Mackenzie was not at heart an ill-natured man, and he would have
repudiated with indignation the charge of being a mischief-maker. He
felt after his conversation with Hyacinth much as most men would if they
discovered an unsuspected case of small-pox among their acquaintances.
His first duty was to warn the society in which he moved of the
existence of a dangerous man, a violent and wicked rebel. He repeated
a slightly exaggerated version of what Hyacinth had said to everyone
he met. The pleasurable sense of personal importance which comes with
having a story to tell grew upon him, and he spent the greater part
of the day in seeking out fresh confidants to swell the chorus of his
commination.
In England at the time public opinion was roused to a fever heat of
patriotic enthusiasm, and the Irish Protestant Unionists were eager to
outdo even the music-halls in Imperialist sentiment, the students of
Trinity College being then, as ever, the ‘death or glory’ boys of
Irish loyalty. It is easy to imagine how Hyacinth’s name was whispered
shudderingly in the reading-room of the library, how his sentiments were
anathematized in the dining-hall at commons, how plots were hatched for
the chastisement of his iniquity over the fire in the evenings, when
pipes were lit and tea was brewed.
At the end of the week Hyacinth was in an exceedingly uncomfortable
position. Outside the lecture-rooms nobody would speak to him. Inside he
found himself the solitary occupant of the bench he sat on--a position
of comparative physical comfort, for the other seats were crowded, but
not otherwise desirable. A great English poet had just composed a poem,
which a musician, no doubt equally eminent, had set to a noble tune.
It embodied an appeal for funds for purposes not clearly specified, and
hazarded the experiment of rhyming ‘cook’s son’ with ‘Duke’s son,’ which
in less fervent times might have provoked the criticism of the captious.
It became the fashion in college to chant this martial ode whenever
Hyacinth was seen approaching. It was thundered out by a choir who
marched in step up and down his staircase. Bars of it were softly
hummed in his ear while he tried to note the important truths which
the lecturers impressed upon their classes. One night five musicians
relieved each other at the task of playing the tune on a concertina
outside his door. They commenced briskly at eight o’clock in the
evening, and the final sleepy version only died away at six the next
morning.
Dr. Henry, who either did not know or chose to ignore the state of
the students’ feelings, advised Hyacinth to become a member of the
Theological Debating Society. The election to membership, he said, was
a mere form, and nobody was ever excluded. Hyacinth sent his name to
the secretary, and was blackbeaned by an overwhelming majority of the
members. Shortly afterwards the Lord-lieutenant paid a visit to the
college, and the students seized the chance of displaying their loyalty
to the Throne and Constitution. They assembled outside the library,
which the representative of Queen Victoria was inspecting under the
guidance of the Provost and two of the senior Fellows. It is the nature
of the students of Trinity College to shout while they wait for the
development of interesting events, and on this occasion even the library
walls were insufficient to exclude the noise. The excellent nobleman
inside found himself obliged to cast round for original remarks about
the manuscript of the ‘Book of Kells,’ while the air was heavy with the
verses which commemorate the departure of ‘fifty thousand fighting men’
to Table Bay. When at length he emerged on the library steps the tune
changed, as was right and proper, to ‘God save the Queen.’ Strangely
enough, Hyacinth had never before heard the national anthem. It is not
played or sung often by the natives of Connemara, and although the ocean
certainly forms part of the British Empire, the Atlantic waves have
not yet learned to beat out this particular melody. So it happened
that Hyacinth, without meaning to be offensive, omitted the ceremony of
removing his hat. A neighbour, joyful at the opportunity, snatched the
offending garment, and skimmed it far over the heads of the crowd. A few
hard kicks awakened Hyacinth more effectually to a sense of his crime,
and it was with a torn coat and many bruises that he escaped in the end
to the shelter of his rooms, less inclined to be loyal than when he left
them.
After a few weeks it became clear that the British armies in South
Africa were not going to reap that rich and unvarying crop of victories
which the valour of the soldiers and the ability of the generals
deserved. The indomitable spirit of the great nation rose to the
occasion, and the position of those who entertained doubts about the
justice of the original quarrel became more than ever unbearable.
