she slipped the doubtful items in between 

the old favourites. Mr. Holohan called to see her every day to have her 

advice on some point. She was invariably friendly and advising--homely, 

in fact. She pushed the decanter towards him, saying:

"Now, help yourself, Mr. Holohan!"

And while he was helping himself she said:

"Don't be afraid! Don't be afraid of it!"

Everything went on smoothly. Mrs. Kearney bought some lovely blush-pink 

charmeuse in Brown Thomas's to let into the front of Kathleen's dress. 

It cost a pretty penny; but there are occasions when a little expense 

is justifiable. She took a dozen of two-shilling tickets for the final 

concert and sent them to those friends who could not be trusted to come 

otherwise. She forgot nothing, and, thanks to her, everything that was 

to be done was done.

The concerts were to be on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday. 

When Mrs. Kearney arrived with her daughter at the Antient Concert Rooms 

on Wednesday night she did not like the look of things. A few young men, 

wearing bright blue badges in their coats, stood idle in the vestibule; 

none of them wore evening dress. She passed by with her daughter and a 

quick glance through the open door of the hall showed her the cause of 

the stewards' idleness. At first she wondered had she mistaken the hour. 

No, it was twenty minutes to eight.

In the dressing-room behind the stage she was introduced to the 

secretary of the Society, Mr. Fitzpatrick. She smiled and shook his 

hand. He was a little man, with a white, vacant face. She noticed that 

he wore his soft brown hat carelessly on the side of his head and that 

his accent was flat. He held a programme in his hand, and, while he was 

talking to her, he chewed one end of it into a moist pulp. He seemed 

to bear disappointments lightly. Mr. Holohan came into the dressingroom 

every few minutes with reports from the box-office. The artistes talked 

among themselves nervously, glanced from time to time at the mirror and 

rolled and unrolled their music. When it was nearly half-past eight, the 

few people in the hall began to express their desire to be entertained. 

Mr. Fitzpatrick came in, smiled vacantly at the room, and said:

"Well now, ladies and gentlemen. I suppose we'd better open the ball."

Mrs. Kearney rewarded his very flat final syllable with a quick stare of 

contempt, and then said to her daughter encouragingly:

"Are you ready, dear?"

When she had an opportunity, she called Mr. Holohan aside and asked him 

to tell her what it meant. Mr. Holohan did not know what it meant. 

He said that the committee had made a mistake in arranging for four 

concerts: four was too many.

"And the artistes!" said Mrs. Kearney. "Of course they are doing their 

best, but really they are not good."

Mr. Holohan admitted that the artistes were no good but the committee, 

he said, had decided to let the first three concerts go as they pleased 

and reserve all the talent for Saturday night. Mrs. Kearney said 

nothing, but, as the mediocre items followed one another on the platform 

and the few people in the hall grew fewer and fewer, she began to regret 

that she had put herself to any expense for such a concert. There was 

something she didn't like in the look of things and Mr. Fitzpatrick's 

vacant smile irritated her very much. However, she said nothing and 

waited to see how it would end. The concert expired shortly before ten, 

and everyone went home quickly.

The concert on Thursday night was better attended, but Mrs. Kearney 

saw at once that the house was filled with paper. The audience behaved 

indecorously, as if the concert were an informal dress rehearsal. Mr. 

Fitzpatrick seemed to enjoy himself; he was quite unconscious that Mrs. 

Kearney was taking angry note of his conduct. He stood at the edge of 

the screen, from time to time jutting out his head and exchanging a 

laugh with two friends in the corner of the balcony. In the course of 

the evening, Mrs. Kearney learned that the Friday concert was to be 

abandoned and that the committee was going to move heaven and earth to 

secure a bumper house on Saturday night. When she heard this, she sought 

out Mr. Holohan. She buttonholed him as he was limping out quickly with 

a glass of lemonade for a young lady and asked him was it true. Yes, it 

was true.

"But, of course, that doesn't alter the contract," she said. "The 

contract was for four concerts."

Mr. Holohan seemed to be in a hurry; he advised her to speak to Mr. 

Fitzpatrick. Mrs. Kearney was now beginning to be alarmed. She called 

Mr. Fitzpatrick away from his screen and told him that her daughter had 

signed for four concerts and that, of course, according to the terms 

of the contract, she should receive the sum originally stipulated for, 

whether the society gave the four concerts or not. Mr. Fitzpatrick, who 

did not catch the point at issue very quickly, seemed unable to resolve 

the difficulty and said that he would bring the matter before the 

committee. Mrs. Kearney's anger began to flutter in her cheek and she 

had all she could do to keep from asking:

"And who is the Cometty pray?"

But she knew that it would not be ladylike to do that: so she was 

silent.

Little boys were sent out into the principal streets of Dublin early on 

Friday morning with bundles of handbills. Special puffs appeared in all 

the evening papers, reminding the music loving public of the treat which 

was in store for it on the following evening. Mrs. Kearney was 

somewhat reassured, but she thought well to tell her husband part of 

her suspicions. He listened carefully and said that perhaps it would be 

better if he went with her on Saturday night. She agreed. She respected 

her husband in the same way as she respected the General Post Office, as 

something large, secure and fixed; and though she knew the small number 

of his talents she appreciated his abstract value as a male. She was 

glad that he had suggested coming with her. She thought her plans over.

The night of the grand concert came. Mrs. Kearney, with her husband and 

daughter, arrived at the Antient Concert Rooms three-quarters of an hour 

before the time at which the concert was to begin. By ill luck it was a 

rainy evening. Mrs. Kearney placed her daughter's clothes and music in 

charge of her husband and went all over the building looking for Mr. 

Holohan or Mr. Fitzpatrick. She could find neither. She asked the 

stewards was any member of the committee in the hall and, after a great 

deal of trouble, a steward brought out a little woman named Miss 

Beirne to whom Mrs. Kearney explained that she wanted to see one of the 

secretaries. Miss Beirne expected them any minute and asked could she do 

anything. Mrs. Kearney looked searchingly at the oldish face which was 

screwed into an expression of trustfulness and enthusiasm and answered:

"No, thank you!"

The little woman hoped they would have a good house. She looked out 

at the rain until the melancholy of the wet street effaced all the 

trustfulness and enthusiasm from her twisted features. Then she gave a 

little sigh and said:

"Ah, well! We did our best, the dear knows."

Mrs. Kearney had to go back to the dressing-room.

The artistes were arriving. The bass and the second tenor had already 

come. The bass, Mr. Duggan, was a slender young man with a scattered 

black moustache. He was the son of a hall porter in an office in the 

city and, as a boy, he had sung prolonged bass notes in the resounding 

hall. From this humble state he had raised himself until he had become 

a first-rate artiste. He had appeared in grand opera. One night, when an 

operatic artiste had fallen ill, he had undertaken the part of the king 

in the opera of Maritana at the Queen's Theatre. He sang his music with 

great feeling and volume and was warmly welcomed by the gallery; but, 

unfortunately, he marred the good impression by wiping his nose in his 

gloved hand once or twice out of thoughtlessness. He was unassuming and 

spoke little. He said yous so softly that it passed unnoticed and he 

never drank anything stronger than milk for his voice's sake. Mr. Bell, 

the second tenor, was a fair-haired little man who competed every year 

for prizes at the Feis Ceoil. On his fourth trial he had been awarded 

a bronze medal. He was extremely nervous and extremely jealous of 

other tenors and he covered his nervous jealousy with an ebullient 

friendliness. It was his humour to have people know what an ordeal a 

concert was to him. Therefore when he saw Mr. Duggan he went over to him 

and asked:

"Are you in it too?"

"Yes," said Mr. Duggan.

Mr. Bell laughed at his fellow-sufferer, held out his hand and said:

"Shake!"

Mrs. Kearney passed by these two young men and went to the edge of the 

screen to view the house. The seats were being filled up rapidly and a 

pleasant noise circulated in the auditorium. She came back and spoke to 

her husband privately. Their conversation was evidently about Kathleen 

for they both glanced at her often as she stood chatting to one of her 

Nationalist friends, Miss Healy, the contralto. An unknown solitary 

woman with a pale face walked through the room. The women followed with 

keen eyes the faded blue dress which was stretched upon a meagre body. 

Someone said that she was Madam Glynn, the soprano.

"I wonder where did they dig her up," said Kathleen to Miss Healy. "I'm 

sure I never heard of her."

Miss Healy had to smile. Mr. Holohan limped into the dressing-room 

at that moment and the two young ladies asked him who was the unknown 

woman. Mr. Holohan said that she was Madam Glynn from London. Madam 

Glynn took her stand in a corner of the room, holding a roll of music 

stiffly before her and from time to time changing the direction of her 

startled gaze. The shadow took her faded dress into shelter but fell 

revengefully into the little cup behind her collar-bone. The noise of 

the hall became more audible. The first tenor and the baritone arrived 

together. They were both well dressed, stout and complacent and they 

brought a breath of opulence among the company.

Mrs. Kearney brought her daughter over to them, and talked to them 

amiably. She wanted to be on good terms with them but, while she strove 

to be polite, her eyes followed Mr. Holohan in his limping and devious 

courses. As soon as she could she excused herself and went out after 

him.

"Mr. Holohan, I want to speak to you for a moment," she said.

They went down to a discreet part of the corridor. Mrs Kearney asked 

him when was her daughter going to be paid. Mr. Holohan said that Mr. 

Fitzpatrick had charge of that. Mrs. Kearney said that she didn't know 

anything about Mr. Fitzpatrick. Her daughter had signed a contract for 

eight guineas and she would have to be paid. Mr. Holohan said that it 

wasn't his business.

"Why isn't it your business?" asked Mrs. Kearney. "Didn't you yourself 

bring her the contract? Anyway, if it's not your business it's my 

business and I mean to see to it."

"You'd better speak to Mr. Fitzpatrick," said Mr. Holohan distantly.

"I don't know anything about Mr. Fitzpatrick," repeated Mrs. Kearney. "I 

have my contract, and I intend to see that it is carried out."

When she came back to the dressing-room her cheeks were slightly 

suffused. The room was lively. Two men in outdoor dress had taken 

possession of the fireplace and were chatting familiarly with Miss Healy 

and the baritone. They were the Freeman man and Mr. O'Madden Burke. The 

Freeman man had come in to say that he could not wait for the concert as 

he had to report the lecture which an American priest was giving in 

the Mansion House. He said they were to leave the report for him at the 

Freeman office and he would see that it went in. He was a grey-haired 

man, with a plausible voice and careful manners. He held an extinguished 

cigar in his hand and the aroma of cigar smoke floated near him. He had 

not intended to stay a moment because concerts and artistes bored him 

considerably but he remained leaning against the mantelpiece. Miss 

Healy stood in front of him, talking and laughing. He was old enough to 

suspect one reason for her politeness but young enough in spirit to 

turn the moment to account. The warmth, fragrance and colour of her body 

appealed to his senses. He was pleasantly conscious that the bosom which 

he saw rise and fall slowly beneath him rose and fell at that moment 

for him, that the laughter and fragrance and wilful glances were his 

tribute. When he could stay no longer he took leave of her regretfully.

"O'Madden Burke will write the notice," he explained to Mr. Holohan, 

"and I'll see it in."

"Thank you very much, Mr. Hendrick," said Mr. Holohan, "you'll see it 

in, I know. Now, won't you have a little something before you go?"

"I don't mind," said Mr. Hendrick.

The two men went along some tortuous passages and up a dark staircase 

and came to a secluded room where one of the stewards was uncorking 

bottles for a few gentlemen. One of these gentlemen was Mr. O'Madden 

Burke, who had found out the room by instinct. He was a suave, elderly 

man who balanced his imposing body, when at rest, upon a large silk 

umbrella. His magniloquent western name was the moral umbrella upon 

which he balanced the fine problem of his finances. He was widely 

respected.

While Mr. Holohan was entertaining the Freeman man Mrs. Kearney was 

speaking so animatedly to her husband that he had to ask her to lower 

her voice. The conversation of the others in the dressing-room had 

become strained. Mr. Bell, the first item, stood ready with his music 

but the accompanist made no sign. Evidently something was wrong. Mr. 

Kearney looked straight before him, stroking his beard, while Mrs. 

Kearney spoke into Kathleen's ear with subdued emphasis. From the hall 

came sounds of encouragement, clapping and stamping of feet. The 

first tenor and the baritone and Miss Healy stood together, waiting 

tranquilly, but Mr. Bell's nerves were greatly agitated because he was 

afraid the audience would think that he had come late.

Mr. Holohan and Mr. O'Madden Burke came into the room In a moment Mr. 

Holohan perceived the hush. He went over to Mrs. Kearney and spoke 

with her earnestly. While they were speaking the noise in the hall grew 

louder. Mr. Holohan became very red and excited. He spoke volubly, but 

Mrs. Kearney said curtly at intervals:

"She won't go on. She must get her eight guineas."

Mr. Holohan pointed desperately towards the hall where the audience was 

clapping and stamping. He appealed to Mr Kearney and to Kathleen. But 

Mr. Kearney continued to stroke his beard and Kathleen looked down, 

moving the point of her new shoe: it was not her fault. Mrs. Kearney 

repeated:

"She won't go on without her money."

After a swift struggle of tongues Mr. Holohan hobbled out in haste. 

The room was silent. When the strain of the silence had become somewhat 

painful Miss Healy said to the baritone:

"Have you seen Mrs. Pat Campbell this week?"

The baritone had not seen her but he had been told that she was very 

fine. The conversation went no further. The first tenor bent his head 

and began to count the links of the gold chain which was extended across 

his waist, smiling and humming random notes to observe the effect on the 

frontal sinus. From time to time everyone glanced at Mrs. Kearney.

The noise in the auditorium had risen to a clamour when Mr. Fitzpatrick 

burst into the room, followed by Mr. Holohan who was panting. The 

clapping and stamping in the hall were punctuated by whistling. Mr. 

Fitzpatrick held a few banknotes in his hand. He counted out four 

into Mrs. Kearney's hand and said she would get the other half at the 

interval. Mrs. Kearney said:

"This is four shillings short."

But Kathleen gathered in her skirt and said: "Now. Mr. Bell," to 

the first item, who was shaking like an aspen. The singer and the 

accompanist went out together. The noise in hall died away. There was a 

pause of a few seconds: and then the piano was heard.

The first part of the concert was very successful except for Madam 

Glynn's item. The poor lady sang Killarney in a bodiless gasping voice, 

with all the old-fashioned mannerisms of intonation and pronunciation 

which she believed lent elegance to her singing. She looked as if she 

had been resurrected from an old stage-wardrobe and the cheaper parts 

of the hall made fun of her high wailing notes. The first tenor and the 

contralto, however, brought down the house. Kathleen played a selection 

of Irish airs which was generously applauded. The first part closed with 

a stirring patriotic recitation delivered by a young lady who arranged 

amateur theatricals. It was deservedly applauded; and, when it was 

ended, the men went out for the interval, content.

All this time the dressing-room was a hive of excitement. In one corner 

were Mr. Holohan, Mr. Fitzpatrick, Miss Beirne, two of the stewards, the 

baritone, the bass, and Mr. O'Madden Burke. Mr. O'Madden Burke said it 

was the most scandalous exhibition he had ever witnessed. Miss Kathleen 

Kearney's musical career was ended in Dublin after that, he said. The 

baritone was asked what did he think of Mrs. Kearney's conduct. He did 

not like to say anything. He had been paid his money and wished to be at 

peace with men. However, he said that Mrs. Kearney might have taken the 

artistes into consideration. The stewards and the secretaries debated 

hotly as to what should be done when the interval came.

"I agree with Miss Beirne," said Mr. O'Madden Burke. "Pay her nothing."

In another corner of the room were Mrs. Kearney and he: husband, Mr. 

Bell, Miss Healy and the young lady who had to recite the patriotic 

piece. Mrs. Kearney said that the Committee had treated her 

scandalously. She had spared neither trouble nor expense and this was 

how she was repaid.

They thought they had only a girl to deal with and that therefore, they 

could ride roughshod over her. But she would show them their mistake. 

They wouldn't have dared to have treated her like that if she had been a 

man. But she would see that her daughter got her rights: she wouldn't 

be fooled. If they didn't pay her to the last farthing she would make 

Dublin ring. Of course she was sorry for the sake of the artistes. But 

what else could she do? She appealed to the second tenor who said he 

thought she had not been well treated. Then she appealed to Miss Healy. 

Miss Healy wanted to join the other group but she did not like to do so 

because she was a great friend of Kathleen's and the Kearneys had often 

invited her to their house.

As soon as the first part was ended Mr. Fitzpatrick and Mr. Holohan went 

over to Mrs. Kearney and told her that the other four guineas would be 

paid after the committee meeting on the following Tuesday and that, in 

case her daughter did not play for the second part, the committee would 

consider the contract broken and would pay nothing.

