IV

In this way, his Saturday trips to Belfast began. He found them much

less exhilarating then he had imagined they would be. He inspected the

City Hall in the company of a beadle and was informed, with great

preciseness, of the cost of the building and of the price paid to each

artist for the portraits of the Lord Mayors which were suspended from

the walls of the Council Chamber. The beadle seemed to think that the

portraits represented a waste of ratepayers' money, and he considered

that if the Corporation had given a contract to one artist for all the

pictures, a great reduction in price could have been obtained.... The

Museum and the Free Library depressed him, precisely in the way in

which Museums and Free Libraries always depress people; but he found

pleasure in the Botanic Gardens and the Ormeau Park. He devised an

excellent scheme of walking, which enabled him to go through the

Botanic Gardens, then, by side streets, to the Lagan, where a ferryman

rowed him across to the opposite bank and landed him in the Ormeau

Park. He would walk briskly through the Park, and then, when he had

emerged from it, would cross the Albert Bridge, hurry along the Sand

Quay, and stand at the Queen's Bridge to watch the crowds of workmen

hurrying home from the shipyards. He never tired of watching the

"Islandmen," grimy from their labour, as they passed over the bridge in

a thick, dusky stream to their homes. Thousands and thousands of men

and boys seemed to make an endless procession of shipbuilders,

designers and rivetters and heater-boys. But it never occurred to him

that there was something romantic in the enterprise and labours of

these men, that out of their energies, great ships grew and far lands

were brought near to each other. He liked to witness the dispersal of

the shipyard's energies, but he did not think of the miracle which

their assembled energies performed every day. By this narrow, shallow

river Lagan, a great company of men and boys and women met daily to

make the means whereby races reached out to each other; and their ships

sailed the seas of the world, carrying merchandise from one land to

another, binding the East to the West and the South to the North, and

making chains of friendship and kindliness between diverse peoples. It

was an adventure to sail in a ship, in John's mind, but he did not

know, had never thought or been told, that it is also an adventure to

build a ship. The pleasure which he found in watching the "Islandmen"

crossing the Queen's Bridge was not related to their work: it was found

in the spectacle of a great crowd. Any crowd passing over the Bridge

would have pleased John equally well....

But the crowd of "Islandmen" was soon dispersed; and John found that

there was very little to do in Belfast. He did not care for football

matches, he had no wish to enter the City Hall again, he could not walk

through the Botanic Gardens and the Ormeau Park all day long, and he

certainly did not wish to visit the Museum or the Free Library again.

He became tired of walking aimlessly about the streets. There was a wet

Saturday when, as he stood under the shelter of an awning in Royal

Avenue, he resolved that he would return to Ballyards by an early

train. "It's an awful town, this, on a wet day!" he said to himself,

unaware that any town in which a man is a stranger is unpleasant on a

wet day ... and sometimes on a fine day. "Somehow," he went on, "there

seems to be more to do in Ballyards on a wet day than there is in

Belfast on a wet day!" A sense of loneliness descended upon him as

he gazed at the grey, dribbling skies and the damp pavements. The

trams were full of moist, huddled men and women; the foot-passengers

hurried homewards, their heads bent against the wind and rain; the

bleak-looking newspaper boys, barefooted, pinched, hungry and cold, stood

shivering in doorways, with wet, sticky papers under their arms; and

wherever he looked, John saw only unfriendliness, haste and discomfort.

There would not be a train to Ballyards until late in the afternoon,

and as he stood there, growing less cheerful each moment, he wondered

how he could occupy the time of waiting. The wind blew down the street,

sending the rain scudding in front of it, and chilling him, and, half

unconsciously, he hurried across the road to take shelter in a side

street where, it seemed to him, he would be less exposed. He walked

along the street, keeping in the shadow of the houses, and presently he

found himself before the old market of Smithfield.

"Amn't I the fool," he said to himself, "not to have come here before?"

