At tea-time Mrs. Brennan was still talking to John of the girl who was
coming to the valley. Outside the day was still full of the calm glory
of summer. He went to the window and looked down upon the clean, blue
stretch of the little lake.... He had grown weary of his mother's talk.
What possible interest could he have in this unknown girl? He took
a book from a parcel on the table. With this volume in his hand and
reading it, as he might his breviary at some future time, he went out
and down towards the lake. On his way, he met a few men moving to and
from their tasks in the fields. He bade them the time of day and spoke
about the beauty of the afternoon. As they replied, a curious kind of
smile played around their lips, and there was not one who failed to
notice his enviable condition of idleness.
"Indeed 'tis you that has the fine times!" "Indeed you might say 'tis
you that has the fine times!" "Now isn't the learning the grand thing,
to say that when you have it in your head you need never do a turn with
your hands?"
Their petty comments had the effect of filling him with a distracting
sense of irritation, and it was some time before he could pick up any
continued interest in the book. It was the story of a young priest,
such as he might expect to be in a few years. Suddenly it appeared
remarkable that he should be reading this foreshadowing of his future.
That he should be seeing himself with all his ideas translated into
reality and his training changed into the work for which he had been
trained. Strange that this thought should have come into his mind with
smashing force here now and at this very time. Hitherto his future had
appeared as a thing apart from him, but now it seemed intimately bound
up with everything he could possibly do.
He began to see very clearly for the first time the reason for his
mother's anxiety to keep him apart from the life of the valley. Did it
spring directly from her love for him, or was it merely selfish and
contributory to her pride? The whole burden of her talk showed clearly
that she was a proud woman. He could never come to have her way of
looking at things, and so he now felt that if he became a priest it was
she and not himself who would have triumphed.... He was still reading
the book, but it was in a confused way and with little attention. The
threads of the story had become entangled somehow with the threads
of his own story.... Occasionally his own personality would cease to
dominate it, and the lonely woman in the cottage, his mother sitting in
silence at her machine, would become the principal character.... The
hours went past him as he pondered.
The evening shadows had begun to steal down from the hills. The western
sky was like the color of a golden chalice. Men were coming home weary
from the labor of the fields; cows were moving towards field gates with
wise looks in their eyes to await the milking; the young calves were
lowing for their evening meal. The quiet fir trees, which had slept
all through the day, now seemed to think of some forgotten trust and
were like vigilant sentries all down through the valley of Tullahanogue.
Suddenly the eyes of John Brennan were held by a splendid picture. The
sweep of the Hill of Annus lay outlined in all the wonder of its curve,
and, on the ridge of it, moving with humped body, was Shamesy Golliher,
the most famous drunkard of the valley. He passed like a figure of
destruction above the valley against the sunset. John smiled, for he
remembered him and his habits, as both were known far and wide. He was
now going towards a certain wood where the rabbits were plentiful.
His snares were set there. The thin, pitiful cry of the entrapped
creature now split the stillness, and the man upon the sweep of the
world began to move with a more determined stride.... John Brennan, his
mind quickening towards remembrance of incidents of his boyhood, knew
that the cunning of Shamesy Golliher had triumphed over the cunning
of the rabbits. Their hot little eager bodies must soon be sold for
eightpence apiece and the money spent on porter in Garradrimna. It was
strange to think of this being the ultimate fate of the rabbits that
had once frisked so innocently over the green spaces of the woods....
He listened, with a slight turn of regret stirring him, until the last
squeal had been absorbed by the stillness. Then he arose and prepared
to move away from the lake. He was being filled by a deadly feeling of
sadness. Hitherto the continuous adventure of adolescence had sustained
him, but now he was a man and thinking of his future.
On his way across the sweep of the hill he encountered Shamesy
Golliher. The famous drunkard was laden with the rabbits he had just
taken from the snares. The strength of his thirst had also begun to
attack him, so that by reason of both defects his legs now bent under
him weakly as he walked. Yet his attitude did not suggest defeat, for
he had never failed to maintain his reputation in the valley. He was
the local bard, the satiric poet of the neighborhood. He was the only
inhabitant of the valley who continually did what he pleased, for he
throve within the traditional Gaelic dread of satire. No matter how he
debased himself no man or woman dared talk of it for fear they might be
made the subject of a song to be ranted in the taprooms of Garradrimna.
And he was not one to respect the feelings of those whom he put into
his rimes, for all of them were conceived in a mood of ribald and
malignant glee.
"Me sound man John, how are ye?" he said, extending a white, nervous
hand.
"I'm very well, thanks; and how are you, Shamesy?"
"Ah, just only middling. I don't look the very best. You'll excuse me
not being shaved. But that's on account of the neuralgia. God blast it!
it has me near killed. It has the nerves destroyed on me. Look at me
hand." ... It was the idiosyncrasy of Shamesy Golliher to assert that
drink was no part of his life.
Immediately he dropped into his accustomed vein. He gazed down the Hill
of Annus and found material for his tongue. There were the daughters of
Hughie Murtagh. They had no brother, and were helping their father in
the fields.