"I haven't seen any committee," said Mrs. Kearney angrily. "My daughter 

has her contract. She will get four pounds eight into her hand or a foot 

she won't put on that platform."

"I'm surprised at you, Mrs. Kearney," said Mr. Holohan. "I never thought 

you would treat us this way."

"And what way did you treat me?" asked Mrs. Kearney.

Her face was inundated with an angry colour and she looked as if she 

would attack someone with her hands.

"I'm asking for my rights." she said.

"You might have some sense of decency," said Mr. Holohan.

"Might I, indeed?... And when I ask when my daughter is going to be paid 

I can't get a civil answer."

She tossed her head and assumed a haughty voice:

"You must speak to the secretary. It's not my business. I'm a great 

fellow fol-the-diddle-I-do."

"I thought you were a lady," said Mr. Holohan, walking away from her 

abruptly.

After that Mrs. Kearney's conduct was condemned on all hands: everyone 

approved of what the committee had done. She stood at the door, haggard 

with rage, arguing with her husband and daughter, gesticulating with 

them. She waited until it was time for the second part to begin in the 

hope that the secretaries would approach her. But Miss Healy had kindly 

consented to play one or two accompaniments. Mrs. Kearney had to stand 

aside to allow the baritone and his accompanist to pass up to the 

platform. She stood still for an instant like an angry stone image 

and, when the first notes of the song struck her ear, she caught up her 

daughter's cloak and said to her husband:

"Get a cab!"

He went out at once. Mrs. Kearney wrapped the cloak round her daughter 

and followed him. As she passed through the doorway she stopped and 

glared into Mr. Holohan's face.

"I'm not done with you yet," she said.

"But I'm done with you," said Mr. Holohan.

Kathleen followed her mother meekly. Mr. Holohan began to pace up and 

down the room, in order to cool himself for he his skin on fire.

"That's a nice lady!" he said. "O, she's a nice lady!"

"You did the proper thing, Holohan," said Mr. O'Madden Burke, poised 

upon his umbrella in approval.

GRACE

TWO GENTLEMEN who were in the lavatory at the time tried to lift him up: 

but he was quite helpless. He lay curled up at the foot of the stairs 

down which he had fallen. They succeeded in turning him over. His hat 

had rolled a few yards away and his clothes were smeared with the filth 

and ooze of the floor on which he had lain, face downwards. His eyes 

were closed and he breathed with a grunting noise. A thin stream of 

blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

These two gentlemen and one of the curates carried him up the stairs 

and laid him down again on the floor of the bar. In two minutes he was 

surrounded by a ring of men. The manager of the bar asked everyone 

who he was and who was with him. No one knew who he was but one of the 

curates said he had served the gentleman with a small rum.

"Was he by himself?" asked the manager.

"No, sir. There was two gentlemen with him."

"And where are they?"

No one knew; a voice said:

"Give him air. He's fainted."

The ring of onlookers distended and closed again elastically. A dark 

medal of blood had formed itself near the man's head on the tessellated 

floor. The manager, alarmed by the grey pallor of the man's face, sent 

for a policeman.

His collar was unfastened and his necktie undone. He opened eyes for an 

instant, sighed and closed them again. One of gentlemen who had carried 

him upstairs held a dinged silk hat in his hand. The manager asked 

repeatedly did no one know who the injured man was or where had his 

friends gone. The door of the bar opened and an immense constable 

entered. A crowd which had followed him down the laneway collected 

outside the door, struggling to look in through the glass panels.

The manager at once began to narrate what he knew. The constable, a young 

man with thick immobile features, listened. He moved his head slowly to 

right and left and from the manager to the person on the floor, as if 

he feared to be the victim some delusion. Then he drew off his glove, 

produced a small book from his waist, licked the lead of his pencil and 

made ready to indite. He asked in a suspicious provincial accent:

"Who is the man? What's his name and address?"

A young man in a cycling-suit cleared his way through the ring of 

bystanders. He knelt down promptly beside the injured man and called for 

water. The constable knelt down also to help. The young man washed the 

blood from the injured man's mouth and then called for some brandy. The 

constable repeated the order in an authoritative voice until a curate 

came running with the glass. The brandy was forced down the man's 

throat. In a few seconds he opened his eyes and looked about him. He 

looked at the circle of faces and then, understanding, strove to rise to 

his feet.

"You're all right now?" asked the young man in the cycling-suit.

"Sha,'s nothing," said the injured man, trying to stand up.

He was helped to his feet. The manager said something about a hospital 

and some of the bystanders gave advice. The battered silk hat was placed 

on the man's head. The constable asked:

"Where do you live?"

The man, without answering, began to twirl the ends of his moustache. 

He made light of his accident. It was nothing, he said: only a little 

accident. He spoke very thickly.

"Where do you live" repeated the constable.

The man said they were to get a cab for him. While the point was being 

debated a tall agile gentleman of fair complexion, wearing a long yellow 

ulster, came from the far end of the bar. Seeing the spectacle, he 

called out:

"Hallo, Tom, old man! What's the trouble?"

"Sha,'s nothing," said the man.

The new-comer surveyed the deplorable figure before him and then turned 

to the constable, saying:

"It's all right, constable. I'll see him home."

The constable touched his helmet and answered:

"All right, Mr. Power!"

"Come now, Tom," said Mr. Power, taking his friend by the arm. "No bones 

broken. What? Can you walk?"

The young man in the cycling-suit took the man by the other arm and the 

crowd divided.

"How did you get yourself into this mess?" asked Mr. Power.

"The gentleman fell down the stairs," said the young man.

"I' 'ery 'uch o'liged to you, sir," said the injured man.

"Not at all."

"'ant we have a little...?"

"Not now. Not now."

The three men left the bar and the crowd sifted through the doors in to 

the laneway. The manager brought the constable to the stairs to inspect 

the scene of the accident. They agreed that the gentleman must have 

missed his footing. The customers returned to the counter and a curate 

set about removing the traces of blood from the floor.

When they came out into Grafton Street, Mr. Power whistled for an 

outsider. The injured man said again as well as he could.

"I' 'ery 'uch o'liged to you, sir. I hope we'll 'eet again. 'y na'e is 

Kernan."

The shock and the incipient pain had partly sobered him.

"Don't mention it," said the young man.

They shook hands. Mr. Kernan was hoisted on to the car and, while Mr. 

Power was giving directions to the carman, he expressed his gratitude 

to the young man and regretted that they could not have a little drink 

together.

"Another time," said the young man.

The car drove off towards Westmoreland Street. As it passed Ballast 

Office the clock showed half-past nine. A keen east wind hit them, 

blowing from the mouth of the river. Mr. Kernan was huddled together 

with cold. His friend asked him to tell how the accident had happened.

"I'an't 'an," he answered, "'y 'ongue is hurt."

"Show."

The other leaned over the well of the car and peered into Mr. Kernan's 

mouth but he could not see. He struck a match and, sheltering it in the 

shell of his hands, peered again into the mouth which Mr. Kernan opened 

obediently. The swaying movement of the car brought the match to and 

from the opened mouth. The lower teeth and gums were covered with 

clotted blood and a minute piece of the tongue seemed to have been 

bitten off. The match was blown out.

"That's ugly," said Mr. Power.

"Sha, 's nothing," said Mr. Kernan, closing his mouth and pulling the 

collar of his filthy coat across his neck.

Mr. Kernan was a commercial traveller of the old school which believed 

in the dignity of its calling. He had never been seen in the city 

without a silk hat of some decency and a pair of gaiters. By grace of 

these two articles of clothing, he said, a man could always pass muster. 

He carried on the tradition of his Napoleon, the great Blackwhite, whose 

memory he evoked at times by legend and mimicry. Modern business methods 

had spared him only so far as to allow him a little office in Crowe 

Street, on the window blind of which was written the name of his firm 

with the address--London, E. C. On the mantelpiece of this little office 

a little leaden battalion of canisters was drawn up and on the table 

before the window stood four or five china bowls which were usually half 

full of a black liquid. From these bowls Mr. Kernan tasted tea. He took 

a mouthful, drew it up, saturated his palate with it and then spat it 

forth into the grate. Then he paused to judge.

Mr. Power, a much younger man, was employed in the Royal Irish 

Constabulary Office in Dublin Castle. The arc of his social rise 

intersected the arc of his friend's decline, but Mr. Kernan's decline 

was mitigated by the fact that certain of those friends who had known 

him at his highest point of success still esteemed him as a character. 

Mr. Power was one of these friends. His inexplicable debts were a byword 

in his circle; he was a debonair young man.

The car halted before a small house on the Glasnevin road and Mr. Kernan 

was helped into the house. His wife put him to bed while Mr. Power sat 

downstairs in the kitchen asking the children where they went to school 

and what book they were in. The children--two girls and a boy, conscious 

of their father helplessness and of their mother's absence, began some 

horseplay with him. He was surprised at their manners and at their 

accents, and his brow grew thoughtful. After a while Mrs. Kernan entered 

the kitchen, exclaiming:

"Such a sight! O, he'll do for himself one day and that's the holy alls 

of it. He's been drinking since Friday."

Mr. Power was careful to explain to her that he was not responsible, 

that he had come on the scene by the merest accident. Mrs. Kernan, 

remembering Mr. Power's good offices during domestic quarrels, as well 

as many small, but opportune loans, said:

"O, you needn't tell me that, Mr. Power. I know you're a friend of his, 

not like some of the others he does be with. They're all right so long 

as he has money in his pocket to keep him out from his wife and family. 

Nice friends! Who was he with tonight, I'd like to know?"

Mr. Power shook his head but said nothing.

"I'm so sorry," she continued, "that I've nothing in the house to offer 

you. But if you wait a minute I'll send round to Fogarty's, at the 

corner."

Mr. Power stood up.

"We were waiting for him to come home with the money. He never seems to 

think he has a home at all."

"O, now, Mrs. Kernan," said Mr. Power, "we'll make him turn over a new 

leaf. I'll talk to Martin. He's the man. We'll come here one of these 

nights and talk it over."

She saw him to the door. The carman was stamping up and down the 

footpath, and swinging his arms to warm himself.

"It's very kind of you to bring him home," she said.

"Not at all," said Mr. Power.

He got up on the car. As it drove off he raised his hat to her gaily.

"We'll make a new man of him," he said. "Good-night, Mrs. Kernan."

Mrs. Kernan's puzzled eyes watched the car till it was out of sight. 

Then she withdrew them, went into the house and emptied her husband's 

pockets.

She was an active, practical woman of middle age. Not long before she 

had celebrated her silver wedding and renewed her intimacy with her 

husband by waltzing with him to Mr. Power's accompaniment. In her days 

of courtship, Mr. Kernan had seemed to her a not ungallant figure: and 

she still hurried to the chapel door whenever a wedding was reported 

and, seeing the bridal pair, recalled with vivid pleasure how she had 

passed out of the Star of the Sea Church in Sandymount, leaning on the 

arm of a jovial well-fed man, who was dressed smartly in a frock-coat 

and lavender trousers and carried a silk hat gracefully balanced upon 

his other arm. After three weeks she had found a wife's life irksome 

and, later on, when she was beginning to find it unbearable, she had 

become a mother. The part of mother presented to her no insuperable 

difficulties and for twenty-five years she had kept house shrewdly for 

her husband. Her two eldest sons were launched. One was in a draper's 

shop in Glasgow and the other was clerk to a tea-merchant in Belfast. 

They were good sons, wrote regularly and sometimes sent home money. The 

other children were still at school.

Mr. Kernan sent a letter to his office next day and remained in bed. She 

made beef-tea for him and scolded him roundly. She accepted his frequent 

intemperance as part of the climate, healed him dutifully whenever he 

was sick and always tried to make him eat a breakfast. There were worse 

husbands. He had never been violent since the boys had grown up, and she 

knew that he would walk to the end of Thomas Street and back again to 

book even a small order.

Two nights after, his friends came to see him. She brought them up to 

his bedroom, the air of which was impregnated with a personal odour, 

and gave them chairs at the fire. Mr. Kernan's tongue, the occasional 

stinging pain of which had made him somewhat irritable during the day, 

became more polite. He sat propped up in the bed by pillows and the 

little colour in his puffy cheeks made them resemble warm cinders. He 

apologised to his guests for the disorder of the room, but at the same 

time looked at them a little proudly, with a veteran's pride.

He was quite unconscious that he was the victim of a plot which his 

friends, Mr. Cunningham, Mr. M'Coy and Mr. Power had disclosed to Mrs. 

Kernan in the parlour. The idea been Mr. Power's, but its development 

was entrusted to Mr. Cunningham. Mr. Kernan came of Protestant stock 

and, though he had been converted to the Catholic faith at the time 

of his marriage, he had not been in the pale of the Church for twenty 

years. He was fond, moreover, of giving side-thrusts at Catholicism.

Mr. Cunningham was the very man for such a case. He was an elder 

colleague of Mr. Power. His own domestic life was very happy. People 

had great sympathy with him, for it was known that he had married an 

unpresentable woman who was an incurable drunkard. He had set up house 

for her six times; and each time she had pawned the furniture on him.

Everyone had respect for poor Martin Cunningham. He was a thoroughly 

sensible man, influential and intelligent. His blade of human knowledge, 

natural astuteness particularised by long association with cases in the 

police courts, had been tempered by brief immersions in the waters 

of general philosophy. He was well informed. His friends bowed to his 

opinions and considered that his face was like Shakespeare's.

When the plot had been disclosed to her, Mrs. Kernan had said:

"I leave it all in your hands, Mr. Cunningham."

After a quarter of a century of married life, she had very few illusions 

left. Religion for her was a habit, and she suspected that a man of her 

husband's age would not change greatly before death. She was tempted to 

see a curious appropriateness in his accident and, but that she did 

not wish to seem bloody-minded, would have told the gentlemen that 

Mr. Kernan's tongue would not suffer by being shortened. However, Mr. 

Cunningham was a capable man; and religion was religion. The scheme 

might do good and, at least, it could do no harm. Her beliefs were 

not extravagant. She believed steadily in the Sacred Heart as the 

most generally useful of all Catholic devotions and approved of the 

sacraments. Her faith was bounded by her kitchen, but, if she was put to 

it, she could believe also in the banshee and in the Holy Ghost.

The gentlemen began to talk of the accident. Mr. Cunningham said that he 

had once known a similar case. A man of seventy had bitten off a piece 

of his tongue during an epileptic fit and the tongue had filled in 

again, so that no one could see a trace of the bite.

"Well, I'm not seventy," said the invalid.

"God forbid," said Mr. Cunningham.

"It doesn't pain you now?" asked Mr. M'Coy.

Mr. M'Coy had been at one time a tenor of some reputation. His wife, who 

had been a soprano, still taught young children to play the piano at low 

terms. His line of life had not been the shortest distance between two 

points and for short periods he had been driven to live by his wits. He 

had been a clerk in the Midland Railway, a canvasser for advertisements 

for The Irish Times and for The Freeman's Journal, a town traveller 

for a coal firm on commission, a private inquiry agent, a clerk in the 

office of the Sub-Sheriff, and he had recently become secretary to the 

City Coroner. His new office made him professionally interested in Mr. 

Kernan's case.

"Pain? Not much," answered Mr. Kernan. "But it's so sickening. I feel as 

if I wanted to retch off."

"That's the boose," said Mr. Cunningham firmly.

"No," said Mr. Kernan. "I think I caught cold on the car. There's 

something keeps coming into my throat, phlegm or----"

"Mucus." said Mr. M'Coy.

"It keeps coming like from down in my throat; sickening."

"Yes, yes," said Mr. M'Coy, "that's the thorax."

He looked at Mr. Cunningham and Mr. Power at the same time with an air 

of challenge. Mr. Cunningham nodded his head rapidly and Mr. Power said:

"Ah, well, all's well that ends well."

"I'm very much obliged to you, old man," said the invalid.

Mr. Power waved his hand.

"Those other two fellows I was with----"

"Who were you with?" asked Mr. Cunningham.

"A chap. I don't know his name. Damn it now, what's his name? Little 

chap with sandy hair...."

"And who else?"

"Harford."

"Hm," said Mr. Cunningham.

When Mr. Cunningham made that remark, people were silent. It was known 

that the speaker had secret sources of information. In this case the 

monosyllable had a moral intention. Mr. Harford sometimes formed one 

of a little detachment which left the city shortly after noon on Sunday 

with the purpose of arriving as soon as possible at some public-house on 

the outskirts of the city where its members duly qualified themselves as 

bona fide travellers. But his fellow-travellers had never consented 

to overlook his origin. He had begun life as an obscure financier by 

lending small sums of money to workmen at usurious interest. Later on he 

had become the partner of a very fat, short gentleman, Mr. Goldberg, in 

the Liffey Loan Bank. Though he had never embraced more than the Jewish 

ethical code, his fellow-Catholics, whenever they had smarted in person 

or by proxy under his exactions, spoke of him bitterly as an Irish Jew 

and an illiterate, and saw divine disapproval of usury made manifest 

through the person of his idiot son. At other times they remembered his 

good points.

