Dubliners
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 in a neighbour’s house.
After that they lived apart. She went to the priest and got a
separation from him with care of the children. She would give him
neither money nor food nor house-room; and so he was obliged to enlist
himself as a sheriff’s man. He was a shabby stooped little drunkard
with a white face and a white moustache and white eyebrows, pencilled
above his little eyes, which were pink-veined and raw; and all day long
he sat in the bailiff’s room, waiting to be put on a job. Mrs Mooney,
who had taken what remained of her money out of the butcher business
and set up a boarding house in Hardwicke Street, was a big imposing
woman. Her house had a floating population made up of tourists from
Liverpool and the Isle of Man and, occasionally, _artistes_ from the
music-halls. Its resident population was made up of clerks from the
city. She governed her house cunningly and firmly, knew when to give
credit, when to be stern and when to let things pass. All the resident
young men spoke of her as _The Madam_.
Mrs Mooney’s young men paid fifteen shillings a week for board and
lodgings (beer or stout at dinner excluded). They shared in common
tastes and occupations and for this reason they were very chummy with
one another. They discussed with one another the chances of favourites
and outsiders. Jack Mooney, the Madam’s son, who was clerk to a
commission agent in Fleet Street, had the reputation of being a hard
case. He was fond of using soldiers’ obscenities: usually he came home
in the small hours. When he met his friends he had always a good one to
tell them and he was always sure to be on to a good thing—that is to
say, a likely horse or a likely _artiste_. He was also handy with the
mits and sang comic songs. On Sunday nights there would often be a
reunion in Mrs Mooney’s front drawing-room. The music-hall _artistes_
would oblige; and Sheridan played waltzes and polkas and vamped
accompaniments. Polly Mooney, the Madam’s daughter, would also sing.
She sang:
_I’m a ... naughty girl.
You needn’t sham:
You know I am._
Polly was a slim girl of nineteen; she had light soft hair and a small
full mouth. Her eyes, which were grey with a shade of green through
them, had a habit of glancing upwards when she spoke with anyone, which
made her look like a little perverse madonna. Mrs Mooney had first sent
her daughter to be a typist in a corn-factor’s office but, as a
disreputable sheriff’s man used to come every other day to the office,
asking to be allowed to say a word to his daughter, she had taken her
daughter home again and set her to do housework. As Polly was very
lively the intention was to give her the run of the young men. Besides,
young men like to feel that there is a young woman not very far away.
Polly, of course, flirted with the young men but Mrs Mooney, who was a
shrewd judge, knew that the young men were only passing the time away:
none of them meant business. Things went on so for a long time and Mrs
Mooney began to think of sending Polly back to typewriting when she
noticed that something was going on between Polly and one of the young
men. She watched the pair and kept her own counsel.
Polly knew that she was being watched, but still her mother’s
persistent silence could not be misunderstood. There had been no open
complicity between mother and daughter, no open understanding but,
though people in the house began to talk of the affair, still Mrs
Mooney did not intervene. Polly began to grow a little strange in her
manner and the young man was evidently perturbed. At last, when she