In Connaught the upper middle classes, clergy, doctors, lawyers, police
officers, bank officials, and so forth, are all strangers in the land.
Each of them looks forward to a promotion which will enable him to move
to some more congenial part of Ireland. A Dublin suburb is the ideal
residence; failing that, the next best thing is a country town within
easy reach of the metropolis. Most of them sooner or later achieve a
promotion, but some of them are so unfortunate as to die in their exile.
In either case their furniture and effects are auctioned. No one ever
removes his goods from Connaught, because the cost of getting things
to any other part of Ireland is exorbitant, and also because tables
and chairs fetch very high prices at auctions. Thus it happens that a
certain historic interest attaches to the furniture of most middle-class
houses west of the Shannon. The dispensary doctor dines off a table
which once graced the parlour of a parish priest. The inspector
of police boasts of the price he paid for his easy-chair, recently
upholstered, at the auction of a departing bank manager, the same
mahogany frame having once supported the portly person of an old-time
Protestant Archdeacon. It is to be supposed that the furniture
originally imported--no one knows how--into Connaught must have been of
superlative quality. Articles whose pedigree, so to speak, can be traced
for nearly a hundred years are still in daily use, unimpaired by changes
of scene and ownership.
An auction of any importance is a public holiday. Clergy, doctors,
lawyers, and police officers gather to the scene, not unlike those
beasts of prey of whom we read that they readily devour the remains of
a fallen member of their own pack. The natives also collect
together--publicans and shopkeepers in search of bargains in china,
glass, and house-linen; farmers bent on purchasing such outdoor property
as wheelbarrows, scythes, or harness.
When Hyacinth, to use the local expression, ‘called an auction’ shortly
after his father’s death, he was favoured with quite the usual crowd of
would-be buyers. Almost everyone with either money or credit within
a radius of twenty miles came into Carrowkeel for the occasion. The
presiding auctioneer had done his duty beforehand by advertising old Mr.
Conneally’s mouldy furniture as ‘magnificently upholstered’ suites,
and his battered editions of the classics as ‘a valuable library
of handsomely bound books.’ It is not likely that anyone was really
deceived by these announcements, or expected to find in the little
rectory anything sumptuous or splendid. The people assembled mainly
because they were exceedingly curious to see the inside of a house whose
doors had never been open to them during the lifetime of the owner. It
was always possible, besides, that though the ‘magnificently upholstered
suites’ existed only in the auctioneer’s imagination, treasures of
silver spoons or candlesticks plated upon copper might be discovered
among the effects of a man who lived as queer a life as Mr. Conneally.
When men and women put themselves to a great deal of inconvenience to
attend an auction, they do not like to return empty-handed. A day is
more obviously wasted if one goes home with nothing to show than if one
brings a table or a bedstead purchased at twice its proper value. Thus
the bidding at Hyacinth’s auction was brisk, and the prices such as gave
sincere satisfaction to the auctioneer. Everything was sold except ‘the
valuable library.’ It was in vain that the auctioneer made personal
appeals to Father Moran and the Rector of Clifden, as presumably the
two most learned gentlemen present. Neither of them wanted the venerable
classics. In fact, neither of them could have read a line of the crooked
Greek type or construed a page of the Latin authors. Even the Irish
books, in spite of the Gaelic revival, found no purchasers. When all was
over, Hyacinth wheeled them away in barrowfuls, wondering greatly what
he was to do with them.
Indeed, the disposal of his library was not the chief of his
perplexities. He wondered also what he was to do with himself. When the
auctioneer sent in his cheque, and the London Committee of the Mission
had paid over certain arrears of salary, Hyacinth found himself the
possessor of nearly two hundred pounds. It seemed to him quite a large
fortune, amply sufficient to start life with, if only some suitable way
of employing brains, energy, and money would suggest itself. In order to
consider the important topic at his leisure, he hired the only lodging
in Carrowkeel--the apartment (it was both bed and sitting room) over Mr.
Rafferty’s public-house. The furniture had suffered during the tenancy
of a series of Congested Districts Board officials. An engineer, who
went to sleep in the evenings over the fire, had burnt a round hole in
the hearthrug. An instructor in fish-curing, a hilarious young man,
had cracked the mirror over the mantelpiece, and broken many ornaments,
including the fellow of the large china dog which now mourned its mate
on the sideboard. Other gentlemen had been responsible for dislocating
the legs of two chairs and a disorganization of the handle, which made
it impossible to shut the door from the inside. The chief glory of the
apartment, however, still remained--a handsomely-framed document,
signed by Earl Spencer, then Lord Lieutenant, ordering the arrest of the
present Mr. Rafferty’s father as a person dangerous to the Commonwealth.
The first thing which brought Hyacinth’s meditations to a definite point
was a letter he received from Dr. Henry.