"I wonder where did he go to," said Mr. Kernan.

He wished the details of the incident to remain vague. He wished his 

friends to think there had been some mistake, that Mr. Harford and he 

had missed each other. His friends, who knew quite well Mr. Harford's 

manners in drinking were silent. Mr. Power said again:

"All's well that ends well."

Mr. Kernan changed the subject at once.

"That was a decent young chap, that medical fellow," he said. "Only for 

him----"

"O, only for him," said Mr. Power, "it might have been a case of seven 

days, without the option of a fine."

"Yes, yes," said Mr. Kernan, trying to remember. "I remember now there 

was a policeman. Decent young fellow, he seemed. How did it happen at 

all?"

"It happened that you were peloothered, Tom," said Mr. Cunningham 

gravely.

"True bill," said Mr. Kernan, equally gravely.

"I suppose you squared the constable, Jack," said Mr. M'Coy.

Mr. Power did not relish the use of his Christian name. He was not 

straight-laced, but he could not forget that Mr. M'Coy had recently made 

a crusade in search of valises and portmanteaus to enable Mrs. M'Coy to 

fulfil imaginary engagements in the country. More than he resented the 

fact that he had been victimised he resented such low playing of the 

game. He answered the question, therefore, as if Mr. Kernan had asked 

it.

The narrative made Mr. Kernan indignant. He was keenly conscious of his 

citizenship, wished to live with his city on terms mutually honourable 

and resented any affront put upon him by those whom he called country 

bumpkins.

"Is this what we pay rates for?" he asked. "To feed and clothe these 

ignorant bostooms... and they're nothing else."

Mr. Cunningham laughed. He was a Castle official only during office 

hours.

"How could they be anything else, Tom?" he said.

He assumed a thick, provincial accent and said in a tone of command:

"65, catch your cabbage!"

Everyone laughed. Mr. M'Coy, who wanted to enter the conversation by any 

door, pretended that he had never heard the story. Mr. Cunningham said:

"It is supposed--they say, you know--to take place in the depot where 

they get these thundering big country fellows, omadhauns, you know, to 

drill. The sergeant makes them stand in a row against the wall and hold 

up their plates."

He illustrated the story by grotesque gestures.

"At dinner, you know. Then he has a bloody big bowl of cabbage before 

him on the table and a bloody big spoon like a shovel. He takes up a wad 

of cabbage on the spoon and pegs it across the room and the poor devils 

have to try and catch it on their plates: 65, catch your cabbage."

Everyone laughed again: but Mr. Kernan was somewhat indignant still. He 

talked of writing a letter to the papers.

"These yahoos coming up here," he said, "think they can boss the people. 

I needn't tell you, Martin, what kind of men they are."

Mr. Cunningham gave a qualified assent.

"It's like everything else in this world," he said. "You get some bad 

ones and you get some good ones."

"O yes, you get some good ones, I admit," said Mr. Kernan, satisfied.

"It's better to have nothing to say to them," said Mr. M'Coy. "That's my 

opinion!"

Mrs. Kernan entered the room and, placing a tray on the table, said:

"Help yourselves, gentlemen."

Mr. Power stood up to officiate, offering her his chair. She declined 

it, saying she was ironing downstairs, and, after having exchanged a nod 

with Mr. Cunningham behind Mr. Power's back, prepared to leave the room. 

Her husband called out to her:

"And have you nothing for me, duckie?"

"O, you! The back of my hand to you!" said Mrs. Kernan tartly.

Her husband called after her:

"Nothing for poor little hubby!"

He assumed such a comical face and voice that the distribution of the 

bottles of stout took place amid general merriment.

The gentlemen drank from their glasses, set the glasses again on the 

table and paused. Then Mr. Cunningham turned towards Mr. Power and said 

casually:

"On Thursday night, you said, Jack."

"Thursday, yes," said Mr. Power.

"Righto!" said Mr. Cunningham promptly.

"We can meet in M'Auley's," said Mr. M'Coy. "That'll be the most 

convenient place."

"But we mustn't be late," said Mr. Power earnestly, "because it is sure 

to be crammed to the doors."

"We can meet at half-seven," said Mr. M'Coy.

"Righto!" said Mr. Cunningham.

"Half-seven at M'Auley's be it!"

There was a short silence. Mr. Kernan waited to see whether he would be 

taken into his friends' confidence. Then he asked:

"What's in the wind?"

"O, it's nothing," said Mr. Cunningham. "It's only a little matter that 

we're arranging about for Thursday."

"The opera, is it?" said Mr. Kernan.

"No, no," said Mr. Cunningham in an evasive tone, "it's just a little... 

spiritual matter."

"O," said Mr. Kernan.

There was silence again. Then Mr. Power said, point blank:

"To tell you the truth, Tom, we're going to make a retreat."

"Yes, that's it," said Mr. Cunningham, "Jack and I and M'Coy here--we're 

all going to wash the pot."

He uttered the metaphor with a certain homely energy and, encouraged by 

his own voice, proceeded:

"You see, we may as well all admit we're a nice collection of 

scoundrels, one and all. I say, one and all," he added with gruff 

charity and turning to Mr. Power. "Own up now!"

"I own up," said Mr. Power.

"And I own up," said Mr. M'Coy.

"So we're going to wash the pot together," said Mr. Cunningham.

A thought seemed to strike him. He turned suddenly to the invalid and 

said:

"D'ye know what, Tom, has just occurred to me? You night join in and 

we'd have a four-handed reel."

"Good idea," said Mr. Power. "The four of us together."

Mr. Kernan was silent. The proposal conveyed very little meaning to 

his mind, but, understanding that some spiritual agencies were about to 

concern themselves on his behalf, he thought he owed it to his dignity 

to show a stiff neck. He took no part in the conversation for a long 

while, but listened, with an air of calm enmity, while his friends 

discussed the Jesuits.

"I haven't such a bad opinion of the Jesuits," he said, intervening at 

length. "They're an educated order. I believe they mean well, too."

"They're the grandest order in the Church, Tom," said Mr. Cunningham, 

with enthusiasm. "The General of the Jesuits stands next to the Pope."

"There's no mistake about it," said Mr. M'Coy, "if you want a thing 

well done and no flies about, you go to a Jesuit. They're the boyos have 

influence. I'll tell you a case in point...."

"The Jesuits are a fine body of men," said Mr. Power.

"It's a curious thing," said Mr. Cunningham, "about the Jesuit Order. 

Every other order of the Church had to be reformed at some time or other 

but the Jesuit Order was never once reformed. It never fell away."

"Is that so?" asked Mr. M'Coy.

"That's a fact," said Mr. Cunningham. "That's history."

"Look at their church, too," said Mr. Power. "Look at the congregation 

they have."

"The Jesuits cater for the upper classes," said Mr. M'Coy.

"Of course," said Mr. Power.

"Yes," said Mr. Kernan. "That's why I have a feeling for them. It's some 

of those secular priests, ignorant, bumptious----"

"They're all good men," said Mr. Cunningham, "each in his own way. The 

Irish priesthood is honoured all the world over."

"O yes," said Mr. Power.

"Not like some of the other priesthoods on the continent," said Mr. 

M'Coy, "unworthy of the name."

"Perhaps you're right," said Mr. Kernan, relenting.

"Of course I'm right," said Mr. Cunningham. "I haven't been in the 

world all this time and seen most sides of it without being a judge of 

character."

The gentlemen drank again, one following another's example. Mr. Kernan 

seemed to be weighing something in his mind. He was impressed. He had a 

high opinion of Mr. Cunningham as a judge of character and as a reader 

of faces. He asked for particulars.

"O, it's just a retreat, you know," said Mr. Cunningham. "Father Purdon 

is giving it. It's for business men, you know."

"He won't be too hard on us, Tom," said Mr. Power persuasively.

"Father Purdon? Father Purdon?" said the invalid.

"O, you must know him, Tom," said Mr. Cunningham stoutly. "Fine, jolly 

fellow! He's a man of the world like ourselves."

"Ah,... yes. I think I know him. Rather red face; tall."

"That's the man."

"And tell me, Martin.... Is he a good preacher?"

"Munno.... It's not exactly a sermon, you know. It's just kind of a 

friendly talk, you know, in a common-sense way."

Mr. Kernan deliberated. Mr. M'Coy said:

"Father Tom Burke, that was the boy!"

"O, Father Tom Burke," said Mr. Cunningham, "that was a born orator. Did 

you ever hear him, Tom?"

"Did I ever hear him!" said the invalid, nettled. "Rather! I heard 

him...."

"And yet they say he wasn't much of a theologian," said Mr Cunningham.

"Is that so?" said Mr. M'Coy.

"O, of course, nothing wrong, you know. Only sometimes, they say, he 

didn't preach what was quite orthodox."

"Ah!... he was a splendid man," said Mr. M'Coy.

"I heard him once," Mr. Kernan continued. "I forget the subject of his 

discourse now. Crofton and I were in the back of the... pit, you know... 

the----"

"The body," said Mr. Cunningham.

"Yes, in the back near the door. I forget now what.... O yes, it was 

on the Pope, the late Pope. I remember it well. Upon my word it was 

magnificent, the style of the oratory. And his voice! God! hadn't he a 

voice! The Prisoner of the Vatican, he called him. I remember Crofton 

saying to me when we came out----"

"But he's an Orangeman, Crofton, isn't he?" said Mr. Power.

"'Course he is," said Mr. Kernan, "and a damned decent Orangeman too. We 

went into Butler's in Moore Street--faith, was genuinely moved, tell you 

the God's truth--and I remember well his very words. Kernan, he said, we 

worship at different altars, he said, but our belief is the same. Struck 

me as very well put."

"There's a good deal in that," said Mr. Power. "There used always be 

crowds of Protestants in the chapel where Father Tom was preaching."

"There's not much difference between us," said Mr. M'Coy.

"We both believe in----"

He hesitated for a moment.

"... in the Redeemer. Only they don't believe in the Pope and in the 

mother of God."

"But, of course," said Mr. Cunningham quietly and effectively, "our 

religion is the religion, the old, original faith."

"Not a doubt of it," said Mr. Kernan warmly.

Mrs. Kernan came to the door of the bedroom and announced:

"Here's a visitor for you!"

"Who is it?"

"Mr. Fogarty."

"O, come in! come in!"

A pale, oval face came forward into the light. The arch of its fair 

trailing moustache was repeated in the fair eyebrows looped above 

pleasantly astonished eyes. Mr. Fogarty was a modest grocer. He had 

failed in business in a licensed house in the city because his financial 

condition had constrained him to tie himself to second-class distillers 

and brewers. He had opened a small shop on Glasnevin Road where, he 

flattered himself, his manners would ingratiate him with the housewives 

of the district. He bore himself with a certain grace, complimented 

little children and spoke with a neat enunciation. He was not without 

culture.

Mr. Fogarty brought a gift with him, a half-pint of special whisky. He 

inquired politely for Mr. Kernan, placed his gift on the table and sat 

down with the company on equal terms. Mr. Kernan appreciated the gift 

all the more since he was aware that there was a small account for 

groceries unsettled between him and Mr. Fogarty. He said:

"I wouldn't doubt you, old man. Open that, Jack, will you?"

Mr. Power again officiated. Glasses were rinsed and five small 

measures of whisky were poured out. This new influence enlivened the 

conversation. Mr. Fogarty, sitting on a small area of the chair, was 

specially interested.

"Pope Leo XIII," said Mr. Cunningham, "was one of the lights of the age. 

His great idea, you know, was the union of the Latin and Greek Churches. 

That was the aim of his life."

"I often heard he was one of the most intellectual men in Europe," said 

Mr. Power. "I mean, apart from his being Pope."

"So he was," said Mr. Cunningham, "if not the most so. His motto, you 

know, as Pope, was Lux upon Lux--Light upon Light."

"No, no," said Mr. Fogarty eagerly. "I think you're wrong there. It was 

Lux in Tenebris, I think--Light in Darkness."

"O yes," said Mr. M'Coy, "Tenebrae."

"Allow me," said Mr. Cunningham positively, "it was Lux upon Lux. And 

Pius IX his predecessor's motto was Crux upon Crux--that is, Cross upon 

Cross--to show the difference between their two pontificates."

The inference was allowed. Mr. Cunningham continued.

"Pope Leo, you know, was a great scholar and a poet."

"He had a strong face," said Mr. Kernan.

"Yes," said Mr. Cunningham. "He wrote Latin poetry."

"Is that so?" said Mr. Fogarty.

Mr. M'Coy tasted his whisky contentedly and shook his head with a double 

intention, saying:

"That's no joke, I can tell you."

"We didn't learn that, Tom," said Mr. Power, following Mr. M'Coy's 

example, "when we went to the penny-a-week school."

"There was many a good man went to the penny-a-week school with a sod 

of turf under his oxter," said Mr. Kernan sententiously. "The old system 

was the best: plain honest education. None of your modern trumpery...."

"Quite right," said Mr. Power.

"No superfluities," said Mr. Fogarty.

He enunciated the word and then drank gravely.

"I remember reading," said Mr. Cunningham, "that one of Pope Leo's poems 

was on the invention of the photograph--in Latin, of course."

"On the photograph!" exclaimed Mr. Kernan.

"Yes," said Mr. Cunningham.

He also drank from his glass.

"Well, you know," said Mr. M'Coy, "isn't the photograph wonderful when 

you come to think of it?"

"O, of course," said Mr. Power, "great minds can see things."

"As the poet says: Great minds are very near to madness," said Mr. 

Fogarty.

Mr. Kernan seemed to be troubled in mind. He made an effort to recall 

the Protestant theology on some thorny points and in the end addressed 

Mr. Cunningham.

"Tell me, Martin," he said. "Weren't some of the popes--of course, not 

our present man, or his predecessor, but some of the old popes--not 

exactly... you know... up to the knocker?"

There was a silence. Mr. Cunningham said

"O, of course, there were some bad lots... But the astonishing thing 

is this. Not one of them, not the biggest drunkard, not the most... 

out-and-out ruffian, not one of them ever preached ex cathedra a word of 

false doctrine. Now isn't that an astonishing thing?"

"That is," said Mr. Kernan.

"Yes, because when the Pope speaks ex cathedra," Mr. Fogarty explained, 

"he is infallible."

"Yes," said Mr. Cunningham.

"O, I know about the infallibility of the Pope. I remember I was younger 

then.... Or was it that----?"

Mr. Fogarty interrupted. He took up the bottle and helped the others to 

a little more. Mr. M'Coy, seeing that there was not enough to go round, 

pleaded that he had not finished his first measure. The others accepted 

under protest. The light music of whisky falling into glasses made an 

agreeable interlude.

"What's that you were saying, Tom?" asked Mr. M'Coy.

"Papal infallibility," said Mr. Cunningham, "that was the greatest scene 

in the whole history of the Church."

"How was that, Martin?" asked Mr. Power.

Mr. Cunningham held up two thick fingers.

"In the sacred college, you know, of cardinals and archbishops and 

bishops there were two men who held out against it while the others were 

all for it. The whole conclave except these two was unanimous. No! They 

wouldn't have it!"

"Ha!" said Mr. M'Coy.

"And they were a German cardinal by the name of Dolling... or Dowling... 

or----"

"Dowling was no German, and that's a sure five," said Mr. Power, 

laughing.

"Well, this great German cardinal, whatever his name was, was one; and 

the other was John MacHale."

"What?" cried Mr. Kernan. "Is it John of Tuam?"

"Are you sure of that now?" asked Mr. Fogarty dubiously. "I thought it 

was some Italian or American."

"John of Tuam," repeated Mr. Cunningham, "was the man."

He drank and the other gentlemen followed his lead. Then he resumed:

"There they were at it, all the cardinals and bishops and archbishops 

from all the ends of the earth and these two fighting dog and devil 

until at last the Pope himself stood up and declared infallibility a 

dogma of the Church ex cathedra. On the very moment John MacHale, who 

had been arguing and arguing against it, stood up and shouted out with 

the voice of a lion: 'Credo!'"

"I believe!" said Mr. Fogarty.

"Credo!" said Mr. Cunningham "That showed the faith he had. He submitted 

the moment the Pope spoke."

"And what about Dowling?" asked Mr. M'Coy.

"The German cardinal wouldn't submit. He left the church."

Mr. Cunningham's words had built up the vast image of the church in the 

minds of his hearers. His deep, raucous voice had thrilled them as it 

uttered the word of belief and submission. When Mrs. Kernan came into 

the room, drying her hands she came into a solemn company. She did not 

disturb the silence, but leaned over the rail at the foot of the bed.

"I once saw John MacHale," said Mr. Kernan, "and I'll never forget it as 

long as I live."

He turned towards his wife to be confirmed.