For here, indeed, was entertainment for any man or woman or child. In

this ancient market for the sale of discarded things, a lonely person

could pass away the dull hours very agreeably. The auctioneers,

wheedling and joking and bullying, could be trusted to amuse any

reasonable man for a while, and when their entertainment was exhausted

there were the stalls to visit and explore. He stood to listen to a

loud-voiced man who was selling secondhand clothes, and then, turning

away, found himself standing before a bookstall. Piles of books, of all

sizes and shapes and colours, lay on a long shutter that rested on

trestles; and in the shop, behind the trestles, were great stacks of

books reaching to the ceiling. He fingered the books with the affection

with which he had seen his Uncle Matthew finger those in the attic at

home. Some of them had the dreary, dull look observable in books that

have long passed out of favour and have lain disregarded in some dark

and dusty corner; and some, though they were old, looked bright and

pleasant as if they were confident that the affection which had been

theirs for years would be continued to them by new owners. He picked up

old volumes and spent much time in contemplating the inscriptions

inside them ... fading inscriptions in a thin, genteel handwriting that

had the careful look of writing done by people who were anxious that

the record should not offend a schoolmaster's eye ... and as he read

these inscriptions, a queer dejection settled on him. These books,

dusty and disregarded, he told himself, represented love and thought

that had perished. Doubt and damp pessimism clutched hold of him. At

the end of every brave adventure was Smithfield Market. He put down a

book which contained an inscription to "Charles Dunwoody from his

affectionate Mother," and looked about him. Everywhere, secondhand,

rejected things were for sale: clothes, furniture, books, pictures ...

The market was a mortuary of ambition and hope, the burial ground of

little enterprises, confidently begun and miserably ended. Here were

the signs of disruption and dispersal, of things attempted but not

achieved, of misfortune and failure, of things used and abandoned for

more coveted things. John had imagined himself performing great feats

to win the love and favour of some beautiful woman ... but now he saw

his adventure in love ending in a loud-voiced auctioneer mouthing jokes

over a ruined home. Behind these piles of books and pictures and

clothes and furniture, one might see young couples bravely setting out

on their little ships of love to seek their fortunes, light-heartedly

facing perils and dangers because of the high hope in their hearts ...

and coming to wreck on a rough coast where their small cargoes were

seized by creditors and brought to this place for sale, and they were

left bare and hurt and discouraged...

"Oh, well!" said John, shrugging his shoulders and picking up a newer

book.

That would not happen to him. If he failed in one enterprise he would

start off on another. If he made a fortune and lost it, he would make

another one. If the things he built were to be destroyed ... well, he

would start building again....

But the mood of pessimism still held him and he could not bear to look

at the books any longer. An unhappy ghost hid behind the covers of each

one of them. He hurried out of the market into the street. The rain had

ceased to fall, but the streets were wet and dirty, and the air struck

at him coldly. He glanced at his watch, and saw that he could not now

catch the train by which he had intended to return to Ballyards.

"I'll go and get my tea somewhere," he said, and then, "I don't think

I'll come to Belfast again. I'm tired of the town!"

He turned into Royal Avenue and passed across Castle Junction into

Donegall Place where there was a shop in which new books were sold. The

shop was closed now, but he was able to see books with handsome covers

in the window and he stayed for a time reading the titles of them.

There was a bustle of people about him, of newspaper boys and flower

girls, bedraggled and cheerless-looking, and of young men and women

tempted to the Saturday evening parade in the chief street of the city

in spite of the rain. The sound of voices in argument and barter and

bright talk mingled with laughter and the noise of the tram-cars and

carts clattering over the stony street. John liked the sound of Belfast

on a Saturday night, the pleased sound of released people intent on

enjoyment and with the knowledge that on the morrow there would still

be freedom from labour, and as he stood in front of the bookshop, half

intent on the books in the window and half intent on the crowd that

moved about him, the gloom which had seized hold of him in Smithfield

began to relax its grip: and when two girls, jostled against him by the

disordered movement of the crowd on the pavement, smiled at him in

apology, he smiled back at them.

