THE people of the village of Ballycruiskeen showed themselves quite
ready to enter into the plans of their pastor in the profitable
enterprise of making entertainment for Lady Innisfail and her guests.
The good pastor had both enterprise and imagination. Lady Innisfail had
told him confidentially that day that she wished to impress her English
visitors with the local colour of the region round about. Local colour
was a phrase that she was as fond of as if she had been an art critic;
but it so happened that the pastor had never heard the phrase before;
he promptly assured her, however, that he sympathized most heartily with
her ladyship’s aspirations in this direction. Yes, it was absolutely
necessary that they should be impressed with the local colour, and if,
with this impression, there came an appreciation of the requirements of
the chapel in the way of a new roof, it would please him greatly.
The roof would certainly be put on before the winter, even if the work
had to be carried out at the expense of his Lordship, Lady Innisfail
said with enthusiasm; and if Father Constantine could only get up a wake
or a dance or some other festivity for the visitors, just to show them
how picturesque and sincere were the Irish race in the West, she would
take care that the work on the roof was begun without delay.
Father Constantine--he hardly knew himself by that name, having
invariably been called Father Conn by his flock--began to have a
comprehensive knowledge of what was meant by the phrase “local colour.”
Did her ladyship insist on a wake, he inquired.
Her ladyship said she had no foolish prejudices in the matter. She was
quite willing to leave the whole question of the entertainment in the
hands of his reverence. He knew the people best and he would be able to
say in what direction their abilities could be exhibited to the greatest
advantage. She had always had an idea, she confessed, that it was at
a wake they shone; but, of course, if Father Constantine thought
differently she would make no objection, but she would dearly like a
wake.
The priest did not even smile for more than a minute; but he could not
keep that twinkle out of his eyes even if the chapel walls in addition
to the roof depended on his self-control.
He assured her ladyship that she was perfectly right in her ideas. He
agreed with her that the wake was the one festivity that was calculated
to bring into prominence the varied talents of his flock. But the
unfortunate thing about it was its variableness. A wake was something
that could not be arranged for beforehand--at least not without
involving a certain liability to criminal prosecution. The elements of
a wake were simple enough, to be sure, but simple and all as they were,
they were not always forthcoming.
Lady Innisfail thought this very provoking. Of course, expense was no
consideration--she hoped that the pastor understood so much. She hoped
he understood that if he could arrange for a wake that night she would
bear the expense.
The priest shook his head.
Well, then, if a wake was absolutely out of the question--she didn’t see
why it should be, but, of course, he knew best--why should he not get up
an eviction? She thought that on the whole the guests had latterly heard
more about Irish evictions than Irish wakes. There was plenty of local
colour in an eviction, and so far as she could gather from the
pictures she had seen in the illustrated papers, it was extremely
picturesque--yes, when the girls were barefooted, and when there was
active resistance. Hadn’t she heard something about boiling water?
The twinkle had left the priest’s eyes as she prattled away. He had an
impulse to tell her that it was the class to which her ladyship belonged
and not that to which he belonged, who had most practice in that form of
entertainment known as the eviction. But thinking of the chapel roof, he
restrained himself. After all, Lord Innisfail had never evicted a family
on his Irish estate. He had evicted several families on his English
property, however; but no one ever makes a fuss about English evictions.
If people fail to pay their rent in England they know that they must go.
They have not the imagination of the Irish.
“I’ll tell your ladyship what it is,” said Father Conn, before she had
quite come to the end of her prattle: “if the ladies and gentlemen who
have the honour to be your ladyship’s guests will take the trouble to
walk or drive round the coast to the Curragh of Lamdhu after supper--I
mean dinner--to-night, I’ll get up a celebration of the Cruiskeen for
you all.”
“How delightful!” exclaimed her ladyship. “And what might a celebration
of the Cruiskeen be?”
