Hannah Breen be name--an' she lives in a big house on the side of a hill
over there towards the mountain. The husband's a farmer--an easy-goin',
bull-voiced, good-hearted lump of a man, wi' a good word for ould Satan
himself, an' a laugh always ready for iverything. But the wife, Hannah,
isn't that kind. Aw, 'deed she isn't. 'Tisn't much good-speakin' or
laughin' Hannah'll be doin'; 'tisn't herself'd get many cars to follow
her funeral in these parts. Aw, no. 'Tisn't milkin' the cows, an' makin'
the butter, an' washin' John's shirts, an' darnin' his socks, an'
mendin' her own tatters, an' huntin' the chickens from the porridge-pot,
Hannah was made for. Aw, no. It's a lady Hannah must be, a real live
lady. It's step out o' bed at eight o'clock in the mornin', Hannah must
do, an' slither down to her tay an' have it all in grandeur in the
parlour; it's sittin' half the day she must be, readin' about the doin's
o' the quality, an' the goin's on o' the world, an' squintin' at
fashion-pictures, an' fillin' her mind wi' the height o' nonsense an'
foolery; it's rise from the table in a tantrum she must do because John
smacks his lips, an' ates his cabbage wi' his knife; it's worry the poor
man out o' his mind she'd be after because he lies and snores on the
kitchen table, an' smokes up to bed, an' won't shave more'n once a week,
an' says he'd rather be hanged at once nor be choked up in a white shirt
an' collar o' Sundays. An' for herself--aw, now, it'd take me from this
till sunset to tell ye about all her fooleries. If you'd only see her,
Mr. John, stalkin' in through the chapel gates, wi' her skirts tucked up
high enough to show the frillin' on her white petticoat, an' low enough
to hide the big tear in it; an' black kid gloves on her fists; an' a
bonnet on her wi'out a string to it; an' light shoes on her; an' a big
hole in the heel o' her stockin'; and her nose in the air; an' her
sniffin' at us all just as if we were the tenants at the butter-show an'
herself My Lady come to prance before us all an' make herself agreeable
for five minutes or so.... Aw, Lord, Lord," laughed Anne, "if ye could
only see her, Mr. John."
"An' to see her steppin' down Bunn Street," Anne went on, as we turned
at the hedge, and set our faces once more towards the river, "as if the
town belonged to her--a ribbon flutterin' here, an' a buckle shinin'
there, an' a feather danglin' another place--steppin' along wi' her
butter-basket on her arm, an' big John draggin' at her heels, an' that
look on her face you'd expect to see on the face o' the Queen o' France
walkin' on a gold carpet, in goold slippers, to a goold throne! An' to
see the airs of her when someone'd spake; an' to see the murderin' look
on her when someone'd hint at a drop o'whiskey for the good of her
health; an' to hear the beautiful talk of her to the butter-buyers--that
soft an' po-lite; an' to see her sittin' in the ould ramshackle of a
cart goin' home, as straight in the back an' as stiff as a ramrod, an'
her face set like a plaster image, an' her niver lettin' her eye fall on
John sittin' beside her, an' him as drunk an' merry as a houseful o'
fiddlers! Aw, sure," cried Anne, flinging up a hand, "aw, sure, it's
past the power o' mortial tongue to tell about her."
"Yours, Anne, makes a good attempt at the telling, for all that," said
I.
"Ach, I'm only bleatherin'," said Anne. "If ye only knew her--only did."
"Well, tell me all about her," said I, "before your tongue gets tired."
"Ah, sure, an' I will," replied she; "sure, an' I'll try me hand at it."
"One day, then, sometime last summer, Hannah--beggin' her ladyship's
pardon," said Anne, a sudden note of scorn rasping in her voice, "but I
meant Mrs. Breen--decks herself out, ties on her bonnet, pulls on her
kid gloves, an' steps out through the hall door. Down she goes, over the
ruts an' the stones, along the lane, turns down the main road; after a
while comes to the house o' Mrs. Flaherty--herself that told
me--crosses the street, an' knocks po-lite on the door.
"'Aw, is Mrs. Flaherty at home, this fine day?' axes Hannah when the
door opens, an' wee Nancy put her tattered head between it an' the post.
