A SWEETHEART OF MINE
"She learned the pitiful story, that they must suffer who live,
While selling her soul in the gutters for all that the gutters
give."
--From _Lost Souls_.
There was a cold air running along the street when I stepped into the
open and took my way along the town to Moran's model where I lodged. I
felt disappointed, vexed, and ashamed of my ludicrous exhibition on the
stage. Forty-seven seconds! As I walked along I could hear the referee
repeating the words over and over again. Forty-seven seconds! I was both
angry and ashamed, angry at my own weakness, and ashamed of the
presumption which urged me to attack a professional athlete. I walked
quickly, trying to drive all memories of the night from my mind.
The hour of midnight rang out, and the streets were almost deserted.
Here and there a few night-prowlers stole out from some gloomy alley and
hurried along, bent, no doubt, upon some fell mission which could only
be carried through under cover of the darkness. Once a belated drunken
man swayed in front of me, and asked for a match to light his pipe. I
had none to give him, and he cursed me as I passed on. I met a few women
on the streets, young girls whose cheeks were very red, and whose eyes
were very bright. This was the hour when these, our little sisters,
carry on the trade which means life to their bodies and death to their
souls. It is so easy to recognise them! Their eyes sparkle brightly in
the lamplight; they speak light and trivial words to the men whom they
meet, and ever they hold their skirts lifted well over their ankles so
that those whom they meet may know of the goods which they sell. The
sisters of the street barter their chastity for little pieces of silver,
and from them money can purchase the rightful heritage of love.
These, like navvies, are outcasts and waifs of society. They are
despised by those who hide imperfections under the mask of decency, men
and women who are so conscious of their own shortcomings that they make
up for them by censuring those of others.
White slavery is now the term used in denoting these girls' particular
kind of slavery. But, bad as it is, it is chosen by many women in
preference to the slavery of the mill and the needle. As I write this,
there are many noble ladies, famed for having founded several societies
for the suppression of evils that never existed, who believe that the
solution of the white slave problem can only be arrived at by flogging
men who live on the immoral earnings of women. This solution if extended
might meet the case. In all justice the lash should be laid on the backs
of the employers who pay starvation wages, and the masters who fatten on
sweated labour. The slavery of the shop and the mill is responsible for
the shame of the street.
A girl came out from the shadow of a doorway, and walked along the
street in front of me, her head held down against the cutting breeze.
Sometimes she spoke words to the men who passed her, but all went on
unheeding. Only to those who were well-dressed and prosperous-looking
did she speak.
I thought of my own sisters away home in Ireland, and here, but for the
grace of God, went one of them. At that moment I felt sick of life and
sorry for civilisation and all its sin.
I detected something familiar in the figure of the woman before me.
Perhaps I had met the woman before. I overtook her, and when passing
looked at her closely.
"Under God, the day and the night, it's Dermod Flynn that's in it!" she
cried in a frightened voice.
I was looking at Norah Ryan. Just for a moment she was far from my
thoughts, and my mind was busy with other things. I had almost lost all
hopes of meeting her, and thought that she was dead or gone to a strange
country.
"Is this you, Norah?" I asked, coming to a standstill, and putting out
the hand of welcome to her.
She seemed taken aback, and placed her hand timorously in mine. Her
cheeks were very red and her brow was as white as snow. She had hardly
changed in features since I had last seen her, years before. Now her
hair was hidden under a large hat; long ago it hung down in brown waving
tresses over her shoulders. The half-timid look was still in the grey
eyes of her, and Norah Ryan was very much the same girl who had been my
sweetheart of old. Only, now she had sinned and her shame of all shames
was the hardest to bear.
"Is it ye, yerself, that's in it, Dermod Flynn?" she asked, as if not
believing the evidence of her own eyes.
In her voice there was a great weariness, and at that moment the sound
of the waters falling over the high rocks of Glenmornan were ringing in
my ears. Also I thought of an early delicate flower which I had once
found killed by the cold snows on the high uplands of Danaveen, ere yet
the second warmth of the spring had come to gladden the bare hills of
Donegal. In those days, being a little child, I felt sorry for the
flower that died so soon.
"I didn't expect to meet ye here," said Norah. "Have ye been away back
and home since I saw ye last?"
"I have never been at home since," I answered. "Have you?"
"Me go home!" she replied. "What would I be doin' goin' home now with
the black mark of shame over me? Do ye think that I'd darken me mother's
door with the sin that's on me heavy, on me soul? Sometimes I'm thinkin'
long, but I never let on to anyone, and it's meself that would like to
see the old place again. It's a good lot I'd give to see the grey boats
of Dooey goin' out again beyont Trienna Bar in the grey duskus of the
harvest evenin'! Do ye mind the time ye were at school, Dermod, and the
way ye hit the master with the pointer?"
"I mind it well," I answered. "You said that he was dead when he dropped
on the form."
"And do ye mind the day that ye went over beyont the mountains with yer
bundle under yer arm? I met ye on the road and ye said that ye were
never comin' back."