‘I do not know,’ the professor wrote, ‘and of course I do not wish
to inquire, how you are situated financially; but if, as I suppose is
likely, you are obliged in the near future to earn your living, I may
perhaps be of some help to you. You have taken your B.A. degree, and are
so far qualified either to accept a post as a schoolmaster in an English
preparatory school or to seek ordination from some Bishop. As you are
probably aware, none of our Irish Bishops will accept a man who has
not completed his divinity course. Several English Bishops, however,
especially in the northern province, are willing to ordain men who have
nothing more than a University degree, always supposing that they pass
the required examination. I shall be quite willing to give you a letter
of recommendation to one of these Bishops, and I have no doubt that
a curacy could be found for you in one of the northern manufacturing
towns, where you would have an ample sphere for useful work.’
The letter went on to urge the advisability of Hyacinth’s suppressing,
disguising, or modifying his political opinions, which, stated nakedly,
were likely to beget a certain prejudice in the well-balanced episcopal
mind, and in any case would be quite out of place among the operatives
of Yorkshire or Lancashire.
Hyacinth recognised and appreciated Dr. Henry’s kindness. He even tried
to bring himself to consider the offer seriously and carefully, but it
was no use. He could not conceive himself as likely to be either useful
or happy amid the hustling commercialism of the Manchester streets or
the staid proprieties of an Anglican vicarage.
After he had spent about a week in his new lodging, Father Moran called
on him. The priest sat beside the fire for more than an hour chatting
in a desultory manner. He drank tea and smoked, and it was not until he
rose to go that the real object of his visit appeared.
‘I don’t know what you’re thinking of doing, Mr. Conneally, and maybe
I’ve no right to ask.’
‘I wouldn’t have the least objection to telling you,’ said Hyacinth, ‘if
I knew myself; but I haven’t my mind made up.’
The priest put down his hat again, and settled himself with his back to
the fire and his hands in his pockets. Hyacinth sat down, and during the
pause which followed contemplated the wonderful number and variety of
the stains on the black waistcoat in front of him.
‘Then you’ve given up the idea of finishing your divinity course?’ said
the priest. ‘I’m not blaming you in the least. There’s men that studying
suits, and there’s men that it doesn’t. I never was much of a one for
books myself.’
He sighed heavily, perhaps at the recollection of his own struggles with
the mysteries of theology in his Maynooth student days. Then he walked
over and closed the door, returned, drew a chair close to Hyacinth, and
spoke in the tone of a man who imparts an important secret.
‘Did you hear that Thady Durkan’s giving up the fishing? Since he broke
his arm he declares he’ll never step aboard the boat again. You know the
St. Bridget. She’s not one of the biggest boats, but she’s a very lucky
one. She made over five hundred pounds last year, besides the share the
Board took. She was built at Baltimore, and the Board spent over two
hundred pounds on her, nets and gear and all. There’s only one year more
of instalments to pay off the price of her, and Thady has the rest of
the men bought out. There’s nobody owns a stick or a net or a sail of
her except himself, barring, of course, what’s due to the Board.’
Hyacinth was sufficiently acquainted with the system on which the
Congested Districts Board provides the Connaught fishermen with boats
and nets to understand Father Moran’s rather involved statement
of Durkan’s financial position. He did not yet grasp why all this
information should have been conveyed to him in such a solemn and
mysterious tone.
‘You might have the _St. Bridget_,’ said the priest, ‘for one hundred
and fifty pounds down.’
He paused to let the full glory of the situation lay hold upon Hyacinth.
Perhaps he expected an outburst of delight and surprise, but none came.
‘Mind you,’ he said, ‘there’s others looking for her. The men that
worked with Thady are thinking of making him an offer, and I dare say
the Board would be glad enough to have the boat owned among them; but I
can put in a word myself both with Thady and the inspector. Faith, the
times is changed since I was a young man. I can remember when a priest
was no more thought of than a barefooted gossure out of a bog, and now
there isn’t a spalpeen of a Government inspector but lifts his hat to me
in the street. Oh, a note from me will go a good way with the Board,
and you’ll not miss the chance for want of my good word--I promise you
that.’
‘Thank you,’ said Hyacinth.
‘Mind you, there’s a good thing to be made out of her. But sure you know
that as well as I do myself, and maybe better. What do you say now?’
‘I’ll think it over,’ said Hyacinth, ‘and whatever comes of it I’ll be
greatly obliged to you.’
‘Well, don’t be delaying too long. And look you here’--his voice sank
almost to a whisper--‘don’t be talking about what I’ve said to you.
People are queer, and if Father Joyce down in Clifden came to hear
that I was working for a Protestant he’d be sure to go talking to the
Archbishop, and I’d never get to the end of the fuss that would be
made.’