Hyacinth took to wandering by himself through parts of the city in which
he was unlikely to meet any of his fellow-students. His soul grew bitter
within him. The course of petty persecution to which he was subjected
hardened his original sentimental sympathy with the Boer cause into a
clearly defined hatred of everything English. When he got clear of the
college and the hateful sound of the ‘cook’s son, Duke’s son’ tune, he
tramped along, gloating quietly over the news of the latest ‘regrettable
incident.’
He was very lonely and friendless, for not even the discomfiture of his
enemies can make up to a young man for the want of a friend to speak to.
An inexpressible longing for home came over him. There was a shop in a
by-street which exposed photographs of Galway scenery in its windows for
a time. Hyacinth used to go day by day to gaze at them. The modest front
of the Gaelic League Hyce was another haunt of his. He used to stand
Debating his eyes on the Irish titles of the books in the window, and
repeating the words he read aloud to himself until the passers-by turned
to look at him. Once he entered a low-browed, dingy shop merely because
the owner’s name was posted over the door in Gaelic characters. It was
one of those shops to be found in the back streets of most large towns
which devote themselves to a composite business, displaying newspapers,
apples, tobacco, and sweets for sale. The afternoon light, already
growing feeble in the open air, had almost deserted the interior of
the shop. At first Hyacinth saw nothing but an untidy red-haired
girl reading in a corner by the light of a candle. He asked her for
cigarettes. She rose, and laid her book and the candle on the counter.
It was one of O’Growney’s Irish primers, dirty and pencilled. Hyacinth’s
heart warmed to her at once. Was she not trying to learn the dear Irish
which the barefooted girls far away at home shouted to each other as
they dragged the seaweed up from the shore? Then from the far end of the
shop he heard a man’s voice speaking Irish. It was not the soft liquid
tongue of the Connaught peasants, but a language more regular and
formal. The man spoke it as if it were a language he had learned,
comparatively slowly and with effort. Yet the sound of it seemed to
Hyacinth one of the sweetest things he had ever heard. Not even the
shrinking self-distrust which he had been taught by repeated snubbings
and protracted ostracism could prevent him from making himself known to
this stranger.
‘The blessing of God upon Ireland!’ he said.
There was not a moment’s hesitation on the part of the stranger. The
sound of the Gaelic was enough for him. He stretched out both hands to
Hyacinth.
‘Is it that you also are one of us--one of the Gaels?’ he asked.
Hyacinth seized the outstretched hands and held them tight. The feeling
of offered friendship and companionship warmed him with a sudden glow.
He felt that his eyes were filling with tears, and that his voice would
break if he tried to speak, but he did not care at all. He poured out a
long Gaelic greeting, scarcely knowing what he said. Perhaps neither
the man whose hands he held nor the owner of the shop behind the counter
fully understood him, but they guessed at his feelings.
‘Is it that you are a stranger here and lonely? Where is your home? What
name is there on you?’
‘Maiseadh, I am a stranger indeed and lonely too,’ said Hyacinth.
‘You are a stranger no longer, then. We are all of us friends with each
other. You speak our own dear tongue, and that is enough to make us
friends.’
The tobacconist, it appeared, also spoke Irish of a kind. He cast
occasional remarks into the conversation which followed, less, it seemed
to Hyacinth, with a view of giving expression to any thought than for
the sake of airing some phrases which he had somewhat inadequately
learned. Indeed, it struck Hyacinth very soon that his new friend was
getting rather out of his depth in his ‘own dear tongue.’ At last the
tobacconist said with a smile:
‘I’m afraid we must ask Mr. Conneally--didn’t you say that Conneally was
your name?--to speak the Beurla. I’m clean beaten with the Gaelic, and
you can’t go much further yourself, Cahal. Isn’t that the truth, now.’
‘And small blame to me,’ said Cahal--in English, Charles--Maguire.
‘After all, what am I but a learner? And it’s clear that Mr. Conneally
has spoken it since ever he spoke at all.’
