Dubliners
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 manœuvres, 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 terracotta 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. Good-night, 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