'Is Mrs. Flaherty at home?' says she.
"'She is so,' answers Nancy; 'but she'd be out at the well,' says the
wee crature.
"'I see,' says Hannah, 'I see. Then, if you please, when she comes
back,' says she, 'would you be kindly handin' her that, wi' Mrs. Breen's
compliments'--an' out of her pocket Hannah pulls a letter, gives it to
Nancy, says good evenin' to the wee mortial, gathers up her skirt, an'
steps off in her grandeur through the hens an' ducks back to the road.
Well, on she goes another piece, an' comes to the house of Mary Dolan;
an' there, too, faith, she does the genteel an' leaves another letter
an' turns her feet for the house of Mrs. Hogan; an' at Sally's she
smiles, an' bobs her head, an' pulls another letter from her pocket, an'
leaves it at the door; then twists on her heel, turns back home an'
begins dustin' the parlours, an' arrangin' her trumpery an' readin'
bleather from the fashion papers.
"Very well, childer. Home Jane comes from the well, an' there's Nancy
wi' the letter in her fist. 'What the divil's this?' says Jane, an'
tears it open; an' there, lo an' behold ye, is a bit of a card--Jane
swears 'twas a piece of a bandbox, but I'd be disbelievin' her--an' on
it an invite to come an' have tay with me bould Hannah, on the next
Wednesday evenin' at five o'clock p.m.--whativer in glory p.m. may be
after meanin'; when Mary Dolan opens hers, there's the same invite; an'
when Sally Hogan opens hers, out drops the same bit of a card on the
floor; an' Sally laughs, an' Mary laughs, an' Jane laughs, an' the three
o' them, what wi' the quareness o' the business, an' the curiosity of
them to see Hannah at her capers, put their heads together, an' laughs
again, an' settles it that sorrow take them, but go they'll go. An' go
they did. Aw, yis ... Aw, Lord, Lord," laughed Anne, turning up her
eyes. "Lord, Lord!"
"Aw, childer, dear," giggled Judy, with a heaving of her narrow
shoulders. "Aw, go they did!"
"Good girl, Anne," said I, and slapped my leg "my roarin' girl! Aw, an'
go they did, Judy--go they did."
"Well, hearts alive," Anne went on, "Wednesday evenin' comes at last;
an' sharp at five o'clock up me brave Jane Flaherty steps along the
lane, crosses the yard, an' mindin' her manners, knocks twice on
Hannah's back door--then turns, an' wi' the dog yelpin' at her, an' the
gander hissin' like a wet stick on a fire, waits like a beggarwoman on
the step. But divil a one comes to the door; aw, not a one. An' sorrow a
soul budged inside; aw, not a soul. So round turns Jane, lifts her fist
again, hits the door three thundering bangs, an' looks another while at
the gander. Not a budge in the door, not a move inside; so Jane, not to
be done out of her tay, lifts the latch,--an', sure as the sun was
shinin', but the bolt was shot inside. 'Well, dang me,' says Jane, an'
hits the door a kick, 'but this is a fine way to treat company,' says
she, an' rattles the latch, an' shakes it. At last, in the divil of a
temper, spits on the step, whips up her skirts, an' cursin' Hannah high
up an' low down, starts for home.
"She got as far as the bend in the lane, an' there meets Mary Dolan.
"'What's up?' axes Mary. 'What's floostered ye, Jane Flaherty? Aren't ye
goin' to have your tay, me dear?' says Mary.
"'Aw, may the first sup she swallows choke the breath in her,' shouts
Jane, an' goes on to tell her story; an' before she'd said ten words, up
comes Sally Hogan.
"'Am I too late?' says Sally, 'or am I too early?' says she, 'or what in
glory ails the two o' ye?'
"'Ails?' shouts Jane. 'Ye may well say that, Sally Hogan. Ye may turn on
your heel,' says she, an' begins her story again; an' before she was
half through it Sally laughs out, and takes Jane by the arm, an' starts
back to the house.
"'Come away,' says she; 'come away an' have your tay, Jane; sure, ye
don't know Hannah yet.'
"So back the three goes--but not through the yard. Aw, no. 'Twas through
the wee green gate, an' down the walk, an' slap up to the hall door
Sally takes them; an' sure enough the first dab on the knocker brings a
fut on the flags inside, an' there's Kitty, the servant girl, in her
boots an' her stockin's, an' her Sunday dress an' a white apron on her,
standin' before them.
