A very little and ancient woman stood there, with the trade marks of
soot and grease thick upon her. When she curtseyed she seemed to merge
in the door mat, so small was she and so dingy.
There was reassurance in the discovery that she seemed as much in awe of
us as we of her.
"How would I know what the likes o' ye would fancy?" she said, almost
with despair, and went on to hope that our visit might prove an
education into the ways of the aristocracy of which she had long stood
in need, but she coupled the admission with a warning that she "was very
owld and very dull."
It was a high responsibility, this position of exponents of an unknown
type, and it is much to be regretted that we were forced to leave our
venerable disciple under the impression that the upper classes usually
cook their own food at hotels. It should here be said that this
expedition had not been entered upon without a certain foreknowledge of
what it was likely to involve, and amongst other precautions were
provisions of a portable sort. These included sausages, and the
sausages we confided to our old lady.
We sat in the parlour enjoying the appetite for dinner that is one of
the bright features of a genuine holiday. After a delay of about half
an hour, Mary Kate's head was thrust through a narrow opening of the
door.
"Granne'ma says will the little puddings be split?"
Had the answer been Yes, and that it was usual to serve them with cream
and sugar, I feel sure that grandmamma would have complied. As it was,
after instructions to Mary Kate, of a lucidity unrivalled by Mrs.
Beeton, the sausages appeared, pale, tepid, raw, in a pie-dish, just
a-wash with luke-warm water.
The holiday appetite quailed at the sight, and the _chef_ was summoned
from the conversazione still raging in the kitchen. A single glance at
the guests told her of failure, and, with a masterly grasp of the
position, she hurried back to the kitchen and returned with the
frying-pan.
"Keep it now yersels," she said. "Didn't I say to ye I was too owld?"
From that time the parlour grate led a sullied life, but--which may have
consoled it--a thoroughly useful one. We re-cooked the sausages upon
it; the perambulator yielded its increase, toast, grilled beef,
sausages, who could reasonably ask for more?
We spent two days and two nights there; days of perfect weather, spent
in exploring a coast as wild and beautiful as the heart of holiday maker
could desire, nights strangely, almost desolately devoid of the
entomological excursions and pursuits usual to village inns, and, in
spite of the peculiarities of the pillows, sleep was not difficult. Or
rather, in candour it should be said, was difficult only after the
rising of the sun. For with the dawn, a vagrant population was astir in
the village; a street Arab community of hens, dogs, geese and donkeys,
incessant and clarion-toned in their addresses to morn and to each
other; creatures who slept under carts and in stray corners; who treated
life as a lounge, and regarded their owners as suzerains merely, to whom
occasional allegiance was to be rendered, or a tributary egg or two laid
in an inaccessible place.
On the whole, the donkeys are those of whom I can speak least
temperately. They had, for want, possibly, of other employment, adopted
the position of town-criers to the village, or perhaps were its
prophets, perhaps its Cassandras, and they uplifted their testimony from
sunrise till nightfall with a poignancy that rent the very skies.
Standing one evening on one of the low hills that hemmed the village
into its corner by the sea, I counted easily, and with half a glance,
four of these enthusiasts, planted each on a commanding rock or mound,
and sending his wild voice abroad over the valley. It was a sunny
evening, after a day of sad and opalescent beauty, and the sea had
brightened into blue and silver; the white-washed gables and a far white
lighthouse were radiant with recovered cheerfulness, but the jackasses
were as despairful and implacable as Jeremiah.
There was but one disaster during our brief sojourn at the Sea View
Hotel. A few sausages and a tin of sardines remained, "spared," as Mary
Kate said, from the first repast. These she proposed to store, for
safety and coolness, in one of our bedrooms. The idea not being well
received, she finally deposited them in the Post Office, which was
attached to the hotel. But even this hiding place was not improbable
enough to hoodwink that skilled tactician, the hotel cat, and he, in
some dark hour of the night, found and feasted on them with, no doubt,
all the ravishing joy of a new experience.
[Illustration: IN WEST CARBERY]
We could not but sympathise with him. Thanks to the Sea View Hotel that
subtle joy was also ours.
I began by saying that of the Summer holidays the times of anticipation
and of retrospect were the times of truest pleasure. Yet I can remember
long September days beside a sea of Mediterranean blue, the sea of
Southern Ireland, when the perfect present asked nothing of either past
or future. The long creek wound, blue-green as a peacock's breast,
between deep woods. High places of rock and heather were there, where
you could lie, "ringed with the azure world," and see the huge liners,
yes, and hear them too, as they went throbbing and trampling along the
sun's path westward.