Hyacinth smiled and nodded. Maguire went on:
‘What are you doing this afternoon? What do you say to coming round with
me to see Mary O’Dwyer? It’s her “at home” day, and I’m just on my way
there.’
‘But,’ said Hyacinth, ‘I don’t know her. I can hardly go to her house,
can I?’
‘Oh, I’ll introduce you,’ said Maguire cheerfully. ‘She allows me to
bring anyone I like to see her. She likes to know anyone who loves
Ireland and speaks Gaelic. Perhaps we’ll meet Finola too; she’s often
there.’
‘Meet who?’
‘Finola. That’s what we call Miss Goold--Augusta Goold, you know. We
call her Finola because she shelters the rest of us under her wings when
the Moyle gets tempestuous. You remember the story?’
‘Of course I do,’ said Hyacinth, who had learnt the tale of Lir’s
daughter as other children do Jack the Giant-Killer. ‘And who is Miss
O’Dwyer?’
‘Oh, she writes verses. Surely you know them?’
Hyacinth shook his head.
‘What a pity! We all admire them immensely. She has something nearly
every week in the _Croppy_. She has just brought out a volume of lyrics.
Her brother worked the publishing of it in New York. He is mixed up with
literary people there. You must have heard of him at all events. He’s
Patrick O’Dwyer, one of the few who stood by O’Neill when he fought the
priests. He gave up the Parliamentary people after that. No honest man
could do anything else.’
He conducted Hyacinth to one of the old squares on the north side of the
city. When the tide of fashion set southwards, spreading terraces and
villas from Leeson Street to Killiney, it left behind some of the finest
houses in Dublin. Nowadays for a comparatively low rent it is possible
to live in a splendid house if you do not aspire to the glory of a smart
address. Miss O’Dwyer’s house, for instance, boasted a spacious hall and
lofty sitting-rooms, with impressive ceilings and handsome fireplaces;
yet she paid for it little more than half the rent which a cramped villa
in Clyde Road would have cost her. Even so, it was somewhat of a mystery
to her friends how Miss O’Dwyer managed to live there. A solicitor who
had his offices on the ground-floor probably paid the rent of the whole
house; but the profits of verse-making are small, and a poetess, like
meaner women, requires food, clothes, and fire. Indeed, Miss O’Dwyer,
no longer ‘M. O’D.,’ whose verses adorned the _Croppy_, but ‘Miranda,’
served an English paper as Irish correspondent. It was a pity that a
pen certainly capable of better things should have been employed
in describing the newest costume of the Lord Lieutenant’s wife at
Punchestown, or the confection of pale-blue tulle which, draped round
Mrs. Chesney, adorned a Castle ball. Miss O’Dwyer herself was heartily
ashamed of the work, but it was, or appeared to her to be, necessary to
live, and even with the aid of occasional remittances from Patrick in
New York, she could scarcely have afforded her friends a cup of tea
without the guineas earned by torturing the English language in a
weekly chronicle of Irish society’s clothes. Even with the help of such
earnings, poverty was for ever tapping her on the shoulder, and no one
except Mary herself and her one maid-servant knew how carefully fire
and light had to be economized in the splendid rooms where an extinct
aristocracy had held revels a century before.
Hyacinth and his friend advanced past the solicitor’s doors, and up
the broad staircase as far as the drawing-room. For a time they got no
further than the threshold. The opening of the door was greeted with a
long-drawn and emphatic ‘Hush!’ from the company within. Maguire laid
his hand on Hyacinth’s arm, and the two stood still looking into the
room. What was left of the feeble autumn twilight was almost excluded by
half-drawn curtains. No lamp was lit, and the fire cast only fitful rays
here and there through the room. It was with difficulty that Hyacinth
discerned figures in a semicircle, and a slim woman in a white dress
standing apart from the others near the fire. Then he heard a voice,
a singularly sweet voice, as it seemed to him, reciting with steady
emphasis on the syllables which marked the rhythm of the poem:
‘Out there in the West, where the heavy gray clouds are
insistent,
Where the sky stoops to gather the earth into mournful
embraces,
Where the country lies saturate, sodden, round saturate
hamlets--
‘Out there in the sunset where rages and surges Atlantic,
And the salt is commingled with rain over desolate beaches,
Thy heart, O beloved, is still beating--fitfully, feebly.