"Them's the men, them's the men!" said Shamesy, "though glory be to
God! 'twill be the hard case with them when they come to be married,
for sure you wouldn't like to marry a man, now would you? And for
pity's sake will you look at Oweneen Kiernan, the glutton! I hear he
ate five loaves at the ball in Ballinamult; and as sure as you're there
that powerful repast'll have to be made the material for a song."
A loud laugh sprang from the lips of Shamesy Golliher and floated far
across the lake, and John Brennan was immediately surprised to find
himself laughing in the same way.
The rimer was still pursuing Oweneen down the field of his mind.
"Aye, and I thank ye, ye'll see him doing his best after the new
schoolmistress that's coming to us this evening. There's a great
look-out, I can tell you, to see what kind she'll be. Indeed the last
one wasn't much. Grand-looking whipsters, moryah! to be teaching the
young idea. Indeed I wouldn't be at all surprised to see one of them
going away from here sometime and she in the family way, although may
God pardon me for alluding to the like and I standing in the presence
of the makings of a priest!"
John Brennan felt himself blushing ever so slightly.
"And who d'ye think was in Garradrimna this evening? Why Ulick Shannon,
and he a big man. Down to stop with his uncle Myles he is for a
holiday. He wasn't here since he was a weeshy gosoon; for, what d'ye
think, didn't his mother and father send him away to Dublin to be
nursed soon after he was born and never seemed to care much about him
afterwards; but they were the quare pair, and it was no good end that
happened to themselves, for Henry Shannon and the girl he married,
Grace Gogarty, both died within the one year. He in the full pride of
his red life, and she while she was gallivanting about the country
wearing mourning for him and looking for another husband that she never
got before she went into the clay. Well, to make a long story short,
Myles Shannon looked after the orphan, paying for his rearing and his
education, and having him live as a gentleman in Dublin--until now
he's a great-looking fellow entirely, and going on, I suppose, for
Doctoring, or the Law, or some other profitable devilment like that.
The Shannons were always an unlucky family, but maybe Ulick'll break
the black curse, although I don't know, for he's the very spit and
image of his father and able to take his drink like a good one, I can
tell ye. This evening he came into McDermott's. There was no one there
but meself, it being the high evening, so says he to me:
"'What'll ye have?'
"'Begad, Mr. Shannon,' says I, 'I'll have a pint. And more power to
ye, sir!' says I, although I was grinning to meself all the time, for
I couldn't help thinking that he was only the son of Henry Shannon,
one of the commonest blackguards that ever disgraced this part of the
country. You didn't know him, but your mother could tell you about him.
You might swear your mother could tell you about him!"
John Brennan did not notice the light of merriment which overspread the
face of Shamesy Golliher, for he was looking down towards the hush of
the lake, and experiencing a certain feeling of annoyance that this
young man should be becoming gradually introduced to him in this way.
But Shamesy was still speaking:
"He stood me four pints and two glasses, and nothing would do him when
he was going away but he should buy me a whole glass of whiskey. He's
what you might call a gay fellow, I can tell you. And God save us!
isn't it grand to be that way, even though you never earned it, and
not have to be getting your drink like me be nice contriving among the
small game of the fields?"
They parted in silence, Shamesy Golliher going eastward towards
Garradrimna and John Brennan in the opposite direction and towards
his mother's house. His mind had begun to slip into a condition of
vacancy when an accident happened to turn it again in the direction of
religion. As he came out upon the road he passed a group of children
playing between two neighboring houses. The group was made up of the
children of two families, the O'Briens and the Vaughans. It was said of
Mrs. Vaughan that although she had been married by Father O'Keeffe, and
went to Mass every second Sunday, she still clung to the religion into
which she had been born. Now her eldest child, a pretty, fair-haired
boy, was in the midst of the O'Briens' children. Their mother was what
you might call a good woman, for, although she had the most slovenly
house along the valley road, she went to Mass as often as Mrs. Brennan.
They were making the innocent child repeat phrases out of their prayers
and then laughing and mocking him because he could not properly
pronounce the long words. They were trying to make him bless himself,
but the hands of little Edward could not master the gestures of the
formula, and they were jeering at him for his ill-success. When he
seemed just upon the verge of tears they began to ask him questions in
the answers to which he would seem to have been well trained aforetime,
for he repeated them with glibness and enjoyment.
"What religion are ye?"
"I'm a little black Protestant."
"And where will ye go when ye die?"
"I'll go to hell."
"What's hell?"
"A big place bigger than the chapel or the church, with a terrible,
grand fire in it."
"And what is it full of?"
"It's full of little fellows like me!"
This was the melancholy piece of catechism John Brennan was constrained
to hear as he went past.
It added the last wave of sadness to the gray mood which had been
descending upon him by degrees since the beginning of the day.... He
stood upon the road and listened for anything in the nature of a sound
which might connect his mind with a thought that had some brightness.
Although only a few days had elapsed since his return his ears were
already beginning to redevelop that delicate perception of slight
sounds which comes to one in the quiet places. He now heard a car come
through Garradrimna and move a short distance down the valley road.
That, he thought, should be Paddy McCann driving the new mistress to
her lodging in the house of Sergeant McGoldrick.
The small realization held occupation of his mind as he went into the
house of his mother. He was surprised to find that it was past ten.
Still lonely as he went to his room, he thought once more of the kind
invitation of Mr. Myles Shannon.