"I often told you that?"

Mrs. Kernan nodded.

"It was at the unveiling of Sir John Gray's statue. Edmund Dwyer 

Gray was speaking, blathering away, and here was this old fellow, 

crabbed-looking old chap, looking at him from under his bushy eyebrows."

Mr. Kernan knitted his brows and, lowering his head like an angry bull, 

glared at his wife.

"God!" he exclaimed, resuming his natural face, "I never saw such an eye 

in a man's head. It was as much as to say: I have you properly taped, my 

lad. He had an eye like a hawk."

"None of the Grays was any good," said Mr. Power.

There was a pause again. Mr. Power turned to Mrs. Kernan and said with 

abrupt joviality:

"Well, Mrs. Kernan, we're going to make your man here a good holy pious 

and God-fearing Roman Catholic."

He swept his arm round the company inclusively.

"We're all going to make a retreat together and confess our sins--and 

God knows we want it badly."

"I don't mind," said Mr. Kernan, smiling a little nervously.

Mrs. Kernan thought it would be wiser to conceal her satisfaction. So 

she said:

"I pity the poor priest that has to listen to your tale."

Mr. Kernan's expression changed.

"If he doesn't like it," he said bluntly, "he can... do the other thing. 

I'll just tell him my little tale of woe. I'm not such a bad fellow----"

Mr. Cunningham intervened promptly.

"We'll all renounce the devil," he said, "together, not forgetting his 

works and pomps."

"Get behind me, Satan!" said Mr. Fogarty, laughing and looking at the 

others.

Mr. Power said nothing. He felt completely out-generalled. But a pleased 

expression flickered across his face.

"All we have to do," said Mr. Cunningham, "is to stand up with lighted 

candles in our hands and renew our baptismal vows."

"O, don't forget the candle, Tom," said Mr. M'Coy, "whatever you do."

"What?" said Mr. Kernan. "Must I have a candle?"

"O yes," said Mr. Cunningham.

"No, damn it all," said Mr. Kernan sensibly, "I draw the line there. 

I'll do the job right enough. I'll do the retreat business and 

confession, and... all that business. But... no candles! No, damn it 

all, I bar the candles!"

He shook his head with farcical gravity.

"Listen to that!" said his wife.

"I bar the candles," said Mr. Kernan, conscious of having created an 

effect on his audience and continuing to shake his head to and fro. "I 

bar the magic-lantern business."

Everyone laughed heartily.

"There's a nice Catholic for you!" said his wife.

"No candles!" repeated Mr. Kernan obdurately. "That's off!"

The transept of the Jesuit Church in Gardiner Street was almost full; 

and still at every moment gentlemen entered from the side door and, 

directed by the lay-brother, walked on tiptoe along the aisles until 

they found seating accommodation. The gentlemen were all well dressed 

and orderly. The light of the lamps of the church fell upon an assembly 

of black clothes and white collars, relieved here and there by tweeds, 

on dark mottled pillars of green marble and on lugubrious canvases. The 

gentlemen sat in the benches, having hitched their trousers slightly 

above their knees and laid their hats in security. They sat well back 

and gazed formally at the distant speck of red light which was suspended 

before the high altar.

In one of the benches near the pulpit sat Mr. Cunningham and Mr. Kernan. 

In the bench behind sat Mr. M'Coy alone: and in the bench behind him sat 

Mr. Power and Mr. Fogarty. Mr. M'Coy had tried unsuccessfully to find a 

place in the bench with the others, and, when the party had settled down 

in the form of a quincunx, he had tried unsuccessfully to make comic 

remarks. As these had not been well received, he had desisted. Even he 

was sensible of the decorous atmosphere and even he began to respond to 

the religious stimulus. In a whisper, Mr. Cunningham drew Mr. Kernan's 

attention to Mr. Harford, the moneylender, who sat some distance off, 

and to Mr. Fanning, the registration agent and mayor maker of the city, 

who was sitting immediately under the pulpit beside one of the newly 

elected councillors of the ward. To the right sat old Michael Grimes, 

the owner of three pawnbroker's shops, and Dan Hogan's nephew, who was 

up for the job in the Town Clerk's office. Farther in front sat 

Mr. Hendrick, the chief reporter of The Freeman's Journal, and poor 

O'Carroll, an old friend of Mr. Kernan's, who had been at one time a 

considerable commercial figure. Gradually, as he recognised familiar 

faces, Mr. Kernan began to feel more at home. His hat, which had been 

rehabilitated by his wife, rested upon his knees. Once or twice he 

pulled down his cuffs with one hand while he held the brim of his hat 

lightly, but firmly, with the other hand.

A powerful-looking figure, the upper part of which was draped with 

a white surplice, was observed to be struggling into the pulpit. 

Simultaneously the congregation unsettled, produced handkerchiefs and 

knelt upon them with care. Mr. Kernan followed the general example. The 

priest's figure now stood upright in the pulpit, two-thirds of its bulk, 

crowned by a massive red face, appearing above the balustrade.

Father Purdon knelt down, turned towards the red speck of light 

and, covering his face with his hands, prayed. After an interval, he 

uncovered his face and rose. The congregation rose also and settled 

again on its benches. Mr. Kernan restored his hat to its original 

position on his knee and presented an attentive face to the preacher. 

The preacher turned back each wide sleeve of his surplice with an 

elaborate large gesture and slowly surveyed the array of faces. Then he 

said:

"For the children of this world are wiser in their generation than the 

children of light. Wherefore make unto yourselves friends out of the 

mammon of iniquity so that when you die they may receive you into 

everlasting dwellings."

Father Purdon developed the text with resonant assurance. It was one of 

the most difficult texts in all the Scriptures, he said, to interpret 

properly. It was a text which might seem to the casual observer at 

variance with the lofty morality elsewhere preached by Jesus Christ. 

But, he told his hearers, the text had seemed to him specially adapted 

for the guidance of those whose lot it was to lead the life of the world 

and who yet wished to lead that life not in the manner of worldlings. It 

was a text for business men and professional men. Jesus Christ with His 

divine understanding of every cranny of our human nature, understood 

that all men were not called to the religious life, that by far the vast 

majority were forced to live in the world, and, to a certain extent, 

for the world: and in this sentence He designed to give them a word of 

counsel, setting before them as exemplars in the religious life those 

very worshippers of Mammon who were of all men the least solicitous in 

matters religious.

He told his hearers that he was there that evening for no terrifying, 

no extravagant purpose; but as a man of the world speaking to his 

fellow-men. He came to speak to business men and he would speak to them 

in a businesslike way. If he might use the metaphor, he said, he was 

their spiritual accountant; and he wished each and every one of his 

hearers to open his books, the books of his spiritual life, and see if 

they tallied accurately with conscience.

Jesus Christ was not a hard taskmaster. He understood our little 

failings, understood the weakness of our poor fallen nature, understood 

the temptations of this life. We might have had, we all had from time to 

time, our temptations: we might have, we all had, our failings. But one 

thing only, he said, he would ask of his hearers. And that was: to be 

straight and manly with God. If their accounts tallied in every point to 

say:

"Well, I have verified my accounts. I find all well."

But if, as might happen, there were some discrepancies, to admit the 

truth, to be frank and say like a man:

"Well, I have looked into my accounts. I find this wrong and this wrong. 

But, with God's grace, I will rectify this and this. I will set right my 

accounts."

THE DEAD

LILY, the caretaker's daughter, was literally run off her feet. Hardly 

had she brought one gentleman into the little pantry behind the office 

on the ground floor and helped him off with his overcoat than the wheezy 

hall-door bell clanged again and she had to scamper along the bare 

hallway to let in another guest. It was well for her she had not to 

attend to the ladies also. But Miss Kate and Miss Julia had thought 

of that and had converted the bathroom upstairs into a ladies' 

dressing-room. Miss Kate and Miss Julia were there, gossiping and 

laughing and fussing, walking after each other to the head of the 

stairs, peering down over the banisters and calling down to Lily to ask 

her who had come.

It was always a great affair, the Misses Morkan's annual dance. 

Everybody who knew them came to it, members of the family, old friends 

of the family, the members of Julia's choir, any of Kate's pupils that 

were grown up enough, and even some of Mary Jane's pupils too. Never 

once had it fallen flat. For years and years it had gone off in splendid 

style, as long as anyone could remember; ever since Kate and Julia, 

after the death of their brother Pat, had left the house in Stoney 

Batter and taken Mary Jane, their only niece, to live with them in the 

dark, gaunt house on Usher's Island, the upper part of which they had 

rented from Mr. Fulham, the corn-factor on the ground floor. That was a 

good thirty years ago if it was a day. Mary Jane, who was then a little 

girl in short clothes, was now the main prop of the household, for she 

had the organ in Haddington Road. She had been through the Academy 

and gave a pupils' concert every year in the upper room of the Antient 

Concert Rooms. Many of her pupils belonged to the better-class families 

on the Kingstown and Dalkey line. Old as they were, her aunts also did 

their share. Julia, though she was quite grey, was still the leading 

soprano in Adam and Eve's, and Kate, being too feeble to go about much, 

gave music lessons to beginners on the old square piano in the back 

room. Lily, the caretaker's daughter, did housemaid's work for them. 

Though their life was modest, they believed in eating well; the best 

of everything: diamond-bone sirloins, three-shilling tea and the best 

bottled stout. But Lily seldom made a mistake in the orders, so that she 

got on well with her three mistresses. They were fussy, that was all. 

But the only thing they would not stand was back answers.

Of course, they had good reason to be fussy on such a night. And then it 

was long after ten o'clock and yet there was no sign of Gabriel and his 

wife. Besides they were dreadfully afraid that Freddy Malins might 

turn up screwed. They would not wish for worlds that any of Mary Jane's 

pupils should see him under the influence; and when he was like that it 

was sometimes very hard to manage him. Freddy Malins always came late, 

but they wondered what could be keeping Gabriel: and that was what 

brought them every two minutes to the banisters to ask Lily had Gabriel 

or Freddy come.

"O, Mr. Conroy," said Lily to Gabriel when she opened the door for him, 

"Miss Kate and Miss Julia thought you were never coming. Good-night, 

Mrs. Conroy."

"I'll engage they did," said Gabriel, "but they forget that my wife here 

takes three mortal hours to dress herself."

He stood on the mat, scraping the snow from his goloshes, while Lily led 

his wife to the foot of the stairs and called out:

"Miss Kate, here's Mrs. Conroy."

Kate and Julia came toddling down the dark stairs at once. Both of them 

kissed Gabriel's wife, said she must be perished alive, and asked was 

Gabriel with her.

"Here I am as right as the mail, Aunt Kate! Go on up. I'll follow," 

called out Gabriel from the dark.

He continued scraping his feet vigorously while the three women went 

upstairs, laughing, to the ladies' dressing-room. A light fringe of snow 

lay like a cape on the shoulders of his overcoat and like toecaps on the 

toes of his goloshes; and, as the buttons of his overcoat slipped with a 

squeaking noise through the snow-stiffened frieze, a cold, fragrant air 

from out-of-doors escaped from crevices and folds.

"Is it snowing again, Mr. Conroy?" asked Lily.

She had preceded him into the pantry to help him off with his overcoat. 

Gabriel smiled at the three syllables she had given his surname and 

glanced at her. She was a slim; growing girl, pale in complexion and 

with hay-coloured hair. The gas in the pantry made her look still paler. 

Gabriel had known her when she was a child and used to sit on the lowest 

step nursing a rag doll.

"Yes, Lily," he answered, "and I think we're in for a night of it."

He looked up at the pantry ceiling, which was shaking with the stamping 

and shuffling of feet on the floor above, listened for a moment to 

the piano and then glanced at the girl, who was folding his overcoat 

carefully at the end of a shelf.

"Tell me. Lily," he said in a friendly tone, "do you still go to 

school?"

"O no, sir," she answered. "I'm done schooling this year and more."

"O, then," said Gabriel gaily, "I suppose we'll be going to your wedding 

one of these fine days with your young man, eh?"

The girl glanced back at him over her shoulder and said with great 

bitterness:

"The men that is now is only all palaver and what they can get out of 

you."

Gabriel coloured, as if he felt he had made a mistake and, without 

looking at her, kicked off his goloshes and flicked actively with his 

muffler at his patent-leather shoes.

He was a stout, tallish young man. The high colour of his cheeks 

pushed upwards even to his forehead, where it scattered itself in a 

few formless patches of pale red; and on his hairless face there 

scintillated restlessly the polished lenses and the bright gilt rims of 

the glasses which screened his delicate and restless eyes. His glossy 

black hair was parted in the middle and brushed in a long curve behind 

his ears where it curled slightly beneath the groove left by his hat.

When he had flicked lustre into his shoes he stood up and pulled his 

waistcoat down more tightly on his plump body. Then he took a coin 

rapidly from his pocket.

"O Lily," he said, thrusting it into her hands, "it's Christmastime, 

isn't it? Just... here's a little...."

He walked rapidly towards the door.

"O no, sir!" cried the girl, following him. "Really, sir, I wouldn't 

take it."

"Christmas-time! Christmas-time!" said Gabriel, almost trotting to the 

stairs and waving his hand to her in deprecation.

The girl, seeing that he had gained the stairs, called out after him:

"Well, thank you, sir."

He waited outside the drawing-room door until the waltz should finish, 

listening to the skirts that swept against it and to the shuffling of 

feet. He was still discomposed by the girl's bitter and sudden retort. 

It had cast a gloom over him which he tried to dispel by arranging his 

cuffs and the bows of his tie. He then took from his waistcoat pocket a 

little paper and glanced at the headings he had made for his speech. He 

was undecided about the lines from Robert Browning, for he feared they 

would be above the heads of his hearers. Some quotation that they would 

recognise from Shakespeare or from the Melodies would be better. The 

indelicate clacking of the men's heels and the shuffling of their soles 

reminded him that their grade of culture differed from his. He would 

only make himself ridiculous by quoting poetry to them which they 

could not understand. They would think that he was airing his superior 

education. He would fail with them just as he had failed with the girl 

in the pantry. He had taken up a wrong tone. His whole speech was a 

mistake from first to last, an utter failure.

Just then his aunts and his wife came out of the ladies' dressing-room. 

His aunts were two small, plainly dressed old women. Aunt Julia was an 

inch or so the taller. Her hair, drawn low over the tops of her ears, 

was grey; and grey also, with darker shadows, was her large flaccid 

face. Though she was stout in build and stood erect, her slow eyes and 

parted lips gave her the appearance of a woman who did not know where 

she was or where she was going. Aunt Kate was more vivacious. Her 

face, healthier than her sister's, was all puckers and creases, like a 

shrivelled red apple, and her hair, braided in the same old-fashioned 

way, had not lost its ripe nut colour.

They both kissed Gabriel frankly. He was their favourite nephew the son 

of their dead elder sister, Ellen, who had married T. J. Conroy of the 

Port and Docks.

"Gretta tells me you're not going to take a cab back to Monkstown 

tonight, Gabriel," said Aunt Kate.

"No," said Gabriel, turning to his wife, "we had quite enough of that 

last year, hadn't we? Don't you remember, Aunt Kate, what a cold Gretta 

got out of it? Cab windows rattling all the way, and the east wind 

blowing in after we passed Merrion. Very jolly it was. Gretta caught a 

dreadful cold."

Aunt Kate frowned severely and nodded her head at every word.

"Quite right, Gabriel, quite right," she said. "You can't be too 

careful."

"But as for Gretta there," said Gabriel, "she'd walk home in the snow if 

she were let."

Mrs. Conroy laughed.

"Don't mind him, Aunt Kate," she said. "He's really an awful bother, 

what with green shades for Tom's eyes at night and making him do the 

dumb-bells, and forcing Eva to eat the stirabout. The poor child! And 

she simply hates the sight of it!... O, but you'll never guess what he 

makes me wear now!"

She broke out into a peal of laughter and glanced at her husband, whose 

admiring and happy eyes had been wandering from her dress to her face 

and hair. The two aunts laughed heartily, too, for Gabriel's solicitude 

was a standing joke with them.

"Goloshes!" said Mrs. Conroy. "That's the latest. Whenever it's wet 

underfoot I must put on my galoshes. Tonight even, he wanted me to put 

them on, but I wouldn't. The next thing he'll buy me will be a diving 

suit."

Gabriel laughed nervously and patted his tie reassuringly, while Aunt 

Kate nearly doubled herself, so heartily did she enjoy the joke. The 

smile soon faded from Aunt Julia's face and her mirthless eyes were 

directed towards her nephew's face. After a pause she asked:

"And what are goloshes, Gabriel?"

"Goloshes, Julia!" exclaimed her sister "Goodness me, don't you know 

what goloshes are? You wear them over your... over your boots, Gretta, 

isn't it?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Conroy. "Guttapercha things. We both have a pair now. 

Gabriel says everyone wears them on the Continent."