‘Indeed, it’s very good of you, especially considering who I am--I mean,
my father being a convert, and----’
‘Say no more,’ said the priest--‘say no more. Your father was a good
man, Catholic or Protestant. I’m not one of these bitter kind of
priests, Mr. Conneally. I can be a good Catholic without hating my
neighbours. I don’t hold with all this bullyragging in newspapers about
“sourfaces” and “saved.” Maybe that’s the reason that I’m stuck down
here at the other end of nowhere all my life, and never got promotion
or praise. But what do I care as long as they let me alone to do my work
for the people? I’m not afraid to say it to you, Mr. Conneally, for you
won’t want to get me into trouble, but it’s my belief that there’s many
of our priests would rather have grand churches than contented people.
They’re fonder of Rome than they are of Ireland.’
‘Really, Father Moran,’ said Hyacinth, smiling, ‘if you go on like this,
I shall expect to hear of your turning Protestant.’
‘God forbid, Mr. Conneally! I wish you well. I wish you to be here among
us, and to be prosperous; but the dearest wish of my heart for you is
that I might see you back in the Catholic Church, believing the creed of
your forefathers.’
The priest’s suggestion attracted Hyacinth a great deal more than Dr.
Henry’s. He liked the sea and the fishing, and he loved the simple
people among whom he had been brought up. His experiences in Dublin had
not encouraged him to be ambitious. Life in the great world--it was thus
that he thought of the bickerings of the Dublin Nationalists and the
schoolboy enthusiasms of college students--was not a very simple
thing. There was a complexity and a confusion in affairs which made
it difficult to hold to any cause devotedly. It seemed to him, looking
back, that Miss Goold’s ideals--and she had ideals, as he knew--were
somehow vulgarized in their contact with the actual. He had seen
something of the joy she found in her conflict with O’Rourke, and it did
not seem to him to be pure or ennobling. At one time he was on the verge
of deciding to do what the priest wished. Walking day by day along the
shore or through the fields, he came to think that life might very
well be spent without ambitious or extended hopes in quiet toil and
unexciting pleasures. What held him back was the recollection, which
never ceased to haunt him, of his father’s prophecy. The thought of
the great fight, declared to be imminent, stirred in him an emotion so
strong that the peace and monotony he half desired became impossible.
He never made it clear to himself that he either believed or disbelieved
the prediction. He certainly did not expect to see an actual gathering
of armed men, or that Ireland was to be the scene of a battle like those
in South Africa. But there was in him a conviction that Ireland was
awakening out of a long sleep, was stretching her limbs in preparation
for activity. He felt the quiver of a national strenuousness which was
already shaking loose the knots of the old binding-ropes of prejudice
and cowardice. It seemed to him that bone was coming to dry bone, and
that sooner or later--very soon, it was likely--one would breathe on
these, and they would live. That contest should come out of such a
renaissance was inevitable. But what contest? Against whom was the new
Ireland to fight, and who was truly on her side? Here was the puzzle,
insoluble but insistent. It would not let him rest, recurring to his
mind with each fresh recollection of his father’s prophecy.
It was while he was wearying himself with this perplexity that he got
a letter from Augusta Goold. It was characteristic of her that she had
written no word of sympathy when she heard of his father’s death, and
now, when a letter did come, it contained no allusion to Hyacinth’s
affairs. She told him with evident delight that she had enlisted no less
than ten recruits for the Boer army. She had collected sufficient money
to equip them and pay their travelling expenses. It was arranged that
they were to proceed to Paris, and there join a body of volunteers
organized by a French officer, a certain Pierre de Villeneuve, about
whom Miss Goold was enthusiastic. She was in communication with an
Irishman who seemed likely to be a suitable captain for her little band,
and she wanted Hyacinth back in Dublin to help her.
‘You know,’ she wrote, ‘the people I have round me here. Poor old Grealy
is quite impracticable, though he means well. He talks about nothing
but the Fianna and Finn McCool, and can’t see that my fellows must have
riding lessons, and must be got somehow to understand the mechanism of
a rifle. Tim Halloran has been in a sulk ever since I told him what I
thought of his conduct at the Rotunda. He never comes near me, and Mary
O’Dwyer told me the other day that he called my volunteers a “pack of
blackguards.” I dare say it’s perfectly true, but they’re a finer kind
of blackguard than the sodden loafers the English recruit for their
miserable army.’
She went on to describe the series of Boer victories which had come one
after another just at Christmas-time. She was confident that the cause
of freedom and nationality would ultimately triumph, and she foresaw the
intervention of some Continental Power. A great blow would be struck at
the already tottering British Empire, and then--the freedom of Ireland.
Hyacinth felt strangely excited as he read her news. The letter seemed
the first clear note of the trumpet summoning him to his father’s
Armageddon. Politics and squabbling at home might be inglorious and
degrading, but the actual war which was being waged in South Africa,
the struggle of a people for existence and liberty, could be nothing but
noble. He saw quite clearly what his own next step was to be, and there
was no temptation to hesitate about it. He would place his money at Miss
Goold’s disposal, and go himself with her ten volunteers to join the
brigade of the heroic de Villeneuve.