HOME SICKNESS
He told the doctor he was due in the bar-room at eight o'clock in the
morning; the bar-room was in a slum in the Bowery; and he had only been
able to keep himself in health by getting up at five o'clock and going
for long walks in the Central Park.
"A sea voyage is what you want," said the doctor. "Why not go to
Ireland for two or three months? You will come back a new man."
"I'd like to see Ireland again."
And then he began to wonder how the people at home were getting on. The
doctor was right. He thanked him, and three weeks afterwards he landed
in Cork.
As he sat in the railway carriage he recalled his native village--he
could see it and its lake, and then the fields one by one, and the
roads. He could see a large piece of rocky land--some three or four
hundred acres of headland stretching out into the winding lake. Upon
this headland the peasantry had been given permission to build their
cabins by former owners of the Georgian house standing on the pleasant
green hill. The present owners considered the village a disgrace, but
the villagers paid high rents for their plots of ground, and all the
manual labour that the Big House required came from the village: the
gardeners, the stable helpers, the house and the kitchen maids.
He had been thirteen years in America, and when the train stopped at
his station, he looked round to sec if there were any changes in it. It
was just the same blue limestone station-house as it was thirteen years
ago. The platform and the sheds were the same, and there were five
miles of road from the station to Duncannon. The sea voyage had done
him good, but five miles were too far for him to-day; the last time he
had walked the road, he had walked it in an hour and a half, carrying a
heavy bundle on a stick.
He was sorry he did not feel strong enough for the walk; the evening
was fine, and he would meet many people coming home from the fair, some
of whom he had known in his youth, and they would tell him where he
could get a clean lodging. But the carman would be able to tell him
that; he called the car that was waiting at the station, and soon he
was answering questions about America. But Bryden wanted to hear of
those who were still living in the old country, and after hearing the
stories of many people he had forgotten, he heard that Mike Scully, who
had been away in a situation for many years as a coachman in the King's
County, had come back and built a fine house with a concrete floor. Now
there was a good loft in Mike Scully's house, and Mike would be pleased
to take in a lodger.
Bryden remembered that Mike had been in a situation at the Big House;
he had intended to be a jockey, but had suddenly shot up into a fine
tall man, and had had to become a coachman instead. Bryden tried to
recall the face, but he could only remember a straight nose, and a
somewhat dusky complexion. Mike was one of the heroes of his childhood,
and his youth floated before him, and he caught glimpses of himself,
something that was more than a phantom and less than a reality.
Suddenly his reverie was broken: the carman pointed with his whip, and
Bryden saw a tall, finely-built, middle-aged man coming through the
gates, and the driver said:--
"There's Mike Scully."
Mike had forgotten Bryden even more completely than Bryden had
forgotten him, and many aunts and uncles were mentioned before he began
to understand.
"You've grown into a fine man, James," he said, looking at Bryden's
great width of chest. "But you are thin in the cheeks, and you're
sallow in the cheeks too."
"I haven't been very well lately--that is one of the reasons I have
come back; but I want to see you all again."
Bryden paid the carman, wished him "God-speed," and he and Mike divided
the luggage between them, Mike carrying the bag and Bryden the bundle,
and they walked round the lake, for the townland was at the back of the
demesne; and while they walked, James proposed to pay Mike ten
shillings a week for his board and lodging.
He remembered the woods thick and well-forested; now they were
windworn, the drains were choked, and the bridge leading across the
lake inlet was falling away. Their way led between long fields where
herds of cattle were grazing; the road was broken--Bryden wondered how
the villagers drove their carts over it, and Mike told him that the
landlord could not keep it in repair, and he would not allow it to be
kept in repair out of the rates, for then it would be a public road,
and he did not think there should be a public road through his property.
At the end of many fields they came to the village, and it looked a
desolate place, even on this fine evening, and Bryden remarked that the
county did not seem to be as much lived in as it used to be. It was at
once strange and familiar to see the chickens in the kitchen; and,
wishing to re-knit himself to the old habits, he begged of Mrs. Scully
not to drive them out, saying he did not mind them. Mike told his wife
that Bryden was born in Duncannon, and when he mentioned Bryden's name
she gave him her hand, after wiping it in her apron, saying he was
heartily welcome, only she was afraid he would not care to sleep in a
loft.
"Why wouldn't I sleep in a loft, a dry loft! You're thinking a good
deal of America over here," said he, "but I reckon it isn't all you
think it. Here you work when you like and you sit down when you like;
but when you have had a touch of blood-poisoning as I had, and when you
have seen young people walking with a stick, you think that there is
something to be said for old Ireland."