He thrust himself through the crowd, breaking into a group of excited

newspaper boys who were thrusting copies of the _Evening

Telegraph_ and _Ireland's Saturday Night_ at possible purchasers,

and walked towards the City Hall, but, changing his mind

unaccountably, he turned down Castle Lane and presently found himself

by the Theatre Royal. He had never been to a theatre in his life, but

Uncle Matthew and Uncle William, when they were young men, used

frequently to come to Belfast from Ballyards to see a play, and they

had told him of the great pleasure they had had at the "old Royal."

"I've a good mind to go there to-night," he said to himself, as he

crossed the street to examine the playbills which were posted on the

walls of the theatre. Mr. F.R. Benson's Shakespearean Company, he read

on the bill by the stage-door, would perform _The Merchant of

Venice_ that evening. The Company would remain in Belfast during the

following week and would produce other plays by Shakespeare.

"I _will_ go," he said to himself. "I'll go somewhere now and have

my tea, and then I'll hurry back!"

He remembered that he had seen a volume of Shakespeare's plays in the

bookshop in Donegall Place and that Uncle Matthew had each of the plays

in a separate volume in the attic at home. He had read _The Merchant

of Venice_ a long time ago, but had only a vague recollection of it.

In one of the school-books, Portia's speech on mercy was printed, and

he could say that piece off by heart. The Jew had snarled at Portia

when she had said "Then must the Jew be merciful!" "On what compulsion

must I?" he had demanded, and she had replied, "The quality of mercy is

not strained...." The school-book did not print Portia's statement that

the Jew must be merciful or the Jew's snarling demand, "On what

compulsion must I?"; but Mr. Cairnduff had explained the story of the

play to the class and had told them of these two speeches, and John,

interested by the story, had gone home and searched through the attic

for the play, and there had read it through.

His mind went back to the bookshop. "It must be fine to work in a place

like that, with all the books you can want to read all round you," he

said to himself while he hurried through Corn Market on his way to a

restaurant. He stopped for a moment or two, as an idea suddenly

presented itself to him. "I know what I'll do," he said aloud. "I'll

start a bookshop myself. _New_ books ... not old ones. That sort

of life would suit me fine!"

V

He ate his meal in great haste, and then hurried back to the theatre

where a queue of people had already formed outside the entrance to the

pit. Soon after he joined the queue, the doors were opened, and in a

little while he found himself sitting at the end of the second row. He

had chosen this seat so that he might be able to hurry out of the

theatre quickly, without disturbing anyone, if he should have to leave

before the play was ended to catch the last train to Ballyards.

A boy about his own age was sitting next to him, and this boy asked

John to let him have a look at his programme.

"Did you ever see this piece before?" John said to him, as he passed

the programme to him.

"I did not," he replied. "I'm not much of a one for plays. I generally

go to the 'Lhambra on a Saturday, but somehow I didn't go there the

night!"

"That's a terrible place, that 'Lhambra," said John.

"What's terrible about it?" his neighbour replied.

"I don't know. I was never there. This is the first time I've ever been

in a theatre. But I've heard fearful things about that place, about

women coming out and dancing with hardly any clothes on, and then

kicking up their legs and all. I have an uncle went there once, and

when the woman began kicking up her legs and showing off her clothes,

he got up and stood with his back to the stage 'til she was done, he

was that disgusted."

John remembered how shocked Uncle William had been when he told that

story of himself.

"Your uncle must be very easy shocked," said the boy. "I can look at

women kicking up their legs, and I don't think nothing of it at all. I

like a good song and dance myself. I don't like plays much. Gimme a

woman that's nice-looking and can sing and dance a bit, and I wouldn't

ask you for nothing nicer. Is there any dancin' in this bit, do you

know?"

"I don't think so," said John. "I've never seen the piece before, but

I've read it. I don't think there's any dancing in it!"

