Dubliners
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 Webb’s
or Massey’s on Aston’s Quay, or to O’Clohissey’s in the by-street. He
did not know how to meet her charge. He wanted to say that literature
was above politics. But they were friends of many years’ standing and
their careers had been parallel, first at the university and then as
teachers: he could not risk a grandiose phrase with her. He continued
blinking his eyes and trying to smile and murmured lamely that he saw
nothing political in writing reviews of books.
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 warm 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