"You did not care whether I returned or not," I said resentfully, unable
to account for my mood of the moment. "You did not even stop to bid me
good-bye."
"I was frightened of ye."
"Why were you frightened?"
"I don't know."
"But you did not even turn and look after me," I said.
"That was because I knew that ye, yerself, was lookin' behind."
"Do you remember the night on the 'Derry boat?" I asked.
"Quite well do I mind it, Dermod," she replied. "I often be thinkin' of
them days, I do, indeed."
She was looking at me with wistful and pathetic eyes, and the street
lamp beside us shone full on her face. There was a long interval of
silence, and I did not know what to say next. Many a time had I thought
of our next meeting, and my head was usually teeming with the words of
welcome which I would say to her. But now I was almost at a loss for one
single word. The situation was strained, and she showed signs of taking
her departure.
"Where are you going at this hour of the night, Norah?" I asked
impulsively.
"I'm goin' for a walk."
"Where are you working?"
Well did I know her work, but I could not resist asking her the
question. The next moment I was sorry for my words. Norah's face became
white, she stammered a few words about being a servant in a gentleman's
house, then suddenly burst into tears.
"Don't cry," I said in a lame sort of manner. "What's wrong?"
She kept her eyes fixed on the pavement, and did not answer. I could see
her bosom heaving, and hear the low sobs that she tried vainly to
suppress. We stood there for nearly five minutes without a word. Then
she held out her hand.
"Slan agiv,[12] Dermod," she said. "I must be goin'. It was good of ye
to speak to me in that nice way of yers, Dermod."
The hand which she placed in mine was limp and cold. I struggled to find
words to express my feelings at the moment, but my tongue was tied, and
my mind was teeming with thoughts which I could not express. She drew
her hand softly from mine and walked back the way she had come.
I stood there nonplussed, feeling conscious of some great wrong in
allowing that grey-eyed Irish girl to wander alone through the naked
streets of Glasgow. For years I had recognised the evils of
prostitution, but never had those evils come home so sharply to me as
they did at that moment. Despite my cynical views on love I had always
a feeling deeper than friendship for Norah Ryan, and at times when I
tried to analyse this feeling I found that it was not love; it was
something more constant, less rash and less wavering. It was not subject
to changes or stints, it was a hold-fast, the grip of which never
lessened.
It was a love without any corporal end; its greatest desire did not turn
to the illusive delights of the marriage bed. My love had none of the
hunger of lust; it was not an appetite which might be satiated--it was
something far holier and more enduring. To me Norah represented a
poetical ideal; she was a saint, the angel of my dreams. Never for a
moment did I think of winning her love merely for the purpose of
condemning her to a hell of bearing me children. In all our poetry and
music of love we delight merely in the soft glance of eyes, the warm
touch of lips, the soft feel of a maiden's breast and the flutter of one
heart beating against another. But all love of women leads to passion,
and poetry or music cannot follow beyond a certain boundary. There
poetry dies, music falters, and the mark of the beast is over man in the
moments of his desire. But my love for Norah was different. To me she
represented a youthful ideal which was too beautiful and pure to be
degraded by anything in the world.
Norah had given her love to another. Who was I that I should blame her?
In her love she was helpless, for love is not the result of effort. It
cannot be stopped; its course cannot be stayed. As well ask the soft
spring meadows to prevent the rising freshet from wetting the green
grass, as ask a maiden to stem the torrent of the love which overwhelms
her. Love is not acquired; it is not a servant. It comes and is master.
Norah's sufferings were due to her innocence. She was betrayed when yet
a child, and a child is easily led astray. But to me she was still
pure, and I knew that there was no stain on the soul of her.
For a long while I stood looking after her and turning thoughts over in
my mind. In the far distance I could see her stealing along the pavement
like a frightened child who is afraid of the shadows. I turned and
followed her, keeping well in the gloom of the houses which lined the
pavement. She passed through many streets, stopping now and again to
speak to the men whom she met on her journey. Never once did she look
back. At the corner of Sauciehall Street, a well-dressed and
half-intoxicated man stopped and spoke to her. For a few seconds they
conversed; then the man linked his arm in hers and the two of them
walked off together.
I stood at the street corner, unable to move or act, and almost unable
to think. A blind rage welled up in my heart against the social system
that compelled women to seek a livelihood by pandering to the impurity
of men. Norah had come to Scotland holy and pure, and eager to earn the
rent of her mother's croft. She had earned many rents for the landlord
who had caused me sufferings in Mid-Tyrone and who was responsible for
the death of my brother Dan. To the same landlord Norah had given her
soul and her purity. The young girls of Donegal come radiantly innocent
from their own glens and mountains, but often, alas! they fall into sin
in a far country. It is unholy to expect all that is good and best from
the young girls who lodge with the beasts of the byre and swine of the
sty. I felt angry with the social system which was responsible for such
a state of affairs, but my anger was thrown away; it was a monstrous
futility. The social system is not like a person; one man's anger cannot
remedy it, one man's fist cannot strike at its iniquities.