"O, on the Continent," murmured Aunt Julia, nodding her head slowly.

Gabriel knitted his brows and said, as if he were slightly angered:

"It's nothing very wonderful, but Gretta thinks it very funny because 

she says the word reminds her of Christy Minstrels."

"But tell me, Gabriel," said Aunt Kate, with brisk tact. "Of course, 

you've seen about the room. Gretta was saying..."

"O, the room is all right," replied Gabriel. "I've taken one in the 

Gresham."

"To be sure," said Aunt Kate, "by far the best thing to do. And the 

children, Gretta, you're not anxious about them?"

"O, for one night," said Mrs. Conroy. "Besides, Bessie will look after 

them."

"To be sure," said Aunt Kate again. "What a comfort it is to have a girl 

like that, one you can depend on! There's that Lily, I'm sure I don't 

know what has come over her lately. She's not the girl she was at all."

Gabriel was about to ask his aunt some questions on this point, but she 

broke off suddenly to gaze after her sister, who had wandered down the 

stairs and was craning her neck over the banisters.

"Now, I ask you," she said almost testily, "where is Julia going? Julia! 

Julia! Where are you going?"

Julia, who had gone half way down one flight, came back and announced 

blandly:

"Here's Freddy."

At the same moment a clapping of hands and a final flourish of the 

pianist told that the waltz had ended. The drawing-room door was opened 

from within and some couples came out. Aunt Kate drew Gabriel aside 

hurriedly and whispered into his ear:

"Slip down, Gabriel, like a good fellow and see if he's all right, and 

don't let him up if he's screwed. I'm sure he's screwed. I'm sure he 

is."

Gabriel went to the stairs and listened over the banisters. He could 

hear two persons talking in the pantry. Then he recognised Freddy 

Malins' laugh. He went down the stairs noisily.

"It's such a relief," said Aunt Kate to Mrs. Conroy, "that Gabriel is 

here. I always feel easier in my mind when he's here.... Julia, there's 

Miss Daly and Miss Power will take some refreshment. Thanks for your 

beautiful waltz, Miss Daly. It made lovely time."

A tall wizen-faced man, with a stiff grizzled moustache and swarthy 

skin, who was passing out with his partner, said:

"And may we have some refreshment, too, Miss Morkan?"

"Julia," said Aunt Kate summarily, "and here's Mr. Browne and Miss 

Furlong. Take them in, Julia, with Miss Daly and Miss Power."

"I'm the man for the ladies," said Mr. Browne, pursing his lips until 

his moustache bristled and smiling in all his wrinkles. "You know, Miss 

Morkan, the reason they are so fond of me is----"

He did not finish his sentence, but, seeing that Aunt Kate was out of 

earshot, at once led the three young ladies into the back room. The 

middle of the room was occupied by two square tables placed end to 

end, and on these Aunt Julia and the caretaker were straightening 

and smoothing a large cloth. On the sideboard were arrayed dishes and 

plates, and glasses and bundles of knives and forks and spoons. The top 

of the closed square piano served also as a sideboard for viands 

and sweets. At a smaller sideboard in one corner two young men were 

standing, drinking hop-bitters.

Mr. Browne led his charges thither and invited them all, in jest, to 

some ladies' punch, hot, strong and sweet. As they said they never took 

anything strong, he opened three bottles of lemonade for them. Then 

he asked one of the young men to move aside, and, taking hold of the 

decanter, filled out for himself a goodly measure of whisky. The young 

men eyed him respectfully while he took a trial sip.

"God help me," he said, smiling, "it's the doctor's orders."

His wizened face broke into a broader smile, and the three young ladies 

laughed in musical echo to his pleasantry, swaying their bodies to and 

fro, with nervous jerks of their shoulders. The boldest said:

"O, now, Mr. Browne, I'm sure the doctor never ordered anything of the 

kind."

Mr. Browne took another sip of his whisky and said, with sidling 

mimicry:

"Well, you see, I'm like the famous Mrs. Cassidy, who is reported to 

have said: 'Now, Mary Grimes, if I don't take it, make me take it, for I 

feel I want it.'"

His hot face had leaned forward a little too confidentially and he had 

assumed a very low Dublin accent so that the young ladies, with one 

instinct, received his speech in silence. Miss Furlong, who was one 

of Mary Jane's pupils, asked Miss Daly what was the name of the pretty 

waltz she had played; and Mr. Browne, seeing that he was ignored, turned 

promptly to the two young men who were more appreciative.

A red-faced young woman, dressed in pansy, came into the room, excitedly 

clapping her hands and crying:

"Quadrilles! Quadrilles!"

Close on her heels came Aunt Kate, crying:

"Two gentlemen and three ladies, Mary Jane!"

"O, here's Mr. Bergin and Mr. Kerrigan," said Mary Jane. "Mr. Kerrigan, 

will you take Miss Power? Miss Furlong, may I get you a partner, Mr. 

Bergin. O, that'll just do now."

"Three ladies, Mary Jane," said Aunt Kate.

The two young gentlemen asked the ladies if they might have the 

pleasure, and Mary Jane turned to Miss Daly.

"O, Miss Daly, you're really awfully good, after playing for the last 

two dances, but really we're so short of ladies tonight."

"I don't mind in the least, Miss Morkan."

"But I've a nice partner for you, Mr. Bartell D'Arcy, the tenor. I'll 

get him to sing later on. All Dublin is raving about him."

"Lovely voice, lovely voice!" said Aunt Kate.

As the piano had twice begun the prelude to the first figure Mary Jane 

led her recruits quickly from the room. They had hardly gone when Aunt 

Julia wandered slowly into the room, looking behind her at something.

"What is the matter, Julia?" asked Aunt Kate anxiously. "Who is it?"

Julia, who was carrying in a column of table-napkins, turned to her 

sister and said, simply, as if the question had surprised her:

"It's only Freddy, Kate, and Gabriel with him."

In fact right behind her Gabriel could be seen piloting Freddy Malins 

across the landing. The latter, a young man of about forty, was of 

Gabriel's size and build, with very round shoulders. His face was fleshy 

and pallid, touched with colour only at the thick hanging lobes of his 

ears and at the wide wings of his nose. He had coarse features, a 

blunt nose, a convex and receding brow, tumid and protruded lips. His 

heavy-lidded eyes and the disorder of his scanty hair made him look 

sleepy. He was laughing heartily in a high key at a story which he had 

been telling Gabriel on the stairs and at the same time rubbing the 

knuckles of his left fist backwards and forwards into his left eye.

"Good-evening, Freddy," said Aunt Julia.

Freddy Malins bade the Misses Morkan good-evening in what seemed an 

offhand fashion by reason of the habitual catch in his voice and then, 

seeing that Mr. Browne was grinning at him from the sideboard, crossed 

the room on rather shaky legs and began to repeat in an undertone the 

story he had just told to Gabriel.

"He's not so bad, is he?" said Aunt Kate to Gabriel.

Gabriel's brows were dark but he raised them quickly and answered:

"O, no, hardly noticeable."

"Now, isn't he a terrible fellow!" she said. "And his poor mother made 

him take the pledge on New Year's Eve. But come on, Gabriel, into the 

drawing-room."

Before leaving the room with Gabriel she signalled to Mr. Browne by 

frowning and shaking her forefinger in warning to and fro. Mr. Browne 

nodded in answer and, when she had gone, said to Freddy Malins:

"Now, then, Teddy, I'm going to fill you out a good glass of lemonade 

just to buck you up."

Freddy Malins, who was nearing the climax of his story, waved the offer 

aside impatiently but Mr. Browne, having first called Freddy Malins' 

attention to a disarray in his dress, filled out and handed him a 

full glass of lemonade. Freddy Malins' left hand accepted the 

glass mechanically, his right hand being engaged in the mechanical 

readjustment of his dress. Mr. Browne, whose face was once more 

wrinkling with mirth, poured out for himself a glass of whisky while 

Freddy Malins exploded, before he had well reached the climax of his 

story, in a kink of high-pitched bronchitic laughter and, setting down 

his untasted and overflowing glass, began to rub the knuckles of his 

left fist backwards and forwards into his left eye, repeating words of 

his last phrase as well as his fit of laughter would allow him.

Gabriel could not listen while Mary Jane was playing her Academy piece, 

full of runs and difficult passages, to the hushed drawing-room. He 

liked music but the piece she was playing had no melody for him and he 

doubted whether it had any melody for the other listeners, though they 

had begged Mary Jane to play something. Four young men, who had come 

from the refreshment-room to stand in the doorway at the sound of the 

piano, had gone away quietly in couples after a few minutes. The only 

persons who seemed to follow the music were Mary Jane herself, her hands 

racing along the key-board or lifted from it at the pauses like those 

of a priestess in momentary imprecation, and Aunt Kate standing at her 

elbow to turn the page.

Gabriel's eyes, irritated by the floor, which glittered with beeswax 

under the heavy chandelier, wandered to the wall above the piano. A 

picture of the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet hung there and beside 

it was a picture of the two murdered princes in the Tower which Aunt 

Julia had worked in red, blue and brown wools when she was a girl. 

Probably in the school they had gone to as girls that kind of work had 

been taught for one year. His mother had worked for him as a birthday 

present a waistcoat of purple tabinet, with little foxes' heads upon it, 

lined with brown satin and having round mulberry buttons. It was strange 

that his mother had had no musical talent though Aunt Kate used to call 

her the brains carrier of the Morkan family. Both she and Julia had 

always seemed a little proud of their serious and matronly sister. Her 

photograph stood before the pierglass. She held an open book on her 

knees and was pointing out something in it to Constantine who, dressed 

in a man-o-war suit, lay at her feet. It was she who had chosen the name 

of her sons for she was very sensible of the dignity of family life. 

Thanks to her, Constantine was now senior curate in Balbrigan and, 

thanks to her, Gabriel himself had taken his degree in the Royal 

University. A shadow passed over his face as he remembered her sullen 

opposition to his marriage. Some slighting phrases she had used still 

rankled in his memory; she had once spoken of Gretta as being country 

cute and that was not true of Gretta at all. It was Gretta who had 

nursed her during all her last long illness in their house at Monkstown.

He knew that Mary Jane must be near the end of her piece for she was 

playing again the opening melody with runs of scales after every bar and 

while he waited for the end the resentment died down in his heart. 

The piece ended with a trill of octaves in the treble and a final deep 

octave in the bass. Great applause greeted Mary Jane as, blushing and 

rolling up her music nervously, she escaped from the room. The most 

vigorous clapping came from the four young men in the doorway who had 

gone away to the refreshment-room at the beginning of the piece but had 

come back when the piano had stopped.

Lancers were arranged. Gabriel found himself partnered with Miss Ivors. 

She was a frank-mannered talkative young lady, with a freckled face and 

prominent brown eyes. She did not wear a low-cut bodice and the large 

brooch which was fixed in the front of her collar bore on it an Irish 

device and motto.

When they had taken their places she said abruptly:

"I have a crow to pluck with you."

"With me?" said Gabriel.

She nodded her head gravely.

"What is it?" asked Gabriel, smiling at her solemn manner.

"Who is G. C.?" answered Miss Ivors, turning her eyes upon him.

Gabriel coloured and was about to knit his brows, as if he did not 

understand, when she said bluntly:

"O, innocent Amy! I have found out that you write for The Daily Express. 

Now, aren't you ashamed of yourself?"

"Why should I be ashamed of myself?" asked Gabriel, blinking his eyes 

and trying to smile.

"Well, I'm ashamed of you," said Miss Ivors frankly. "To say you'd write 

for a paper like that. I didn't think you were a West Briton."

A look of perplexity appeared on Gabriel's face. It was true that he 

wrote a literary column every Wednesday in The Daily Express, for which 

he was paid fifteen shillings. But that did not make him a West Briton 

surely. The books he received for review were almost more welcome than 

the paltry cheque. He loved to feel the covers and turn over the pages 

of newly printed books. Nearly every day when his teaching in the 

college was ended he used to wander down the quays to the second-hand 

booksellers, to Hickey's on Bachelor's Walk, to Web's or Massey's on 

Aston's Quay, or to O'Clohissey's in the bystreet. He did not know how 

to meet her charge. He wanted to say that literature was above politics. 

But they were friends of many years' standing and their careers had been 

parallel, first at the University and then as teachers: he could not 

risk a grandiose phrase with her. He continued blinking his eyes and 

trying to smile and murmured lamely that he saw nothing political in 

writing reviews of books.

When their turn to cross had come he was still perplexed and 

inattentive. Miss Ivors promptly took his hand in a warm grasp and said 

in a soft friendly tone:

"Of course, I was only joking. Come, we cross now."

When they were together again she spoke of the University question and 

Gabriel felt more at ease. A friend of hers had shown her his review 

of Browning's poems. That was how she had found out the secret: but she 

liked the review immensely. Then she said suddenly:

"O, Mr. Conroy, will you come for an excursion to the Aran Isles this 

summer? We're going to stay there a whole month. It will be splendid 

out in the Atlantic. You ought to come. Mr. Clancy is coming, and Mr. 

Kilkelly and Kathleen Kearney. It would be splendid for Gretta too if 

she'd come. She's from Connacht, isn't she?"

"Her people are," said Gabriel shortly.

"But you will come, won't you?" said Miss Ivors, laying her arm hand 

eagerly on his arm.

"The fact is," said Gabriel, "I have just arranged to go----"

"Go where?" asked Miss Ivors.

"Well, you know, every year I go for a cycling tour with some fellows 

and so----"

"But where?" asked Miss Ivors.

"Well, we usually go to France or Belgium or perhaps Germany," said 

Gabriel awkwardly.

"And why do you go to France and Belgium," said Miss Ivors, "instead of 

visiting your own land?"

"Well," said Gabriel, "it's partly to keep in touch with the languages 

and partly for a change."

"And haven't you your own language to keep in touch with--Irish?" asked 

Miss Ivors.

"Well," said Gabriel, "if it comes to that, you know, Irish is not my 

language."

Their neighbours had turned to listen to the cross-examination. Gabriel 

glanced right and left nervously and tried to keep his good humour under 

the ordeal which was making a blush invade his forehead.

"And haven't you your own land to visit," continued Miss Ivors, "that 

you know nothing of, your own people, and your own country?"

"O, to tell you the truth," retorted Gabriel suddenly, "I'm sick of my 

own country, sick of it!"

"Why?" asked Miss Ivors.

Gabriel did not answer for his retort had heated him.

"Why?" repeated Miss Ivors.

They had to go visiting together and, as he had not answered her, Miss 

Ivors said warmly:

"Of course, you've no answer."

Gabriel tried to cover his agitation by taking part in the dance with 

great energy. He avoided her eyes for he had seen a sour expression on 

her face. But when they met in the long chain he was surprised to feel 

his hand firmly pressed. She looked at him from under her brows for a 

moment quizzically until he smiled. Then, just as the chain was about to 

start again, she stood on tiptoe and whispered into his ear:

"West Briton!"

When the lancers were over Gabriel went away to a remote corner of the 

room where Freddy Malins' mother was sitting. She was a stout feeble old 

woman with white hair. Her voice had a catch in it like her son's and 

she stuttered slightly. She had been told that Freddy had come and that 

he was nearly all right. Gabriel asked her whether she had had a good 

crossing. She lived with her married daughter in Glasgow and came to 

Dublin on a visit once a year. She answered placidly that she had had a 

beautiful crossing and that the captain had been most attentive to her. 

She spoke also of the beautiful house her daughter kept in Glasgow, and 

of all the friends they had there. While her tongue rambled on Gabriel 

tried to banish from his mind all memory of the unpleasant incident with 

Miss Ivors. Of course the girl or woman, or whatever she was, was an 

enthusiast but there was a time for all things. Perhaps he ought not 

to have answered her like that. But she had no right to call him a West 

Briton before people, even in joke. She had tried to make him ridiculous 

before people, heckling him and staring at him with her rabbit's eyes.

He saw his wife making her way towards him through the waltzing couples. 

When she reached him she said into his ear:

"Gabriel. Aunt Kate wants to know won't you carve the goose as usual. 

Miss Daly will carve the ham and I'll do the pudding."

"All right," said Gabriel.

"She's sending in the younger ones first as soon as this waltz is over 

so that we'll have the table to ourselves."

"Were you dancing?" asked Gabriel.

"Of course I was. Didn't you see me? What row had you with Molly Ivors?"

"No row. Why? Did she say so?"

"Something like that. I'm trying to get that Mr. D'Arcy to sing. He's 

full of conceit, I think."

"There was no row," said Gabriel moodily, "only she wanted me to go for 

a trip to the west of Ireland and I said I wouldn't."

His wife clasped her hands excitedly and gave a little jump.

"O, do go, Gabriel," she cried. "I'd love to see Galway again."

"You can go if you like," said Gabriel coldly.

She looked at him for a moment, then turned to Mrs. Malins and said:

"There's a nice husband for you, Mrs. Malins."