"'Aw, an' is that you, Kitty Malone,' says Sally. 'An' how's yourself,
Kitty, me dear? An' wid Mrs. Breen be inside?' says she.
"'She is so, Mrs. Hogan,' answers Kitty, an' bobs a kind of curtsy. 'Wid
ye all be steppin' in, please?'
"'Aw, the Lord's sake,' gasps Sally on the door step, at all this
grandeur; 'the Lord's sake,' says she, an' steps into the hall; an' in
steps Mary Dolan, an' in steps Jane Flaherty, an' away the three o' them
goes at Kitty's heels up to the parlour.... 'Aw, heavenly hour,' cried
Anne, and turned up her eyes.
"Well, dears," Anne went on, "in the three walks, bonnets an' all, an'
sits them down along the wall on three chairs, an' watches Kitty close
the door; then looks at each other in a puzzled kind o' way, an', after
that, without openin' a lip, casts their eyes about the room. 'Twas the
funniest kind of a place, Jane allowed, that iver she dropped eyes on.
There was a sheep-skin, lyin' woolly side up, in front o' the fireplace,
an' a calf-skin near the windy, an' a dog's skin over be the table, an'
the floor was painted brown about three fut all round the walls. There
was pieces of windy-curtain over the backs o' the chairs; there was a
big fern growin' in an ould drain-pipe in the corner; there was an ould
straw hat o' John's stuffed full o' flowers an' it hangin' on the wall,
an' here an' there, all round it an' beside it were picters cut from the
papers an' then tacked on the plaster. Ye could hardly see the
mantelshelf, Jane allowed, for all the trumpery was piled on it,
dinglum-danglums of glass an' chaney, an' shells from the say, an' a
sampler stuck in a frame, an' in the middle of all a picter of Hannah
herself got up in all her finery. An' there was books, an' papers, an'
fal-lals, an' the sorrow knows what, lyin' about; an' standin' against
the wall, facin' the windy, was a wee table, wi' a cloth on it about the
size of an apron, an' it wi' a fringe on it, no less, an' it spread
skew-wise an' lookin' for all the world like a white ace o' diamonds;
an' on the cloth was a tray wi' cups an' saucers, an' sugar an' milk,
an' as much bread an' butter, cut as thin as glass, as you'd give a sick
child for its supper.... 'Aw, heavenly hour,' cried Anne, 'heavenly
hour!'
"Aw, childer, dear," cried Judy.
"Aw, woman alive," said I. "Aw, Judy, dear."
"Well, childer, the three looks at all, an' looks at each other, an'
shifts on their chairs, an' looks at each other again, an' says Mary
Dolan at last:--
"'We're in clover, me dears,' says she, 'judgin' be the spread
beyont'--and she nods at the wee table.
"'Ah that'il do for a start,' says Sally Hogan; 'but where in glory are
we all to put our legs under that wee table? Sure it'l be an ojus
squeeze.'
"'It will so,' says Jane Flaherty, 'it will so. But isn't it powerful
quare o' Hannah to keep us sittin' here so long in our bonnets an'
shawls, an' us dreepin' wi' the heat?'
"'It's the quarest hole I iver was put in,' says Mary Dolan, 'an' if
this is grandeur, give me the ould kitchen at home wi' me feet on the
hearth an' me tay on a chair.... Phew,' says Mary, an' squints round at
the windy, 'phew, but it's flamin' hot! Aw,' says she, an' makes a dart
from her chair, 'dang me, but I'll burst if I don't get a mouthful o'
fresh air.' An' just as she had her hand on the sash to lift it, the
door opens an' in steps me darlin' Hannah.
"'Good evenin', ladies all," says Hannah, marchin' in wi' some kind of a
calico affair, made like a shroud wi' frills on it, hangin' on her,
'Good evenin', ladies,' says she, an' wi' her elbow cocked up in the air
as if she was strivin' to scrape it against the ceilin', goes from one
to another an' shakes hands. 'It's a very pleasant afternoon' (them was
the words), says she, makin' for a chair beside the wee table; 'an' I'm
very pleased to see ye all,' says she.