Norah had now disappeared, and with my brain afire I followed her round
the turn of the street. What I intended to do was even a riddle to
myself. When I overtook them the man who accompanied Norah would bear
the impress of my knuckles for many days. Only of this was I certain. I
turned into several streets and searched until three o'clock in the
morning. But she had gone out of my sight once again. Then I went home
to bed, but not to sleep.
Sick at heart and a prey to remorse, I prowled through the streets for
many nights afterwards, looking for Norah. I did not meet her again, and
only too late did I realise the opportunity which I had let slip when I
met her at midnight in the city. But meeting her as I had met her on the
streets, I found myself faced with a new problem, which for a moment
overwhelmed and snapped the springs of action within me. In Glenmornan
Norah would now be known as "that woman," and the Glenmornan pride makes
a man much superior to women who make the great mistake of life. Thank
goodness! the Glenmornan pride was almost dead within my heart. I
thought that I had killed it years before, but there, on the streets of
Glasgow, I found that part of it was remaining when I met with Norah
Ryan. It rose in rebellion when I spoke to the girl who had sinned, it
checked the impulse of my heart for just a moment, and in that moment
she whom I loved had passed out of my sight and perhaps out of my life.
Life on the railway, always monotonous, became now dreary and dragging.
Day and night my thoughts were turning to her whom I loved, and my heart
went out to the girl who was suffering in a lonely town because she
loved too well. I was now almost a prey to despair, and in order to
divert my mind somewhat from the thoughts that embittered my life I
began to write for the papers again.
Ideas came to me while at work, and these I scribbled down on scraps of
paper when the old psalm-singing ganger was not watching me. When I got
back to Moran's in the evening I worked the ideas into prose or verse
which I sent out to various papers. Many of my verses appeared in a
Glasgow paper, and I got paid at the rate of three-and-sixpence a poem.
Later on I wrote for London weeklies, and these paid me better for my
work. Some editors wrote very nice letters to me, others sent my stuff
back, explaining that lack of space prevented them from publishing it. I
often wondered why they did not speak the truth. A navvy who generally
speaks the truth finds it difficult to distinguish the line of
demarcation which runs between falsehood and politeness. Most of my
spare evenings I gave up to writing, but often I found myself out in the
street where I had met Norah Ryan, and sometimes I wandered there until
four o'clock in the morning, but never once set eyes on her.
A literary frenzy took possession of me for a while. I bought
second-hand books on every subject, and studied all things from the
infinitely great to the infinitesimally little. Microbes and mammoths,
atoms and solar systems--I learned a little of all and everything of
none. I wrote, not for the love of writing as much as to drown my own
introspective humours, but in no external thing was I interested enough
to forget my own thoughts.
I studied literary style, and but for that I might have by this time
cultivated a style of my own; I read so much that now I have hardly an
original idea left. Only lately have I come to the conclusion that true
art, the only true art, is that which appeals to the simple people. When
writing this book I have been governed by this conclusion, and have
endeavoured to tell of things which all people may understand.
Most of my articles and stories came back with the precision of
boomerangs, weapons of which I have heard much talk, and which are said
to come back to the hand of the man who throws them away; some were
published and never paid for, and some never came back at all.
Suddenly it occurred to me that editors might like to publish articles
on subjects which were seldom written about. I wrote about the navvies'
lives again; the hopes and sorrows and aspirations of the men of the
hovel, model, and road. Several papers took my articles, and for a while
I drew in a decent penny for my literary work. Indeed, I had serious
intentions of giving up manual labour and taking to the pen for good.
Some of my stories again appeared in the _Dawn_, the London daily paper
which had published my Kinlochleven stories, and on one fine morning I
received a letter from the editor asking me to come and take a job on
the staff of his paper. He offered me two pounds a week as salary, and
added that I was certain to attain eminence in the position which was
now open to me. I decided to go, not because I had any great desire for
the job, but because I wanted to get rid of old Rudor and his gang, and
I also wanted to see London. Being wise enough to throw most of the
responsibility on the person who suggested such a change in my life and
work, I answered the editor, saying that though I was a writer among
navvies I might merely be a navvy among writers, and that journalistic
work was somewhat out of my line. Still the editor persisted and
enclosed the cost of my railway fare to London. To go I was not
reluctant, to leave I was not eager. I accepted because the change
promised new adventures, but there was no excitement in my heart, for
now I took things almost as they came, unmoved and uncaring. Norah had
gone out of my life, which, full of sorrow for losing her, was empty
without her. The enthusiasm which once winged my way along the leading
road to Strabane was now dead within me.
I washed the dirt of honest work from my hands and face, and the whole
result of seven years' hard labour was dissipated in the wash-tub. Then
I went out and bought two ready-made suits and several articles of
attire which I felt would be necessary for my new situation. I packed
these up, and with my little handbag for company I went out from Moran's
model by Glasgow wharf, and caught the night express for London.
FOOTNOTE:
[12] Good-bye; literally, "Health be with you."