While she was threading her way back across the room Mrs. Malins, 

without adverting to the interruption, went on to tell Gabriel what 

beautiful places there were in Scotland and beautiful scenery. Her 

son-in-law brought them every year to the lakes and they used to go 

fishing. Her son-in-law was a splendid fisher. One day he caught a 

beautiful big fish and the man in the hotel cooked it for their dinner.

Gabriel hardly heard what she said. Now that supper was coming near he 

began to think again about his speech and about the quotation. When he 

saw Freddy Malins coming across the room to visit his mother Gabriel 

left the chair free for him and retired into the embrasure of the 

window. The room had already cleared and from the back room came the 

clatter of plates and knives. Those who still remained in the drawing 

room seemed tired of dancing and were conversing quietly in little 

groups. Gabriel's warm trembling fingers tapped the cold pane of the 

window. How cool it must be outside! How pleasant it would be to walk 

out alone, first along by the river and then through the park! The snow 

would be lying on the branches of the trees and forming a bright cap on 

the top of the Wellington Monument. How much more pleasant it would be 

there than at the supper-table!

He ran over the headings of his speech: Irish hospitality, sad memories, 

the Three Graces, Paris, the quotation from Browning. He repeated to 

himself a phrase he had written in his review: "One feels that one is 

listening to a thought-tormented music." Miss Ivors had praised the 

review. Was she sincere? Had she really any life of her own behind all 

her propagandism? There had never been any ill-feeling between them 

until that night. It unnerved him to think that she would be at the 

supper-table, looking up at him while he spoke with her critical 

quizzing eyes. Perhaps she would not be sorry to see him fail in his 

speech. An idea came into his mind and gave him courage. He would 

say, alluding to Aunt Kate and Aunt Julia: "Ladies and Gentlemen, the 

generation which is now on the wane among us may have had its faults but 

for my part I think it had certain qualities of hospitality, of humour, 

of humanity, which the new and very serious and hypereducated generation 

that is growing up around us seems to me to lack." Very good: that 

was one for Miss Ivors. What did he care that his aunts were only two 

ignorant old women?

A murmur in the room attracted his attention. Mr. Browne was advancing 

from the door, gallantly escorting Aunt Julia, who leaned upon his arm, 

smiling and hanging her head. An irregular musketry of applause escorted 

her also as far as the piano and then, as Mary Jane seated herself on 

the stool, and Aunt Julia, no longer smiling, half turned so as to pitch 

her voice fairly into the room, gradually ceased. Gabriel recognised 

the prelude. It was that of an old song of Aunt Julia's--Arrayed for the 

Bridal. Her voice, strong and clear in tone, attacked with great spirit 

the runs which embellish the air and though she sang very rapidly she 

did not miss even the smallest of the grace notes. To follow the 

voice, without looking at the singer's face, was to feel and share the 

excitement of swift and secure flight. Gabriel applauded loudly with all 

the others at the close of the song and loud applause was borne in from 

the invisible supper-table. It sounded so genuine that a little 

colour struggled into Aunt Julia's face as she bent to replace in the 

music-stand the old leather-bound songbook that had her initials on the 

cover. Freddy Malins, who had listened with his head perched sideways to 

hear her better, was still applauding when everyone else had ceased and 

talking animatedly to his mother who nodded her head gravely and slowly 

in acquiescence. At last, when he could clap no more, he stood up 

suddenly and hurried across the room to Aunt Julia whose hand he seized 

and held in both his hands, shaking it when words failed him or the 

catch in his voice proved too much for him.

"I was just telling my mother," he said, "I never heard you sing so 

well, never. No, I never heard your voice so good as it is tonight. Now! 

Would you believe that now? That's the truth. Upon my word and honour 

that's the truth. I never heard your voice sound so fresh and so... so 

clear and fresh, never."

Aunt Julia smiled broadly and murmured something about compliments as 

she released her hand from his grasp. Mr. Browne extended his open 

hand towards her and said to those who were near him in the manner of a 

showman introducing a prodigy to an audience:

"Miss Julia Morkan, my latest discovery!"

He was laughing very heartily at this himself when Freddy Malins turned 

to him and said:

"Well, Browne, if you're serious you might make a worse discovery. All 

I can say is I never heard her sing half so well as long as I am coming 

here. And that's the honest truth."

"Neither did I," said Mr. Browne. "I think her voice has greatly 

improved."

Aunt Julia shrugged her shoulders and said with meek pride:

"Thirty years ago I hadn't a bad voice as voices go."

"I often told Julia," said Aunt Kate emphatically, "that she was simply 

thrown away in that choir. But she never would be said by me."

She turned as if to appeal to the good sense of the others against a 

refractory child while Aunt Julia gazed in front of her, a vague smile 

of reminiscence playing on her face.

"No," continued Aunt Kate, "she wouldn't be said or led by anyone, 

slaving there in that choir night and day, night and day. Six o'clock on 

Christmas morning! And all for what?"

"Well, isn't it for the honour of God, Aunt Kate?" asked Mary Jane, 

twisting round on the piano-stool and smiling.

Aunt Kate turned fiercely on her niece and said:

"I know all about the honour of God, Mary Jane, but I think it's not at 

all honourable for the pope to turn out the women out of the choirs that 

have slaved there all their lives and put little whipper-snappers of 

boys over their heads. I suppose it is for the good of the Church if the 

pope does it. But it's not just, Mary Jane, and it's not right."

She had worked herself into a passion and would have continued in 

defence of her sister for it was a sore subject with her but Mary Jane, 

seeing that all the dancers had come back, intervened pacifically:

"Now, Aunt Kate, you're giving scandal to Mr. Browne who is of the other 

persuasion."

Aunt Kate turned to Mr. Browne, who was grinning at this allusion to his 

religion, and said hastily:

"O, I don't question the pope's being right. I'm only a stupid old woman 

and I wouldn't presume to do such a thing. But there's such a thing as 

common everyday politeness and gratitude. And if I were in Julia's place 

I'd tell that Father Healey straight up to his face..."

"And besides, Aunt Kate," said Mary Jane, "we really are all hungry and 

when we are hungry we are all very quarrelsome."

"And when we are thirsty we are also quarrelsome," added Mr. Browne.

"So that we had better go to supper," said Mary Jane, "and finish the 

discussion afterwards."

On the landing outside the drawing-room Gabriel found his wife and Mary 

Jane trying to persuade Miss Ivors to stay for supper. But Miss Ivors, 

who had put on her hat and was buttoning her cloak, would not stay. 

She did not feel in the least hungry and she had already overstayed her 

time.

"But only for ten minutes, Molly," said Mrs. Conroy. "That won't delay 

you."

"To take a pick itself," said Mary Jane, "after all your dancing."

"I really couldn't," said Miss Ivors.

"I am afraid you didn't enjoy yourself at all," said Mary Jane 

hopelessly.

"Ever so much, I assure you," said Miss Ivors, "but you really must let 

me run off now."

"But how can you get home?" asked Mrs. Conroy.

"O, it's only two steps up the quay."

Gabriel hesitated a moment and said:

"If you will allow me, Miss Ivors, I'll see you home if you are really 

obliged to go."

But Miss Ivors broke away from them.

"I won't hear of it," she cried. "For goodness' sake go in to your 

suppers and don't mind me. I'm quite well able to take care of myself."

"Well, you're the comical girl, Molly," said Mrs. Conroy frankly.

"Beannacht libh," cried Miss Ivors, with a laugh, as she ran down the 

staircase.

Mary Jane gazed after her, a moody puzzled expression on her face, 

while Mrs. Conroy leaned over the banisters to listen for the hall-door. 

Gabriel asked himself was he the cause of her abrupt departure. But she 

did not seem to be in ill humour: she had gone away laughing. He stared 

blankly down the staircase.

At the moment Aunt Kate came toddling out of the supper-room, almost 

wringing her hands in despair.

"Where is Gabriel?" she cried. "Where on earth is Gabriel? There's 

everyone waiting in there, stage to let, and nobody to carve the goose!"

"Here I am, Aunt Kate!" cried Gabriel, with sudden animation, "ready to 

carve a flock of geese, if necessary."

A fat brown goose lay at one end of the table and at the other end, on 

a bed of creased paper strewn with sprigs of parsley, lay a great ham, 

stripped of its outer skin and peppered over with crust crumbs, a neat 

paper frill round its shin and beside this was a round of spiced beef. 

Between these rival ends ran parallel lines of side-dishes: two little 

minsters of jelly, red and yellow; a shallow dish full of blocks 

of blancmange and red jam, a large green leaf-shaped dish with a 

stalk-shaped handle, on which lay bunches of purple raisins and peeled 

almonds, a companion dish on which lay a solid rectangle of Smyrna 

figs, a dish of custard topped with grated nutmeg, a small bowl full of 

chocolates and sweets wrapped in gold and silver papers and a glass vase 

in which stood some tall celery stalks. In the centre of the table there 

stood, as sentries to a fruit-stand which upheld a pyramid of oranges 

and American apples, two squat old-fashioned decanters of cut glass, one 

containing port and the other dark sherry. On the closed square piano 

a pudding in a huge yellow dish lay in waiting and behind it were three 

squads of bottles of stout and ale and minerals, drawn up according to 

the colours of their uniforms, the first two black, with brown and 

red labels, the third and smallest squad white, with transverse green 

sashes.

Gabriel took his seat boldly at the head of the table and, having looked 

to the edge of the carver, plunged his fork firmly into the goose. He 

felt quite at ease now for he was an expert carver and liked nothing 

better than to find himself at the head of a well-laden table.

"Miss Furlong, what shall I send you?" he asked. "A wing or a slice of 

the breast?"

"Just a small slice of the breast."

"Miss Higgins, what for you?"

"O, anything at all, Mr. Conroy."

While Gabriel and Miss Daly exchanged plates of goose and plates of ham 

and spiced beef Lily went from guest to guest with a dish of hot floury 

potatoes wrapped in a white napkin. This was Mary Jane's idea and she 

had also suggested apple sauce for the goose but Aunt Kate had said that 

plain roast goose without any apple sauce had always been good enough 

for her and she hoped she might never eat worse. Mary Jane waited on 

her pupils and saw that they got the best slices and Aunt Kate and Aunt 

Julia opened and carried across from the piano bottles of stout and ale 

for the gentlemen and bottles of minerals for the ladies. There was a 

great deal of confusion and laughter and noise, the noise of orders 

and counter-orders, of knives and forks, of corks and glass-stoppers. 

Gabriel began to carve second helpings as soon as he had finished the 

first round without serving himself. Everyone protested loudly so that 

he compromised by taking a long draught of stout for he had found the 

carving hot work. Mary Jane settled down quietly to her supper but Aunt 

Kate and Aunt Julia were still toddling round the table, walking on 

each other's heels, getting in each other's way and giving each other 

unheeded orders. Mr. Browne begged of them to sit down and eat their 

suppers and so did Gabriel but they said there was time enough, so that, 

at last, Freddy Malins stood up and, capturing Aunt Kate, plumped her 

down on her chair amid general laughter.

When everyone had been well served Gabriel said, smiling:

"Now, if anyone wants a little more of what vulgar people call stuffing 

let him or her speak."

A chorus of voices invited him to begin his own supper and Lily came 

forward with three potatoes which she had reserved for him.

"Very well," said Gabriel amiably, as he took another preparatory 

draught, "kindly forget my existence, ladies and gentlemen, for a few 

minutes."

He set to his supper and took no part in the conversation with which the 

table covered Lily's removal of the plates. The subject of talk was the 

opera company which was then at the Theatre Royal. Mr. Bartell D'Arcy, 

the tenor, a dark-complexioned young man with a smart moustache, praised 

very highly the leading contralto of the company but Miss Furlong 

thought she had a rather vulgar style of production. Freddy Malins said 

there was a Negro chieftain singing in the second part of the Gaiety 

pantomime who had one of the finest tenor voices he had ever heard.

"Have you heard him?" he asked Mr. Bartell D'Arcy across the table.

"No," answered Mr. Bartell D'Arcy carelessly.

"Because," Freddy Malins explained, "now I'd be curious to hear your 

opinion of him. I think he has a grand voice."

"It takes Teddy to find out the really good things," said Mr. Browne 

familiarly to the table.

"And why couldn't he have a voice too?" asked Freddy Malins sharply. "Is 

it because he's only a black?"

Nobody answered this question and Mary Jane led the table back to the 

legitimate opera. One of her pupils had given her a pass for Mignon. 

Of course it was very fine, she said, but it made her think of poor 

Georgina Burns. Mr. Browne could go back farther still, to the old 

Italian companies that used to come to Dublin--Tietjens, Ilma de Murzka, 

Campanini, the great Trebelli, Giuglini, Ravelli, Aramburo. Those were 

the days, he said, when there was something like singing to be heard in 

Dublin. He told too of how the top gallery of the old Royal used to be 

packed night after night, of how one night an Italian tenor had sung 

five encores to Let me like a Soldier fall, introducing a high C every 

time, and of how the gallery boys would sometimes in their enthusiasm 

unyoke the horses from the carriage of some great prima donna and pull 

her themselves through the streets to her hotel. Why did they never play 

the grand old operas now, he asked, Dinorah, Lucrezia Borgia? Because 

they could not get the voices to sing them: that was why.

"Oh, well," said Mr. Bartell D'Arcy, "I presume there are as good 

singers today as there were then."

"Where are they?" asked Mr. Browne defiantly.

"In London, Paris, Milan," said Mr. Bartell D'Arcy warmly. "I suppose 

Caruso, for example, is quite as good, if not better than any of the men 

you have mentioned."

"Maybe so," said Mr. Browne. "But I may tell you I doubt it strongly."

"O, I'd give anything to hear Caruso sing," said Mary Jane.

"For me," said Aunt Kate, who had been picking a bone, "there was only 

one tenor. To please me, I mean. But I suppose none of you ever heard of 

him."

"Who was he, Miss Morkan?" asked Mr. Bartell D'Arcy politely.

"His name," said Aunt Kate, "was Parkinson. I heard him when he was in 

his prime and I think he had then the purest tenor voice that was ever 

put into a man's throat."

"Strange," said Mr. Bartell D'Arcy. "I never even heard of him."

"Yes, yes, Miss Morkan is right," said Mr. Browne. "I remember hearing 

of old Parkinson but he's too far back for me."

"A beautiful, pure, sweet, mellow English tenor," said Aunt Kate with 

enthusiasm.

Gabriel having finished, the huge pudding was transferred to the table. 

The clatter of forks and spoons began again. Gabriel's wife served out 

spoonfuls of the pudding and passed the plates down the table. Midway 

down they were held up by Mary Jane, who replenished them with raspberry 

or orange jelly or with blancmange and jam. The pudding was of Aunt 

Julia's making and she received praises for it from all quarters She 

herself said that it was not quite brown enough.

"Well, I hope, Miss Morkan," said Mr. Browne, "that I'm brown enough for 

you because, you know, I'm all brown."

All the gentlemen, except Gabriel, ate some of the pudding out of 

compliment to Aunt Julia. As Gabriel never ate sweets the celery had 

been left for him. Freddy Malins also took a stalk of celery and ate it 

with his pudding. He had been told that celery was a capital thing for 

the blood and he was just then under doctor's care. Mrs. Malins, who had 

been silent all through the supper, said that her son was going down to 

Mount Melleray in a week or so. The table then spoke of Mount Melleray, 

how bracing the air was down there, how hospitable the monks were and 

how they never asked for a penny-piece from their guests.

"And do you mean to say," asked Mr. Browne incredulously, "that a chap 

can go down there and put up there as if it were a hotel and live on the 

fat of the land and then come away without paying anything?"

"O, most people give some donation to the monastery when they leave." 

said Mary Jane.

"I wish we had an institution like that in our Church," said Mr. Browne 

candidly.

He was astonished to hear that the monks never spoke, got up at two in 

the morning and slept in their coffins. He asked what they did it for.

"That's the rule of the order," said Aunt Kate firmly.

"Yes, but why?" asked Mr. Browne.

Aunt Kate repeated that it was the rule, that was all. Mr. Browne still 

seemed not to understand. Freddy Malins explained to him, as best he 

could, that the monks were trying to make up for the sins committed by 

all the sinners in the outside world. The explanation was not very clear 

for Mr. Browne grinned and said:

"I like that idea very much but wouldn't a comfortable spring bed do 

them as well as a coffin?"

"The coffin," said Mary Jane, "is to remind them of their last end."

As the subject had grown lugubrious it was buried in a silence of the 

table during which Mrs. Malins could be heard saying to her neighbour in 

an indistinct undertone:

"They are very good men, the monks, very pious men."

The raisins and almonds and figs and apples and oranges and chocolates 

and sweets were now passed about the table and Aunt Julia invited all 

the guests to have either port or sherry. At first Mr. Bartell D'Arcy 

refused to take either but one of his neighbours nudged him and 

whispered something to him upon which he allowed his glass to be filled. 