"'Aw, an' the same here,' says Mary Dolan, in her free way, 'the same
here; an' ojus nice ye look in that sack of a calico dress, so ye do,'
says Mary, wi' a wink at Jane Flaherty. 'But it's meself'd feel obliged
to ye if so be ye'd open the windy an' give us a mouthful o' fresh air,'
says Mary.
"An' Hannah sits down in her shroud wi' the frills on it, an' smiles,
an' says she, 'I'm rather delicate' (them were the words) 'this
afternoon, Mrs. Dolan, an' afeered o' catchin' cold; an', forby that,'
says she, 'the dust is so injurious for the parlour.'
"'Aw, just so,' answers Mary, 'just so. Sure, I wouldn't for worlds have
ye spoil your parlour for the likes of us. But I'll ax your leave, Mrs.
Breen, seein' ye don't ax me yourself, to give me own health a chance,'
says she, 'be throwin' this big shawl off me shoulders.'
"'But it's afternoon tay, Mrs. Dolan,' answers Hannah, in her cool way;
'an' it's not fashionable at afternoon tay for ladies to remove--'
"'Then afternoon tay be danged,' says Mary, an' throws the shawl off her
across the back of her chair; 'an' it's meself'll not swelter for all
the fashions in the world,' says she, an' pushes her bonnet back an'
lets it hang be the strings down her back. 'Aw, that's great,' says she,
wi' a big sigh; an' at that off goes Jane's shawl an' bonnet, an' off
goes Sally's; an' there the three o' them sits, wi' Hannah lookin' at
them disgusted as an ass at a field of thistles over a gate.... Aw,
glory be," cried Anne.
"Aw, me bould Anne," cried Judy; "me brave girl."
"Well, dears, Hannah sits her down, puts her elbow on a corner o' the
ace o' diamonds, rests her cheek on her hand, an' goes on talking about
this and that. She hoped Mrs. Flaherty, an' Mrs. Dolan, an' Mrs. Hogan
were well an' prosperous; she hoped the crops were turnin' out well;
she hoped all the childer were in the best o' good health. Aw, like the
Queen o' Connaught Hannah talked, an' smiled, an' aired herself an' her
beautiful English, but sorrow a move did she make to shift her elbow off
the wee table-cloth, an' divil a sign or smell o' tay was there to be
seen. Aw, not a one. Ten minutes went, an' twenty, an' half an hour; an'
at that, up Mary Dolan stretched her arms, gives a powerful big yawn,
an', says she, 'Och, dear Lord,' says she, 'dear Lord, but the throat's
dry in me! Och, och,' says she--an' with the hint up gets Hannah in her
frilled shroud, crosses the calf-skin, opens the door, an' calls for
Kitty. 'Yis, Mrs. Breen,' answers Kitty from the Kitchen. 'Serve tay,'
calls Hannah; then closes the door an' steps back to her chair by the
wee table.
"In about ten minutes, here comes me darlint Kitty, boots an' stockin's
an' all; carries the taypot on a plate over to the table, an' plants it
down slap in the middle o' the ace o' diamonds. Up jumps Hannah wi' a
bounce.
"'What are you doin' Kitty?' says she, with a snap of her jaw, an' lifts
the taypot, an' glares at the black ring it had made on her brand new
cloth. 'D'ye see what you've done?' says she, pointin' her finger,
'stand back and mend your manners, ye ignorant little baggage, ye!'--
"'Yis, ma'am,' answers Kitty, an' stands back; then turns her head, when
she gets to the calf-skin, an' winks at the three sittin' by the wall;
an' out Mary Dolan bursts into a splutter of a laugh.
"'Aw, Lord,' says Mary, an' holds her ribs; 'aw, dear Lord,' says she.
But Hannah, standin' pourin' tay into the wee cups, just kept her face
as straight as if Mary was a dummy, an' in a minute she turns round to
Kitty.
"'Hand the cups to the ladies,' says she, an' sits her down.
"Well, childer dear, Kitty steps from the calf-skin, lifts two cups an'
saucers from the tray, carries them across the floor, an' offers one to
Jane Flaherty, wi' this hand, an' t'other to Sally Hogan wi' that hand.