Those who know this place of holiday are comparatively few, but there is
at least one distinguished name of the company--Dean Swift, no less. A
couple of hundred years or so ago, he spent a summer in West Carbery,
(an ivy-covered ruin, known as Swift's Tower, testifies to the fact,)
and he forthwith made a poem about it, a Latin poem, addressed to the
Rocks of Carbery.
One gathers that it was of the nature of an encomium, though the points
selected for description are not those that would tempt the effete
holiday maker of to-day. Possibly it was the Dean's majestic
eighteenth-century manner of thanking his host for "a very pleasant
visit." I came upon it in the house of a descendant of that host,
reverently quoted in a copy of Dr. Smith's history of the County Cork,
dated 1749. Thanks to the sympathetic scholarship of a contemporary
divine, the Revd. Dr. Donkin, who made a translation of it, I am able to
give some quotations from it. Dr. Smith thinks that "the Dean's
descriptions are as just as his numbers are beautiful." It is not for
me to disagree with him. Let them--or some of them--dignify these
unworthy pages.
"Lo! From the top of yonder cliff, that shrouds
Its airy head amidst the azure clouds,
Hangs the huge fragment, destitute of props,
Prone on the waves the rocky ruin drops.
* * * * *
Oft too with hideous yawn, the cavern wide
Presents an orifice on either side;
A dismal orifice, from sea to sea
Extended, pervious to the god of day.
* * * * *
High on the cliff their nests wild pigeons make,
And sea calves stable in the oozey lake ...
When o'er the craggy steep without controul,
Big with the blast, the raging billows roll, ...
The neighbouring race, tho' wont to brave the shocks
Of angry seas and run along the rocks,
Now pale with terror, while the ocean foams,
Fly far and wide, nor trust their native homes.
The goats, while pendant from the mountain top,
The wither'd herb improvident they crop,
Wash'd down the precipice with sudden sweep,
Leave their sweet lives beneath th' unfathomed deep."
I am sorry to say that in these degenerate times the improvident goat
has lost his ancient skill and is no longer pendant, and the oozey lake
and stabling sea calf (the latter possibly a lingering survivor of the
Deluge) may no more be found. None the less, I can confidently commend
the scenes of these catastrophes to the holiday maker of to-day.
Even now, when the sunshine of last September has faded to a memory, and
that of next September is too far away to be even a hope, I can still
feel the soft lift of the western wind, still hear the booming of the
waves in the deep and riven heart of the cliff.
*LOST, STOLEN, OR STRAYED*
"I couldn't find your apron, Ma'am," said the "Why not," imported a
month before, with bare feet and a forelock like a Shetland pony. She
belonged to the drift-weed of the household, and would, perhaps, now be
ranked as a "tweeny"; her class derived its title from its genial habit
of replying "Why not?" to any given order, without considering or
knowing whether such were its business. The "Why not" was at present
flushed with long search, and with that sub-resentment and assumption of
being suspected that all servants run up like a flag when valuables are
missing.
"There isn't one in the house, but I'm afther axing about it. It must
be it was waylaid."
It may scarcely be necessary to explain that she meant mislaid, but in
her limited skill in English she had expressed the real trend of the
things in the establishment. They were not, as a rule, lost, nor in the
strict sense of the word were they stolen; they were waylaid, snatched
from their own walk of life and applied to some pressing necessity of
the moment. The apron might have been taken to clean a bicycle, or to
stay the flow of spilt ink, or to bandage the foal's leg, and the "Why
not" probably had been a party to its fate.
It is on record that in past ages a punt, used by the master for his own
pleasure, was waylaid after it had been suitably laid up in the
coach-house for the winter. When Spring came, and the time of the
singing of birds and the painting of boats set in, the punt was not.
It was "gone this long time;" it was "as rotten as that the boards was
falling out of it undher the people's feet." "You couldn't tell what
thim women in the laundhry would catch hold of when they'd be short of
fire, an' God knows a person's heart would be broke that'd have to be
lookin' for sticks for them."
Having arrived at the fact that his boat had been burned, the Master
yielded to the inevitable.
"Begad!" he said, regarding the culprits through his spectacles, "I
believe you'd burn myself if I'd light!"
The march of education has merely added scope to the art of waylaying.
We have in the West of Ireland "heavy showers and showers in between,"
as an old woman put it when describing a wet day. In the course of one
of the in-betweens a party from the Big House took refuge in a wayside
cabin, and although it is not desirable or polite to observe too
curiously the environment in wayside cabins, a glimpse of a green
morocco-bound volume on a shelf, between a salt-herring and a hair-brush
was too much for the visitor's good breeding. Averting our eyes from
the hair-brush we identified the volume as a copy of Byron's "Marino
Faliero," which had long since disappeared from the drawing-room
book-case in which it had been wont to stand in the decorous neglect
which, I imagine, is not uncommonly its portion.