"And no comic songs?..."

"Sure, you'll see for yourself in a wee minute!"

John's neighbour considered. "I wonder would they give me my money back

if I was to go to the pay-box and let on I was sick!"

"They'd never do that," said John. "They'd know rightly you weren't

sick by the look of you!"

The boy returned the programme to John. "Well, I wish they'd hurry up

and begin," he murmured.

The members of the orchestra came through a door beneath the stage and

took their places, and the sound of fiddles being tuned was heard for a

while. Then the leader of the orchestra came to his place, and after a

pause, the music began.

"A fiddle's great value," John's neighbour whispered to him. "I'm a

great hand at the Jew's harp myself!..."

The music ceased, the lights were lowered in the theatre and the

footlights were raised, throwing a great soft yellow glow on the

picture of the Lakes of Killarney which decorated the drop-curtain.

Then, the curtain was rolled up, and the performance began.

He had been interested by the play when he read it, but now he was

enthralled by it. He wished that the boy sitting next to him would not

keep on asking for the programme every time a fresh character appeared

on the stage and would refrain from making comments on the play while

it was being performed. "Them people wore quare clothes in them days!"

he had whispered to John soon after the play began, and when Shylock

made his first entrance, he said, "Ah, for Jase' sake, look at the oul'

Sheeny!"

"Ssh!" said John. "Don't talk!..."

"Sure, why?..."

"Ah, shut up," said John.

He did not wish to talk during the intervals between the acts. He

wished to sit still in his seat and perform the play over again in his

mind. He tried to remember Bassanio's description of Portia:

_In Belmont is a lady richly left,

And she is fair, and fairer than that word,

Of wondrous virtues...._

He could not think of the words that came after that ... except one

sentence:

_ ...And her sunny locks

Hang on her temples like a golden fleece._

He repeated this sentence to himself many times, as if he were tasting

each word with his tongue and with his mind, and once he said it aloud

in a low voice.

"Eh?" said his neighbour.

"I was just reciting a piece from the play," he explained.

"What were you reciting?"

"Do you remember that piece: _and her sunny locks hang on her temples

like a golden fleece?"_

"No!"

"In the first act? When the young fellow, Bassanio, was telling Antonio

about his girl in Belmont?"

His neighbour turned to him eagerly. "I wonder did they just put that

bit in about Belmont," he said. "There's a place near Belfast called

Belmont ... just beyond the Hollywood Arches there! Do you know it?"

John shook his head. "I wouldn't be surprised but they just put that

bit in to make it look more like the thing. What was the piece you were

reciting?" John repeated it to him again. "What's the sense of that?"

the boy exclaimed.

"Oh, don't you see? It's ... it's ..." He did not know how to explain

the speech. "It's poetry," he said lamely.

"Oh" said the boy. "Portry. I see now. Ah, well, I suppose they have to

fill up the piece some way! Do you think that woman, what's her name

again?..."

"Portia?"

"Aye. D'you think she did live at Belmont? Some of them stories is

true, you know, and there was quare things happened in the oul' ancient

days in this neighbourhood, I can tell you. I wouldn't be surprised

now!..."

But before he could say any more, the lights were lowered again, and

there was a hushing sound, and then the play proceeded.

"Oh, isn't it grand?" John said to his neighbour when the trial scene

was over.

But his neighbour remained unmoved. "D'you mean to tell me," he said,

"that man didn't know his wife when he saw her in the Coort?"

"What man?"

"That fellow what-you-may-call-him? The man that was married on the

girl with the red dress on her!..."

"Bassanio?"

"Aye. D'you mean to tell me that fellow didn't know her again, and him

only just after leaving her!..."

John tried to explain. "It's a play," he said. "He's not supposed to

recognize her!..."

"Och, what's the good of supposing a thing that couldn't be!" said

John's neighbour. "Any man with half an eye in his head could have seen

who she was. I wish I'd gone to the 'Lhambra. This is a damn silly

play, this!"