An' Sally looks at the cup, an' then at Kitty; an' Jane looks at Kitty,
an' then at the cup, an' says Sally:
"'Is it take it from ye you'd have me do, Kitty Malone?' says she.
"'It is so,' answers Kitty wi' a grin.
"'An' where in glory wid ye have me put it, Kitty Malone?' asks Sally
an' looks here an' there. 'Sure--sure, there's no table next or near
me,' says she.
"'It's afternoon tay, Mrs. Hogan,' says Hannah across the floor; 'an' at
afternoon tay, tables aren't fashionable,' says she, an' grins to
herself.
"'Well, thank God, Hannah Breen,' says Mary Dolan, 'that afternoon tay,
as ye call it, has only come my way once in me life. Take the cup in
your fist, Sally Hogan,' says Mary, 'an' if ye break it, bad luck go
with it, an' if ye don't, you've been a lady for once in your life; an'
when you're done, stick it there on the floor. I'm obliged to ye, Kitty
Malone,' says Mary again, an' takes a cup; 'an' if so be I choke meself
wi' the full o' this thimble wi' a handle on it,' says Mary, an' squints
at the cup, 'you'll do me the favour to tell Pat I died a fool. An' if
such things go well wi' afternoon tay, Kitty, agra, I'd trouble ye for a
look at a spoon.' "... Aw, me bould Mary," cried Anne and laughed in her
glee. "Ye were the girl for Hannah, so ye were."
"Aw, 'deed ay," cried Judy, and tittered most boisterously. "Aw, me
brave Hannah."
"Then begins the fun, me dears. First of all, Sally Hogan, in trying to
lift a bit o' bread an' butter from a plate that Kitty held before her,
must spill her tay over her lap an' start screechin' that she was kilt.
Then Mary Dolan must finish her cup at a gulp, an' forgettin' it was in
Hannah's parlour she was at afternoon tay, an' not at home in the
kitchen, must give the dregs a swirl an' sling them over her shoulder
against the wall. Then Sally Hogan again, in tryin' to keep back a laugh
at the tay leaves on the wall, an' the glare of Hannah across at them,
must get a crumb in her throat an' bring the whole room to thump her on
the back.
"Then Jane Flaherty gets a second cup wi' no sugar in it, an' makes a
face like a monkey's, an' gives a big splutter, an' sets Kitty Malone
off into a fit o' laughin'; an' Kitty sets Jane off, an' Jane sets Mary
off, an' Mary sets Sally off; an' there sits Hannah in her calico
shroud, beside the ace of diamonds, wi' a face on her like a child
cuttin' its teeth, an' her arm out, an' her shoutin' for Kitty to take
herself out o' the room. An' in the middle o' the whole hubbub the door
opens, an' in tramps big John in his dirty boots, wi' his shirt-sleeves
turned up, an' hay ropes round his legs, an' his hat on the back o' his
head, an' his pipe in his mouth--in steps John, an' stands lookin' at
them all.
"'Ho, ho,' roars John, an' marches across the calf-skin. 'What have we
here? A tay party,' says he, 'as I'm a livin' sinner--an' me not to know
a thing about it! Well, better late nor niver,' says he, then turns an'
looks at Hannah. 'Aw, how d'ye do, Mrs. Breen? says he, wi' a laugh. 'I
hope I see ye well in your regimentals. An' how the blazes are the rest
o' ye, me girls?' says he to the three along the wall. 'I'm glad to see
ye all so hearty an' merry, so I am. But what in glory are ye all doin'
over there, away from the table? Why don't ye sit an' have your tay like
Christians?' says he. 'Come over, girls--come over this mortial minute,'
says John,'an' I'll have a cup wi' ye meself, so I will.'
"Then Hannah rises in her calico shroud.
"'John,' says she, 'it's afternoon tay it'll be, an tables--'
"'Aw, sit ye down, Hannah,' shouts John, 'sit ye down, woman, an' be
like another for once in a way.'
"'John,' says Hannah, again, an' looks knives an' forks at him, 'where's
your manners the day?'
"'Aw, manners be danged,' roars John, an' throws his hat into the
corner; 'give us a cup o' tay an' quit your nonsense. Come on, girls,'
says he to the women, 'come over, an' have a cup in comfort wi' me here
at the table.'