No one knew anything about the book. It had apparently flown like a
storm-beaten bird to the cabin door, and, out of pure compassion, was
given house room. From internal evidence it would seem to have inspired
considerable interest in a family of the name of Sweeny, whose
autographs profusely adorned its wide margins. Later on we heard that
one, Patsey Sweeny, when dying, had asked for the solace of a book. The
Big House had been applied to for something suitable. We shall never
know what influenced the "Why not" in her selection of "Marino Faliero;"
we shall never know anything in that, or in any similar matter, with any
certainty, but we do not expect certainty in the West of Ireland.
"Marino Faliero" returned to its fellows, importing a rich odour of
tobacco and turf smoke, but otherwise, unfortunately, dumb to its
adventures.
[Illustration: PATSEY SWEENY]
Subsequently a daughter of the house of Sweeny showed much aptitude in
the art of waylaying. A Confirmation was in prospect at the chapel, at
which Miss Julia Sweeny, aged eleven, was to be presented as a
candidate, the occasion requiring that she should be dressed in purest
white from her oily curls to her nimble and naked feet. When the day of
transformation arrived, the Young Ladies from the Big House turned out
to view it, and as the candidate knelt in angelic decorum in the chapel,
the youngest of the Young Ladies made the gratifying discovery that her
new white canvas tennis shoes were on the feet of Miss Sweeny. On such
a day it would have been a gross want of taste to have mentioned the
matter, and that evening the tennis shoes re-appeared unostentatiously
in their owner's room. No comment was made on either side, but with the
sensitive perception of the clinical thermometer, the Sweeny family
remained invisible for several weeks, after which Mrs. Sweeny arrived
with a score of eggs as a present for the youngest Young Lady, and both
sides felt that a disagreeable estrangement had been handsomely closed.
[Illustration: MRS. SWEENY]
The adventures of the Gravy Spoon were of the simpler household variety,
inexplicable, disconnected, yet following in a certain order a track
familiar to all Irish householders. The gravy spoon was antique, slender
of curve, and delicately ornamented along its graceful handle. Every
servant connected with the spoon will now testify that the handle was
cracked from the day it was made. One even asserts that "When ye'd
strike it agin anything there'd be a roaring in it," which, of course,
leaves no more to be said. That its prolonged absence from the table
should have been unnoticed was well in the character of things: several
months, in fact, passed before the lady of the house observed the cook
skimming cream with a singular and dwarfish weapon, which proved to be
the bowl and one inch of the handle of the gravy spoon. The explanation
opened with the formula, "Sure that was broke always," followed almost
inevitably by the statement that "it was broke when the young gentlemen
was home." From the mouth of a third witness came the information that
"Master Lionel broke it one day at luncheon helping curry." History was
silent as to the composition of this remarkable curry. The cook entered
no protest. Memory was not at any time her strongest point, judging at
least from her own guileless confession on one of the many occasions
when dinner was very late.
"Sure I mislaid the pudding, and there I was hunting the house for it,
and where would it be afther all but in the oven!"
The search for the keys was, of course, a mere commonplace of every day.
The storeroom was carefully locked up, and the bunch, an enormous and
for the most part obsolete collection, was then taken severely upstairs
and secreted. The next event was, usually, the departure beyond ken or
call of the person who had secreted the keys, followed, at a greater or
less interval, by the crisis when they became essential to the progress
of things, by the opening scenes of the hunt, and its gradual broadening
to full cry throughout the house. During this part of the comedy the
servants, who were perfectly acquainted with every known hiding-place,
remained coldly intent on their business, and the hunters deferred as
long as possible the humiliating moment when their co-operation must be
invited. When it came, the keys came with it.
To the lost and strayed the ashpit in the yard occasionally offered
harbourage, where, among the hot turf ashes and evil smells, oblivion
came quickly. Sometimes, when search ran high, as lately in the case of
three errant postal orders, the ashpit was placed under martial law, and
yielded strange spoils to its inquisitors. Instead of the postal orders
came forth in the first instance a letter, dated 1805, from an
historical personage, once Chief Justice of Ireland. The letter itself,
in remarkably good preservation, described in choice and flowing English
a fortnight spent in Bath, an experience in remarkable contrast to the
ashpit. The second trophy was a cheque for eight pounds, recent and
uncashed. The third was a tea cosy, of old gold and peacock blue satin,
somewhat scorched by turf ashes, but new, and preserving in its quilted
interior the label with which it emerged from its parent bazaar. There
was other booty of an inconsiderable sort, but the postal orders were
not found. The net result of the investigation was that every servant in
the house hovered on the verge of giving warning, till the day when the
postal orders arrived as stowaways in a letter from South Africa. The
writer made no mention of their presence in the envelope, nor has he
since been able to account for it, nor, to this hour, has any reasonable
theory been brought forward to explain their wanderings.