‘Is beating--ah! not as it beat in the squadrons of Sarafield,
Exultantly, joyously, gladly, expectant of battle,
With throbs like the notes of the drums when men gather for
fighting.
‘Beats still; but, ah! not as it beat in the latest Fitzgerald,
Nobly devote to his race’s most noble tradition;
Or in Emmet or Davis, or, last on their list, in O’Brien.
‘Beats fitfully, feebly. O desolate mother! O Erin!
When shall the pulse of thy life, which but flutters in
Connaucht,
Throb through thy meadows and boglands, and mountains and
cities?’
A subdued murmur of applause greeted the close of the recitation, and
praise more sincere than that with which politeness generally greets the
drawing-room performances of minor poets. Hyacinth joined in neither.
It seemed to him that the verses were too beautiful to speak about, so
sacred that praise was a kind of sacrilege. Perhaps some excuse may be
found for his emotion in the fact that for weeks he had heard no poetry
except the ode about ‘wiping something off a slate.’ The violence of the
contrast benumbed his critical faculty. So a man who was obliged to gaze
for a long time at the new churches erected in Belfast might afterwards
catch himself in the act of admiring the houses which the Congested
Districts Board builds in Connaught.
‘I am afraid I must have bored you.’ It was Miss O’Dwyer who greeted
him. ‘I didn’t see you and Mr. Maguire come in until I had commenced my
poor little poem. I ought to have given you some tea before I inflicted
it on you.’
‘Oh,’ said Hyacinth, ‘it was beautiful. Is it really your own? Did you
write it?’
Miss O’Dwyer flushed. The vehement sincerity of his tone embarrassed
her, though she was accustomed to praise.
‘You are very kind,’ she said. ‘All my friends here are far too kind to
me. But come now, I must give you some tea.’
The tea was nearly stone cold and weak with frequent waterings. The
saucer and spoon, possibly even the cup, had been used by someone else
before. Mr. Maguire secured for himself the last remaining morsel of
cake, leaving Hyacinth the choice between a gingerbread biscuit and
a torn slice of bread and butter. None of these things appeared to
embarrass Miss O’Dwyer. They did not matter in the least to Hyacinth.
‘Do you know the West well?’ he asked.
‘Indeed, I do not. I’ve always longed to go and spend a whole long
summer there, but I’ve never had the chance.’
‘Then how did you know it was like that? I mean, how did you catch the
spirit of it in your poem?’
‘Did I?’ she said. ‘I am so glad. But I don’t deserve any credit for
it. I wrote those verses after I had been looking at one of Jim Tynan’s
pictures. You know them, of course? No? Oh, but you must go and see them
at once if you love the West. And you do, don’t you?’
‘It is my home,’ said Hyacinth.
When he had finished his tea she introduced him to some of the people
who were in the room. Afterwards he came to know them, but the memories
which Miss O’Dwyer’s verses called up in him made him absent and
preoccupied. He scarcely heard the names she spoke. Soon the party broke
up, and Hyacinth turned to look for Maguire.
‘I’m afraid Mr. Maguire has gone,’ said Miss O’Dwyer. ‘He has a lecture
to attend this afternoon. You must come here again, Mr. Conneally. Come
next Wednesday--every Wednesday, if you like. We can have a talk about
the West. I shall want you to tell me all sorts of things. Perhaps
Finola will be here next week. She very often comes. I shall look
forward to introducing you to her. You are sure to admire her immensely.
We all do.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard of her,’ said Hyacinth. ‘Mr. Maguire told me who she
was.’
‘Oh, but he couldn’t have told you half. She is magnificent. All the
rest of us are only little children compared to her. Now be sure you
come and meet her.’