It was at this point that the imagination of the good father came to his
assistance. He explained, with a volubility that comes to the Celt
only when he is romancing, that the celebration of the Cruiskeen was
a prehistoric rite associated with the village of Ballycruiskeen.
Cruiskeen was, as perhaps her ladyship had heard, the Irish for a vessel
known to common people as a jug--it was, he explained, a useful vessel
for drinking out of--when it held a sufficient quantity.
Of course Lady Innisfail had heard of a jug--she had even heard of a
song called “The Cruiskeen Lawn”--did that mean some sort of jug?
It meant the little full jug, his reverence assured her. Anyhow, the
celebration of the Cruiskeen of Ballycruiskeen had taken place
for hundreds--most likely thousands--of years at the Curragh of
Lamdhu--Lamdhu meaning the Black Hand--and it was perhaps the most
interesting of Irish customs. Was it more interesting than a wake? Why,
a wake couldn’t hold a candle to a Cruiskeen, and the display of candles
was, as probably her ladyship knew, a distinctive feature of a wake.
Father Conn, finding how much imaginary archæology Lady Innisfail would
stand without a protest, then allowed his imagination to revel in
the details of harpers--who were much more genteel than fiddlers, he
thought, though his flock preferred the fiddle--of native dances and
of the recitals of genuine Irish poems--probably prehistoric. All these
were associated with a Cruiskeen, he declared, and a Cruiskeen her
ladyship and her ladyship’s guests should have that night, if there was
any public spirit left in Ballycruiskeen, and he rather thought that
there was a good deal still left, thank God!
Lady Innisfail was delighted. Local colour! Why, this entertainment was
a regular Winsor and Newton Cabinet.
It included everything that people in England were accustomed to
associate with the Irish, and this was just what the guests would
relish. It was infinitely more promising than the simple national dance
for which she had been trying to arrange.
She shook Father Conn heartily by the hand, but stared at him when he
made some remark about the chapel roof--she had already forgotten all
about the roof.
The priest had not.
“God forgive me for my romancing!” he murmured, when her ladyship had
departed and he stood wiping his forehead. “God forgive me! If it wasn’t
for the sake of the slate or two, the ne’er a word but the blessed truth
would have been forced from me. A Cruiskeen! How was it that the notion
seized me at all?”
He hurried off to an ingenious friend and confidential adviser of his,
whose name was O’Flaherty, and who did a little in the horse-dealing
line--a profession that tends to develop the ingenuity of those
associated with it either as buyers or sellers--and Mr. O’Flaherty,
after hearing Father Conn’s story, sat down on the side of one of the
ditches, which are such a distinctive feature of Ballycruiskeen and the
neighbourhood, and roared with laughter.
“Ye’ve done it this time, and no mistake, Father Conn,” he cried, when
he had partially recovered from his hilarity. “I always said you’d do it
some day, and ye’ve done it now. A Cruiskeen! Mother of Moses! A
Cruiskeen! Oh, but it’s yourself has the quare head, Father Conn!”
“Give over your fun, and tell us what’s to be done--that’s what you’re
to do if there’s any good in you at all,” said the priest.
“Oh, by my soul, ye’ll have to carry out the enterprise in your own way,
my brave Father Conn,” said Mr. O’Flaherty. “A Cruiskeen! A----”
“Phinny O’Flaherty,” said the priest solemnly, “if ye don’t want to have
the curse of the Holy Church flung at that red head of yours, ye’ll rise
and put me on the way of getting up at least a jig or two on the Curragh
this night.”
After due consideration Mr. O’Flaherty came to the conclusion that it
would be unwise on his part to put in motion the terrible machinery
of the Papal Interdict--if the forces of the Vatican were to be
concentrated upon him he might never again be able to dispose of a
“roarer” as merely a “whistler” to someone whose suspicions were
susceptible of being lulled by a brogue. Mr. Phineas O’Flaherty
consequently assured Father Conn that he would help his reverence, even
if the act should jeopardize his prospects of future happiness in
another world.