Lest any hasty judgment should here be formed as to the conduct of Irish
households, it is well to mention that other households, not Irish, have
had experiences as remarkable.
A family of my acquaintance, blameless in domestic life and even notable
in virtue, has established what must be, I think, a singular renown at
Scotland Yard in the matter of lost valuables. During a stay of two
nights under that hospitable roof, three several and severe disasters
passed like winds through the establishment, causing much mental and
physical stress, and a vast amount of cab hire.
The first was the loss of a diamond star, to recover which Scotland
Yard, much concerned, put forth detectives and established a network of
theories. It was subsequently found under the owner's bed. The second
was less showy but more acute, a purse lost while shopping. Scotland
Yard (not perhaps without a memory of the diamond star) was guarded, but
still sympathetic. Several purses had been brought in; would the owner
describe hers? The owner now asks us to believe that on being
confronted with this question she found herself unable to remember what
her purse was like. Then perhaps she could mention the sum of money it
contained? Lamentable to relate, on this point also memory was a blank.
After so flagrant a breakdown the ordinary individual would have ended
the interview in the lockup, but the claimant of the purse, in addition
to being young and lovely, was by no means ordinary. As a matter of
fact she was invited to try again, and this time was enabled to say that
she believed the purse had a hole in it. Further details of the
interview were withheld, but we were given to understand that though the
purse was not restored, the excellent relations with the officials
remained unimpaired.
The third catastrophe was the loss of a dressing-bag, containing much of
value, and forgotten, in the customary way, in a cab. This was a
trifling matter; a mere occasion for a morning call at Scotland Yard,
where the officials, with the special and protective smile reserved for
this family, produced the bag. It was taken airily home in a hansom,
its recovery was announced to an admiring luncheon table, and the
peculiar success of the family with Scotland Yard was discussed.
"But where is the bag?"
And even with the words came the grey dawn of the discovery that the bag
had once more been left in the hansom.
To follow the subsequent events would be an unkindness. It is enough to
indicate that even Scotland Yard and its special smile were on this
occasion of no avail.
To lose things by accident is, as we all know, calamitously easy, to
lose them designedly is not only difficult but takes nerve and, at the
right moment, want of principle.
There was once a red silk parasol, of the genus known to the trade as an
_en tout cas_, which, literally translated, meant that in sunny weather
it was cumbrous and heavy, and that during showers it wept tears of
indelible maroon upon its possessor. It passed through an unloved youth
into an abhorred middle age, with a crooked nose, a swelled handle, and
a mottled complexion, unfit for society, yet not sufficiently decayed
for a jumble sale. I and another went to Dublin for a week, and on
starting found that the red umbrella had been put on the car by the
servants, who held it in high esteem. We did not give it a thought; it
would, of course, return upon the car to its lair in the back hall. As
the train moved out into sunlight the red umbrella revealed itself,
looming upon us through the netting where a careful porter had placed
it. Not as yet recognising the hand of Fate, we lightly regarded it,
and determining that it should be left in the train, straightway forgot
its existence until an equally attentive porter placed it respectfully
in our cab in Dublin. Had we kept our heads we should have offered it
to him, murmuring something about having no change. Like most
inspirations, this, unfortunately, did not occur to us till some five
minutes later, but it suggested the idea of giving it to a housemaid,
and on this understanding it accompanied us to our destination. During a
week it disgraced our host's umbrella stand, and during that week we
discovered that the housemaid, who, from the first, was quelling, was a
Plymouth Sister, and would probably have regarded such a gift as an
attempt to sap her religious convictions. When, on departure, it was
deliberately forgotten, it was the Plymouth Sister who snatched it from
the umbrella stand and breathlessly hurled it into our cab. It was
obvious that to throw it out of the window in streets crowded with
traffic would merely have involved a heavy fee to an inevitable rescuer;
we reserved it for the window of the train, confidently, even enjoyably.
Yet, such was its inveteracy, in the train the spell of forgetfulness
again held us. The moments when it was remembered were precisely when
the train stopped at stations, or the windows were blocked with fellow
passengers, who would probably have pulled the communication cord to
retrieve it. As we neared the long bridge of Athlone a final resolve
was made. The network of big girders glided by, the broad Shannon
glittered far below. The red umbrella shot like a spear through the
girders and dropped out of sight. "So flashed and fell the brand
Excalibur--"
The train crept into Athlone Station and there entered upon a prolonged
wait among roomy and silent platforms. We exulted at leisure over the
reel umbrella. A hurrying foot was distantly heard; doors opened and
shut in rapid succession down the length of the train. We disinterred
our tickets. The door of our carriage was opened and a heated boy put
in his face.
"Did anny one here lose a red umbrella?"
It was the supreme moment in a duel with Destiny.