"'John!' says Hannah again, 'ye can't sit at this table; it's--it's too
small,' says she.
"'Then pull it out from the wall,' roars John, 'pull it out and let us
get round it. Come on,' says he, an' grips an end o' the table, 'give it
a lift across the floor!'
"'No, no, John,' shouts Hannah, an' grips t'other end to keep it from
goin'; 'ye mustn't, John!'
"'Out wi' it,' roars John again.
"'No, no,' shouts Hannah, 'ye can't--aw, ye can't--aw, ye mustn'--no,
no, John!'
"'Aw, to glory wi' you an' it,' shouts John. 'Here let me at it
meself!...'
"An' the next minute Hannah was screechin' in her shroud; an' there was
a clatter o' crockery, like as if a bull had gone slap at a dresser; an'
John was standin' like as if he was shot, in the middle of the floor;
an' lyin' at his feet was the wee table, an' the ace of diamonds, an'
the whole o' Hannah's cups an' saucers, an' the taypot, an' all, in a
thousand pieces.... Aw, heart alive ... heart alive!..."
Anne leant upon her rake and bowed her head in laughter. Two minutes
grace she had; then said I:
"What had happened, Anne?"
She looked at me. "Happened? Sure, the table was only an ould
dressin'-table, an' had only three legs, an' was propped wi' the lame
side against the wall; an' when John put it down in the middle of the
floor--Aw, now," cried Anne, "that's enough, that's enough.... Aw, me
sides--me sides."
"Aw, me sides--me sides," cried Judy, shaking below her big sun-bonnet.
"Te-he!"
"Aw, women alive," cried I, sinking back on the hay. "Haw, haw!"
The Interpreters.
_From "The Adventures of Dr. Whitty."_
BY GEORGE A. BIRMINGHAM.
At the end of January, after three weeks of violently stormy weather,
the American barque, "Kentucky," went ashore at Carrigwee, the headland
which guards the northern end of Ballintra. She struck first on some
rocks a mile from the shore, drifted over them and among them, and was
washed up, frightfully shattered, on the mainland. The captain and the
crew were saved, and made their way into the town of Ballintra. They
were dispatched thence to Liverpool, all of them, except one sailor, a
forecastle hand, whose right leg had been broken by a falling spar. This
man was brought into Ballintra in a cart by Michael Geraghty, and taken
to the workhouse hospital. He arrived in a state of complete collapse,
and Dr. Whitty was sent for at once.
The sailor turned out to be a man of great strength and vigour. He
recovered from the effects of the long exposure rapidly, had his leg
set, and was made as comfortable as the combined efforts of the whole
workhouse hospital staff could make him. Then it was noticed that he did
not speak a word to anyone, and was apparently unable to understand a
word that was said to him. The master of the workhouse, after a
consultation with the matron and the nurse, came to the conclusion that
he must be a foreigner. Dr. Whitty was sent for again and the fact
reported to him.
"I was thinking," said the master, "that you might be able to speak to
him, doctor, so as he'd be able to understand what you said."
"Well, I can't," said the doctor. "I'm not a professional interpreter,
but I don't see that it much matters whether you're able to talk to him
or not. Give him his food. He'll understand the meaning of a cup of tea
when it's offered him, whatever language he's accustomed to speak.
That's all you need care about. As a matter of fact, he'll be just as
well off without having you and the nurse and the matron sitting on the
end of his bed and gossiping with him all day long."
"What's troubling me," said the master, "is that I've no way of finding
out what religion he is."
"I don't see," said the doctor, "that his religion matters in the least
to us. He's not going to die."
"I know that. But I have to enter his religion in the book. It's the
rule that the religion of every inmate of the house or the hospital must
be entered, and I'll get into trouble after if I don't do it."
"Well," said the doctor, "there's no use asking me about it. I can't
talk to him any better than you can, and there isn't any way of telling
by the feel of a man's leg whether he's a Catholic or a Protestant."
"That may be," said the master, who disliked this sort of flippant
materialism, "but if I was to enter him down as a Catholic, and it
turned out after that he was a Protestant, there'd be a row I'd never
hear the end of; and if I was to have him down as a Protestant, and him
being a Catholic all the time, there'd be a worse row."