Gradually as the last glasses were being filled the conversation 

ceased. A pause followed, broken only by the noise of the wine and by 

unsettlings of chairs. The Misses Morkan, all three, looked down at 

the tablecloth. Someone coughed once or twice and then a few gentlemen 

patted the table gently as a signal for silence. The silence came and 

Gabriel pushed back his chair.

The patting at once grew louder in encouragement and then ceased 

altogether. Gabriel leaned his ten trembling fingers on the tablecloth 

and smiled nervously at the company. Meeting a row of upturned faces he 

raised his eyes to the chandelier. The piano was playing a waltz tune 

and he could hear the skirts sweeping against the drawing-room door. 

People, perhaps, were standing in the snow on the quay outside, gazing 

up at the lighted windows and listening to the waltz music. The air was 

pure there. In the distance lay the park where the trees were weighted 

with snow. The Wellington Monument wore a gleaming cap of snow that 

flashed westward over the white field of Fifteen Acres.

He began:

"Ladies and Gentlemen,

"It has fallen to my lot this evening, as in years past, to perform a 

very pleasing task but a task for which I am afraid my poor powers as a 

speaker are all too inadequate."

"No, no!" said Mr. Browne.

"But, however that may be, I can only ask you tonight to take the will 

for the deed and to lend me your attention for a few moments while 

I endeavour to express to you in words what my feelings are on this 

occasion.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, it is not the first time that we have gathered 

together under this hospitable roof, around this hospitable board. It is 

not the first time that we have been the recipients--or perhaps, I had 

better say, the victims--of the hospitality of certain good ladies."

He made a circle in the air with his arm and paused. Everyone laughed or 

smiled at Aunt Kate and Aunt Julia and Mary Jane who all turned crimson 

with pleasure. Gabriel went on more boldly:

"I feel more strongly with every recurring year that our country has 

no tradition which does it so much honour and which it should guard so 

jealously as that of its hospitality. It is a tradition that is unique 

as far as my experience goes (and I have visited not a few places 

abroad) among the modern nations. Some would say, perhaps, that with us 

it is rather a failing than anything to be boasted of. But granted even 

that, it is, to my mind, a princely failing, and one that I trust will 

long be cultivated among us. Of one thing, at least, I am sure. As long 

as this one roof shelters the good ladies aforesaid--and I wish from my 

heart it may do so for many and many a long year to come--the tradition 

of genuine warm-hearted courteous Irish hospitality, which our 

forefathers have handed down to us and which we in turn must hand down 

to our descendants, is still alive among us."

A hearty murmur of assent ran round the table. It shot through 

Gabriel's mind that Miss Ivors was not there and that she had gone away 

discourteously: and he said with confidence in himself:

"Ladies and Gentlemen,

"A new generation is growing up in our midst, a generation actuated by 

new ideas and new principles. It is serious and enthusiastic for 

these new ideas and its enthusiasm, even when it is misdirected, is, I 

believe, in the main sincere. But we are living in a sceptical and, if 

I may use the phrase, a thought-tormented age: and sometimes I fear that 

this new generation, educated or hypereducated as it is, will lack those 

qualities of humanity, of hospitality, of kindly humour which belonged 

to an older day. Listening tonight to the names of all those great 

singers of the past it seemed to me, I must confess, that we were living 

in a less spacious age. Those days might, without exaggeration, be 

called spacious days: and if they are gone beyond recall let us hope, at 

least, that in gatherings such as this we shall still speak of them with 

pride and affection, still cherish in our hearts the memory of those 

dead and gone great ones whose fame the world will not willingly let 

die."

"Hear, hear!" said Mr. Browne loudly.

"But yet," continued Gabriel, his voice falling into a softer 

inflection, "there are always in gatherings such as this sadder thoughts 

that will recur to our minds: thoughts of the past, of youth, of 

changes, of absent faces that we miss here tonight. Our path through 

life is strewn with many such sad memories: and were we to brood upon 

them always we could not find the heart to go on bravely with our work 

among the living. We have all of us living duties and living affections 

which claim, and rightly claim, our strenuous endeavours.

"Therefore, I will not linger on the past. I will not let any gloomy 

moralising intrude upon us here tonight. Here we are gathered together 

for a brief moment from the bustle and rush of our everyday routine. 

We are met here as friends, in the spirit of good-fellowship, as 

colleagues, also to a certain extent, in the true spirit of camaraderie, 

and as the guests of--what shall I call them?--the Three Graces of the 

Dublin musical world."

The table burst into applause and laughter at this allusion. Aunt Julia 

vainly asked each of her neighbours in turn to tell her what Gabriel had 

said.

"He says we are the Three Graces, Aunt Julia," said Mary Jane.

Aunt Julia did not understand but she looked up, smiling, at Gabriel, 

who continued in the same vein:

"Ladies and Gentlemen,

"I will not attempt to play tonight the part that Paris played on 

another occasion. I will not attempt to choose between them. The task 

would be an invidious one and one beyond my poor powers. For when I view 

them in turn, whether it be our chief hostess herself, whose good heart, 

whose too good heart, has become a byword with all who know her, or her 

sister, who seems to be gifted with perennial youth and whose singing 

must have been a surprise and a revelation to us all tonight, or, last 

but not least, when I consider our youngest hostess, talented, cheerful, 

hard-working and the best of nieces, I confess, Ladies and Gentlemen, 

that I do not know to which of them I should award the prize."

Gabriel glanced down at his aunts and, seeing the large smile on Aunt 

Julia's face and the tears which had risen to Aunt Kate's eyes, hastened 

to his close. He raised his glass of port gallantly, while every member 

of the company fingered a glass expectantly, and said loudly:

"Let us toast them all three together. Let us drink to their health, 

wealth, long life, happiness and prosperity and may they long continue 

to hold the proud and self-won position which they hold in their 

profession and the position of honour and affection which they hold in 

our hearts."

All the guests stood up, glass in hand, and turning towards the three 

seated ladies, sang in unison, with Mr. Browne as leader:

For they are jolly gay fellows, 

For they are jolly gay fellows, 

For they are jolly gay fellows, 

Which nobody can deny.

Aunt Kate was making frank use of her handkerchief and even Aunt Julia 

seemed moved. Freddy Malins beat time with his pudding-fork and the 

singers turned towards one another, as if in melodious conference, while 

they sang with emphasis:

Unless he tells a lie, 

Unless he tells a lie,

Then, turning once more towards their hostesses, they sang:

For they are jolly gay fellows, 

For they are jolly gay fellows, 

For they are jolly gay fellows, 

Which nobody can deny.

The acclamation which followed was taken up beyond the door of the 

supper-room by many of the other guests and renewed time after time, 

Freddy Malins acting as officer with his fork on high.

The piercing morning air came into the hall where they were standing so 

that Aunt Kate said:

"Close the door, somebody. Mrs. Malins will get her death of cold."

"Browne is out there, Aunt Kate," said Mary Jane.

"Browne is everywhere," said Aunt Kate, lowering her voice.

Mary Jane laughed at her tone.

"Really," she said archly, "he is very attentive."

"He has been laid on here like the gas," said Aunt Kate in the same 

tone, "all during the Christmas."

She laughed herself this time good-humouredly and then added quickly:

"But tell him to come in, Mary Jane, and close the door. I hope to 

goodness he didn't hear me."

At that moment the hall-door was opened and Mr. Browne came in from the 

doorstep, laughing as if his heart would break. He was dressed in a long 

green overcoat with mock astrakhan cuffs and collar and wore on his head 

an oval fur cap. He pointed down the snow-covered quay from where the 

sound of shrill prolonged whistling was borne in.

"Teddy will have all the cabs in Dublin out," he said.

Gabriel advanced from the little pantry behind the office, struggling 

into his overcoat and, looking round the hall, said:

"Gretta not down yet?"

"She's getting on her things, Gabriel," said Aunt Kate.

"Who's playing up there?" asked Gabriel.

"Nobody. They're all gone."

"O no, Aunt Kate," said Mary Jane. "Bartell D'Arcy and Miss O'Callaghan 

aren't gone yet."

"Someone is fooling at the piano anyhow," said Gabriel.

Mary Jane glanced at Gabriel and Mr. Browne and said with a shiver:

"It makes me feel cold to look at you two gentlemen muffled up like 

that. I wouldn't like to face your journey home at this hour."

"I'd like nothing better this minute," said Mr. Browne stoutly, "than a 

rattling fine walk in the country or a fast drive with a good spanking 

goer between the shafts."

"We used to have a very good horse and trap at home," said Aunt Julia 

sadly.

"The never-to-be-forgotten Johnny," said Mary Jane, laughing.

Aunt Kate and Gabriel laughed too.

"Why, what was wonderful about Johnny?" asked Mr. Browne.

"The late lamented Patrick Morkan, our grandfather, that is," explained 

Gabriel, "commonly known in his later years as the old gentleman, was a 

glue-boiler."

"O, now, Gabriel," said Aunt Kate, laughing, "he had a starch mill."

"Well, glue or starch," said Gabriel, "the old gentleman had a horse by 

the name of Johnny. And Johnny used to work in the old gentleman's mill, 

walking round and round in order to drive the mill. That was all very 

well; but now comes the tragic part about Johnny. One fine day the old 

gentleman thought he'd like to drive out with the quality to a military 

review in the park."

"The Lord have mercy on his soul," said Aunt Kate compassionately.

"Amen," said Gabriel. "So the old gentleman, as I said, harnessed Johnny 

and put on his very best tall hat and his very best stock collar and 

drove out in grand style from his ancestral mansion somewhere near Back 

Lane, I think."

Everyone laughed, even Mrs. Malins, at Gabriel's manner and Aunt Kate 

said:

"O, now, Gabriel, he didn't live in Back Lane, really. Only the mill was 

there."

"Out from the mansion of his forefathers," continued Gabriel, "he drove 

with Johnny. And everything went on beautifully until Johnny came in 

sight of King Billy's statue: and whether he fell in love with the horse 

King Billy sits on or whether he thought he was back again in the mill, 

anyhow he began to walk round the statue."

Gabriel paced in a circle round the hall in his goloshes amid the 

laughter of the others.

"Round and round he went," said Gabriel, "and the old gentleman, who was 

a very pompous old gentleman, was highly indignant. 'Go on, sir! What 

do you mean, sir? Johnny! Johnny! Most extraordinary conduct! Can't 

understand the horse!"

The peal of laughter which followed Gabriel's imitation of the incident 

was interrupted by a resounding knock at the hall door. Mary Jane ran to 

open it and let in Freddy Malins. Freddy Malins, with his hat well back 

on his head and his shoulders humped with cold, was puffing and steaming 

after his exertions.

"I could only get one cab," he said.

"O, we'll find another along the quay," said Gabriel.

"Yes," said Aunt Kate. "Better not keep Mrs. Malins standing in the 

draught."

Mrs. Malins was helped down the front steps by her son and Mr. Browne 

and, after many manoeuvres, hoisted into the cab. Freddy Malins 

clambered in after her and spent a long time settling her on the seat, 

Mr. Browne helping him with advice. At last she was settled comfortably 

and Freddy Malins invited Mr. Browne into the cab. There was a good 

deal of confused talk, and then Mr. Browne got into the cab. The cabman 

settled his rug over his knees, and bent down for the address. The 

confusion grew greater and the cabman was directed differently by Freddy 

Malins and Mr. Browne, each of whom had his head out through a window of 

the cab. The difficulty was to know where to drop Mr. Browne along the 

route, and Aunt Kate, Aunt Julia and Mary Jane helped the discussion 

from the doorstep with cross-directions and contradictions and abundance 

of laughter. As for Freddy Malins he was speechless with laughter. 

He popped his head in and out of the window every moment to the 

great danger of his hat, and told his mother how the discussion was 

progressing, till at last Mr. Browne shouted to the bewildered cabman 

above the din of everybody's laughter:

"Do you know Trinity College?"

"Yes, sir," said the cabman.

"Well, drive bang up against Trinity College gates," said Mr. Browne, 

"and then we'll tell you where to go. You understand now?"

"Yes, sir," said the cabman.

"Make like a bird for Trinity College."

"Right, sir," said the cabman.

The horse was whipped up and the cab rattled off along the quay amid a 

chorus of laughter and adieus.

Gabriel had not gone to the door with the others. He was in a dark part 

of the hall gazing up the staircase. A woman was standing near the top 

of the first flight, in the shadow also. He could not see her face but 

he could see the terra-cotta and salmon-pink panels of her skirt which 

the shadow made appear black and white. It was his wife. She was leaning 

on the banisters, listening to something. Gabriel was surprised at her 

stillness and strained his ear to listen also. But he could hear little 

save the noise of laughter and dispute on the front steps, a few chords 

struck on the piano and a few notes of a man's voice singing.

He stood still in the gloom of the hall, trying to catch the air that 

the voice was singing and gazing up at his wife. There was grace and 

mystery in her attitude as if she were a symbol of something. He asked 

himself what is a woman standing on the stairs in the shadow, listening 

to distant music, a symbol of. If he were a painter he would paint her 

in that attitude. Her blue felt hat would show off the bronze of her 

hair against the darkness and the dark panels of her skirt would show 

off the light ones. Distant Music he would call the picture if he were a 

painter.

The hall-door was closed; and Aunt Kate, Aunt Julia and Mary Jane came 

down the hall, still laughing.

"Well, isn't Freddy terrible?" said Mary Jane. "He's really terrible."

Gabriel said nothing but pointed up the stairs towards where his wife 

was standing. Now that the hall-door was closed the voice and the piano 

could be heard more clearly. Gabriel held up his hand for them to be 

silent. The song seemed to be in the old Irish tonality and the singer 

seemed uncertain both of his words and of his voice. The voice, 

made plaintive by distance and by the singer's hoarseness, faintly 

illuminated the cadence of the air with words expressing grief:

O, the rain falls on my heavy locks And the dew wets my skin, My babe 

lies cold...

"O," exclaimed Mary Jane. "It's Bartell D'Arcy singing and he wouldn't 

sing all the night. O, I'll get him to sing a song before he goes."

"O, do, Mary Jane," said Aunt Kate.

Mary Jane brushed past the others and ran to the staircase, but before 

she reached it the singing stopped and the piano was closed abruptly.

"O, what a pity!" she cried. "Is he coming down, Gretta?"

Gabriel heard his wife answer yes and saw her come down towards them. A 

few steps behind her were Mr. Bartell D'Arcy and Miss O'Callaghan.

"O, Mr. D'Arcy," cried Mary Jane, "it's downright mean of you to break 

off like that when we were all in raptures listening to you."

"I have been at him all the evening," said Miss O'Callaghan, "and Mrs. 

Conroy, too, and he told us he had a dreadful cold and couldn't sing."

"O, Mr. D'Arcy," said Aunt Kate, "now that was a great fib to tell."

"Can't you see that I'm as hoarse as a crow?" said Mr. D'Arcy roughly.

He went into the pantry hastily and put on his overcoat. The others, 

taken aback by his rude speech, could find nothing to say. Aunt Kate 

wrinkled her brows and made signs to the others to drop the subject. Mr. 

D'Arcy stood swathing his neck carefully and frowning.

"It's the weather," said Aunt Julia, after a pause.

"Yes, everybody has colds," said Aunt Kate readily, "everybody."

"They say," said Mary Jane, "we haven't had snow like it for thirty 

years; and I read this morning in the newspapers that the snow is 

general all over Ireland."

"I love the look of snow," said Aunt Julia sadly.

"So do I," said Miss O'Callaghan. "I think Christmas is never really 

Christmas unless we have the snow on the ground."

"But poor Mr. D'Arcy doesn't like the snow," said Aunt Kate, smiling.

Mr. D'Arcy came from the pantry, fully swathed and buttoned, and in 

a repentant tone told them the history of his cold. Everyone gave him 

advice and said it was a great pity and urged him to be very careful of 

his throat in the night air. Gabriel watched his wife, who did not join 

in the conversation. She was standing right under the dusty fanlight and 

the flame of the gas lit up the rich bronze of her hair, which he had 

seen her drying at the fire a few days before. She was in the same 

attitude and seemed unaware of the talk about her. At last she turned 

towards them and Gabriel saw that there was colour on her cheeks and 

that her eyes were shining. A sudden tide of joy went leaping out of his 

heart.

"Mr. D'Arcy," she said, "what is the name of that song you were 

singing?"

"It's called The Lass of Aughrim," said Mr. D'Arcy, "but I couldn't 

remember it properly. Why? Do you know it?"

"The Lass of Aughrim," she repeated. "I couldn't think of the name."

"It's a very nice air," said Mary Jane. "I'm sorry you were not in voice 

tonight."

"Now, Mary Jane," said Aunt Kate, "don't annoy Mr. D'Arcy. I won't have 

him annoyed."

Seeing that all were ready to start she shepherded them to the door, 

where good-night was said:

"Well, good-night, Aunt Kate, and thanks for the pleasant evening."

"Good-night, Gabriel. Good-night, Gretta!"

"Good-night, Aunt Kate, and thanks ever so much. Goodnight, Aunt Julia."

"O, good-night, Gretta, I didn't see you."

"Good-night, Mr. D'Arcy. Good-night, Miss O'Callaghan."

"Good-night, Miss Morkan."

"Good-night, again."

"Good-night, all. Safe home."

"Good-night. Good night."

The morning was still dark. A dull, yellow light brooded over the 

houses and the river; and the sky seemed to be descending. It was slushy 

underfoot; and only streaks and patches of snow lay on the roofs, on 

the parapets of the quay and on the area railings. The lamps were still 

burning redly in the murky air and, across the river, the palace of the 

Four Courts stood out menacingly against the heavy sky.

She was walking on before him with Mr. Bartell D'Arcy, her shoes in a 

brown parcel tucked under one arm and her hands holding her skirt up 

from the slush. She had no longer any grace of attitude, but Gabriel's 

eyes were still bright with happiness. The blood went bounding along his 

veins; and the thoughts went rioting through his brain, proud, joyful, 

tender, valorous.

She was walking on before him so lightly and so erect that he longed to 

run after her noiselessly, catch her by the shoulders and say something 

foolish and affectionate into her ear. She seemed to him so frail that 

he longed to defend her against something and then to be alone with her. 

Moments of their secret life together burst like stars upon his memory. 

A heliotrope envelope was lying beside his breakfast-cup and he was 

caressing it with his hand. Birds were twittering in the ivy and the 

sunny web of the curtain was shimmering along the floor: he could not 

eat for happiness. They were standing on the crowded platform and he was 

placing a ticket inside the warm palm of her glove. He was standing 

with her in the cold, looking in through a grated window at a man making 

bottles in a roaring furnace. It was very cold. Her face, fragrant in 

the cold air, was quite close to his; and suddenly he called out to the 

man at the furnace:

"Is the fire hot, sir?"

But the man could not hear with the noise of the furnace. It was just as 

well. He might have answered rudely.

A wave of yet more tender joy escaped from his heart and went coursing 

in warm flood along his arteries. Like the tender fire of stars moments 

of their life together, that no one knew of or would ever know of, broke 

upon and illumined his memory. He longed to recall to her those moments, 

to make her forget the years of their dull existence together and 

remember only their moments of ecstasy. For the years, he felt, had not 

quenched his soul or hers. Their children, his writing, her household 

cares had not quenched all their souls' tender fire. In one letter that 

he had written to her then he had said: "Why is it that words like 

these seem to me so dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender 

enough to be your name?"

Like distant music these words that he had written years before were 

borne towards him from the past. He longed to be alone with her. When 

the others had gone away, when he and she were in the room in the hotel, 

then they would be alone together. He would call her softly:

"Gretta!"

Perhaps she would not hear at once: she would be undressing. Then 

something in his voice would strike her. She would turn and look at 

him....

At the corner of Winetavern Street they met a cab. He was glad of its 

rattling noise as it saved him from conversation. She was looking out of 

the window and seemed tired. The others spoke only a few words, pointing 

out some building or street. The horse galloped along wearily under the 

murky morning sky, dragging his old rattling box after his heels, 

and Gabriel was again in a cab with her, galloping to catch the boat, 

galloping to their honeymoon.

As the cab drove across O'Connell Bridge Miss O'Callaghan said:

"They say you never cross O'Connell Bridge without seeing a white 

horse."

"I see a white man this time," said Gabriel.

"Where?" asked Mr. Bartell D'Arcy.

Gabriel pointed to the statue, on which lay patches of snow. Then he 

nodded familiarly to it and waved his hand.

"Good-night, Dan," he said gaily.

When the cab drew up before the hotel, Gabriel jumped out and, in spite 

of Mr. Bartell D'Arcy's protest, paid the driver. He gave the man a 

shilling over his fare. The man saluted and said:

"A prosperous New Year to you, sir."

"The same to you," said Gabriel cordially.

She leaned for a moment on his arm in getting out of the cab and while 

standing at the curbstone, bidding the others good-night. She leaned 

lightly on his arm, as lightly as when she had danced with him a few 

hours before. He had felt proud and happy then, happy that she was his, 

proud of her grace and wifely carriage. But now, after the kindling 

again of so many memories, the first touch of her body, musical and 

strange and perfumed, sent through him a keen pang of lust. Under cover 

of her silence he pressed her arm closely to his side; and, as they 

stood at the hotel door, he felt that they had escaped from their lives 

and duties, escaped from home and friends and run away together with 

wild and radiant hearts to a new adventure.

An old man was dozing in a great hooded chair in the hall. He lit a 

candle in the office and went before them to the stairs. They followed 

him in silence, their feet falling in soft thuds on the thickly carpeted 

stairs. She mounted the stairs behind the porter, her head bowed in 

the ascent, her frail shoulders curved as with a burden, her skirt girt 

tightly about her. He could have flung his arms about her hips and held 

her still, for his arms were trembling with desire to seize her and only 

the stress of his nails against the palms of his hands held the wild 

impulse of his body in check. The porter halted on the stairs to settle 

his guttering candle. They halted, too, on the steps below him. In the 

silence Gabriel could hear the falling of the molten wax into the tray 

and the thumping of his own heart against his ribs.

The porter led them along a corridor and opened a door. Then he set his 

unstable candle down on a toilet-table and asked at what hour they were 

to be called in the morning.

"Eight," said Gabriel.

The porter pointed to the tap of the electric-light and began a muttered 

apology, but Gabriel cut him short.

"We don't want any light. We have light enough from the street. And I 

say," he added, pointing to the candle, "you might remove that handsome 

article, like a good man."

The porter took up his candle again, but slowly, for he was surprised by 

such a novel idea. Then he mumbled good-night and went out. Gabriel shot 

the lock to.

A ghastly light from the street lamp lay in a long shaft from one window 

to the door. Gabriel threw his overcoat and hat on a couch and crossed 

the room towards the window. He looked down into the street in order 

that his emotion might calm a little. Then he turned and leaned against 

a chest of drawers with his back to the light. She had taken off her hat 

and cloak and was standing before a large swinging mirror, unhooking her 

waist. Gabriel paused for a few moments, watching her, and then said:

"Gretta!"

She turned away from the mirror slowly and walked along the shaft of 

light towards him. Her face looked so serious and weary that the words 

would not pass Gabriel's lips. No, it was not the moment yet.

"You looked tired," he said.

"I am a little," she answered.

"You don't feel ill or weak?"

"No, tired: that's all."

She went on to the window and stood there, looking out. Gabriel waited 

again and then, fearing that diffidence was about to conquer him, he 

said abruptly:

"By the way, Gretta!"

"What is it?"

"You know that poor fellow Malins?" he said quickly.

"Yes. What about him?"

"Well, poor fellow, he's a decent sort of chap, after all," continued 

Gabriel in a false voice. "He gave me back that sovereign I lent him, 

and I didn't expect it, really. It's a pity he wouldn't keep away from 

that Browne, because he's not a bad fellow, really."

He was trembling now with annoyance. Why did she seem so abstracted? He 

did not know how he could begin. Was she annoyed, too, about something? 

If she would only turn to him or come to him of her own accord! To take 

her as she was would be brutal. No, he must see some ardour in her eyes 

first. He longed to be master of her strange mood.

"When did you lend him the pound?" she asked, after a pause.

Gabriel strove to restrain himself from breaking out into brutal 

language about the sottish Malins and his pound. He longed to cry to her 

from his soul, to crush her body against his, to overmaster her. But he 

said:

"O, at Christmas, when he opened that little Christmas-card shop in 

Henry Street."

He was in such a fever of rage and desire that he did not hear her come 

from the window. She stood before him for an instant, looking at him 

strangely. Then, suddenly raising herself on tiptoe and resting her 

hands lightly on his shoulders, she kissed him.

"You are a very generous person, Gabriel," she said.

Gabriel, trembling with delight at her sudden kiss and at the quaintness 

of her phrase, put his hands on her hair and began smoothing it back, 

scarcely touching it with his fingers. The washing had made it fine and 

brilliant. His heart was brimming over with happiness. Just when he 

was wishing for it she had come to him of her own accord. Perhaps her 

thoughts had been running with his. Perhaps she had felt the impetuous 

desire that was in him, and then the yielding mood had come upon her. 

Now that she had fallen to him so easily, he wondered why he had been so 

diffident.

He stood, holding her head between his hands. Then, slipping one arm 

swiftly about her body and drawing her towards him, he said softly:

"Gretta, dear, what are you thinking about?"

She did not answer nor yield wholly to his arm. He said again, softly:

"Tell me what it is, Gretta. I think I know what is the matter. Do I 

know?"

She did not answer at once. Then she said in an outburst of tears:

"O, I am thinking about that song, The Lass of Aughrim."

She broke loose from him and ran to the bed and, throwing her arms 

across the bed-rail, hid her face. Gabriel stood stockstill for a moment 

in astonishment and then followed her. As he passed in the way of the 

cheval-glass he caught sight of himself in full length, his broad, 

well-filled shirt-front, the face whose expression always puzzled him 

when he saw it in a mirror, and his glimmering gilt-rimmed eyeglasses. 

He halted a few paces from her and said:

"What about the song? Why does that make you cry?"

She raised her head from her arms and dried her eyes with the back of 

her hand like a child. A kinder note than he had intended went into his 

voice.

"Why, Gretta?" he asked.

"I am thinking about a person long ago who used to sing that song."

"And who was the person long ago?" asked Gabriel, smiling.

"It was a person I used to know in Galway when I was living with my 

grandmother," she said.

The smile passed away from Gabriel's face. A dull anger began to gather 

again at the back of his mind and the dull fires of his lust began to 

glow angrily in his veins.

"Someone you were in love with?" he asked ironically.

"It was a young boy I used to know," she answered, "named Michael Furey. 

He used to sing that song, The Lass of Aughrim. He was very delicate."

Gabriel was silent. He did not wish her to think that he was interested 

in this delicate boy.

"I can see him so plainly," she said, after a moment. "Such eyes as he 

had: big, dark eyes! And such an expression in them--an expression!"

"O, then, you are in love with him?" said Gabriel.

"I used to go out walking with him," she said, "when I was in Galway."

A thought flew across Gabriel's mind.

"Perhaps that was why you wanted to go to Galway with that Ivors girl?" 

he said coldly.

She looked at him and asked in surprise:

"What for?"

Her eyes made Gabriel feel awkward. He shrugged his shoulders and said:

"How do I know? To see him, perhaps."

She looked away from him along the shaft of light towards the window in 

silence.

"He is dead," she said at length. "He died when he was only seventeen. 

Isn't it a terrible thing to die so young as that?"

"What was he?" asked Gabriel, still ironically.

"He was in the gasworks," she said.

Gabriel felt humiliated by the failure of his irony and by the evocation 

of this figure from the dead, a boy in the gasworks. While he had been 

full of memories of their secret life together, full of tenderness and 

joy and desire, she had been comparing him in her mind with another. A 

shameful consciousness of his own person assailed him. He saw himself 

as a ludicrous figure, acting as a pennyboy for his aunts, a nervous, 

well-meaning sentimentalist, orating to vulgarians and idealising his 

own clownish lusts, the pitiable fatuous fellow he had caught a glimpse 

of in the mirror. Instinctively he turned his back more to the light 

lest she might see the shame that burned upon his forehead.

He tried to keep up his tone of cold interrogation, but his voice when 

he spoke was humble and indifferent.

"I suppose you were in love with this Michael Furey, Gretta," he said.

"I was great with him at that time," she said.

Her voice was veiled and sad. Gabriel, feeling now how vain it would be 

to try to lead her whither he had purposed, caressed one of her hands 

and said, also sadly:

"And what did he die of so young, Gretta? Consumption, was it?"

"I think he died for me," she answered.

A vague terror seized Gabriel at this answer, as if, at that hour when 

he had hoped to triumph, some impalpable and vindictive being was coming 

against him, gathering forces against him in its vague world. But he 

shook himself free of it with an effort of reason and continued to 

caress her hand. He did not question her again, for he felt that she 

would tell him of herself. Her hand was warm and moist: it did not 

respond to his touch, but he continued to caress it just as he had 

caressed her first letter to him that spring morning.

"It was in the winter," she said, "about the beginning of the winter 

when I was going to leave my grandmother's and come up here to the 

convent. And he was ill at the time in his lodgings in Galway and 

wouldn't be let out, and his people in Oughterard were written to. 

He was in decline, they said, or something like that. I never knew 

rightly."

She paused for a moment and sighed.

"Poor fellow," she said. "He was very fond of me and he was such a 

gentle boy. We used to go out together, walking, you know, Gabriel, like 

the way they do in the country. He was going to study singing only for 

his health. He had a very good voice, poor Michael Furey."

"Well; and then?" asked Gabriel.

"And then when it came to the time for me to leave Galway and come up to 

the convent he was much worse and I wouldn't be let see him so I wrote 

him a letter saying I was going up to Dublin and would be back in the 

summer, and hoping he would be better then."

She paused for a moment to get her voice under control, and then went 

on:

"Then the night before I left, I was in my grandmother's house in Nuns' 

Island, packing up, and I heard gravel thrown up against the window. 

The window was so wet I couldn't see, so I ran downstairs as I was and 

slipped out the back into the garden and there was the poor fellow at 

the end of the garden, shivering."

"And did you not tell him to go back?" asked Gabriel.

"I implored of him to go home at once and told him he would get his 

death in the rain. But he said he did not want to live. I can see his 

eyes as well as well! He was standing at the end of the wall where there 

was a tree."

"And did he go home?" asked Gabriel.

"Yes, he went home. And when I was only a week in the convent he died 

and he was buried in Oughterard, where his people came from. O, the day 

I heard that, that he was dead!"

She stopped, choking with sobs, and, overcome by emotion, flung herself 

face downward on the bed, sobbing in the quilt. Gabriel held her hand 

for a moment longer, irresolutely, and then, shy of intruding on her 

grief, let it fall gently and walked quietly to the window.

She was fast asleep.

Gabriel, leaning on his elbow, looked for a few moments unresentfully 

on her tangled hair and half-open mouth, listening to her deep-drawn 

breath. So she had had that romance in her life: a man had died for her 

sake. It hardly pained him now to think how poor a part he, her husband, 

had played in her life. He watched her while she slept, as though he and 

she had never lived together as man and wife. His curious eyes rested 

long upon her face and on her hair: and, as he thought of what she must 

have been then, in that time of her first girlish beauty, a strange, 

friendly pity for her entered his soul. He did not like to say even to 

himself that her face was no longer beautiful, but he knew that it was 

no longer the face for which Michael Furey had braved death.

Perhaps she had not told him all the story. His eyes moved to the 

chair over which she had thrown some of her clothes. A petticoat string 

dangled to the floor. One boot stood upright, its limp upper fallen 

down: the fellow of it lay upon its side. He wondered at his riot of 

emotions of an hour before. From what had it proceeded? From his aunt's 

supper, from his own foolish speech, from the wine and dancing, the 

merry-making when saying good-night in the hall, the pleasure of the 

walk along the river in the snow. Poor Aunt Julia! She, too, would soon 

be a shade with the shade of Patrick Morkan and his horse. He had 

caught that haggard look upon her face for a moment when she was singing 

Arrayed for the Bridal. Soon, perhaps, he would be sitting in that same 

drawing-room, dressed in black, his silk hat on his knees. The blinds 

would be drawn down and Aunt Kate would be sitting beside him, crying 

and blowing her nose and telling him how Julia had died. He would cast 

about in his mind for some words that might console her, and would find 

only lame and useless ones. Yes, yes: that would happen very soon.

The air of the room chilled his shoulders. He stretched himself 

cautiously along under the sheets and lay down beside his wife. One by 

one, they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other 

world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally 

with age. He thought of how she who lay beside him had locked in her 

heart for so many years that image of her lover's eyes when he had told 

her that he did not wish to live.

Generous tears filled Gabriel's eyes. He had never felt like that 

himself towards any woman, but he knew that such a feeling must be love. 

The tears gathered more thickly in his eyes and in the partial darkness 

he imagined he saw the form of a young man standing under a dripping 

tree. Other forms were near. His soul had approached that region where 

dwell the vast hosts of the dead. He was conscious of, but could not 

apprehend, their wayward and flickering existence. His own identity was 

fading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself, 

which these dead had one time reared and lived in, was dissolving and 

dwindling.

A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun 

to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling 

obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on 

his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general 

all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central 

plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, 

farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. 

It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the 

hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the 

crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on 

the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling 

faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of 

their last end, upon all the living and the dead.