"Now won't you be taking a sup of milk? You'll be wanting a drink after
travelling," said Mrs. Scully.
And when he had drunk the milk Mike asked him if he would like to go
inside or if he would like to go for a walk.
"Maybe it is sitting down you would like to be."
And they went into the cabin, and started to talk about the wages a man
could get in America, and the long hours of work.
And after Bryden had told Mike everything about America that he thought
would interest him, he asked Mike about Ireland. But Mike did not seem
to be able to tell him much that was of interest. They were all very
poor--poorer, perhaps, than when he left them.
"I don't think anyone except myself has a five pound note to his name."
Bryden hoped he felt sufficiently sorry for Mike. But after all Mike's
life and prospects mattered little to him. He had come back in search
of health; and he felt better already; the milk had done him good, and
the bacon and cabbage in the pot sent forth a savoury odour. The
Scullys were very kind, they pressed him to make a good meal; a few
weeks of country air and food, they said, would give him back the
health he had lost in the Bowery; and when Bryden said he was longing
for a smoke, Mike said there was no better sign than that. During his
long illness he had never wanted to smoke, and he was a confirmed
smoker.
It was comfortable to sit by the mild peat fire watching the smoke of
their pipes drifting up the chimney, and all Bryden wanted was to be
let alone; he did not want to hear of anyone's misfortunes, but about
nine o'clock a number of villagers came in, and their appearance was
depressing. Bryden remembered one or two of them--he used to know them
very well when he was a boy; their talk was as depressing as their
appearance, and he could feel no interest whatever in them. He was not
moved when he heard that Higgins the stone-mason was dead; he was not
affected when he heard that Mary Kelly, who used to go to do the
laundry at the Big House, had married; he was only interested when he
heard she had gone to America. No, he had not met her there, America is
a big place. Then one of the peasants asked him if he remembered Patsy
Carabine, who used to do the gardening at the Big House. Yes, he
remembered Patsy well. Patsy was in the poor-house. He had not been
able to do any work on account of his arm; his house had fallen in; he
had given up his holding and gone into the poor-house. All this was
very sad, and to avoid hearing any further unpleasantness, Bryden began
to tell them about America. And they sat round listening to him; but
all the talking was on his side; he wearied of it; and looking round
the group he recognised a ragged hunchback with grey hair; twenty years
ago he was a young hunchback, and, turning to him, Bryden asked him if
he were doing well with his five acres.
"Ah, not much. This has been a bad season. The potatoes failed; they
were watery--there is no diet in them."
These peasants were all agreed that they could make nothing out of
their farms. Their regret was that they had not gone to America when
they were young; and after striving to take an interest in the fact
that O'Connor had lost a mare and foal worth forty pounds Bryden began
to wish himself back in the slum. And when they left the house he
wondered if every evening would be like the present one. Mike piled
fresh sods on the fire, and he hoped it would show enough light in the
loft for Bryden to undress himself by.
The cackling of some geese in the road kept him awake, and the
loneliness of the country seemed to penetrate to his bones, and to
freeze the marrow in them. There was a bat in the loft--a dog howled in
the distance--and then he drew the clothes over his head. Never had he
been so unhappy, and the sound of Mike breathing by his wife's side in
the kitchen added to his nervous terror. Then he dozed a little; and
lying on his back he dreamed he was awake, and the men he had seen
sitting round the fireside that evening seemed to him like spectres
come out of some unknown region of morass and reedy tarn. He stretched
out his hands for his clothes, determined to fly from this house, but
remembering the lonely road that led to the station he fell back on his
pillow. The geese still cackled, but he was too tired to be kept awake
any longer. He seemed to have been asleep only a few minutes when he
heard Mike calling him. Mike had come half way up the ladder and was
telling him that breakfast was ready. "What kind of breakfast will he
give me?" Bryden asked himself as he pulled on his clothes. There were
tea and hot griddle cakes for breakfast, and there were fresh eggs;
there was sunlight in the kitchen and he liked to hear Mike tell of the
work he was going to do in the fields. Mike rented a farm of about
fifteen acres, at least ten of it was grass; he grew an acre of
potatoes and some corn, and some turnips for his sheep. He had a nice
bit of meadow, and he took down his scythe, and as he put the whetstone
in his belt Bryden noticed a second scythe, and he asked Mike if he
should go down with him and help him to finish the field.
"You haven't done any mowing this many a year; I don't think you'd be
of much help. You'd better go for a walk by the lake, but you may come
in the afternoon if you like and help to turn the grass over."
Bryden was afraid he would find the lake shore very lonely, but the
magic of returning health is the sufficient distraction for the
convalescent, and the morning passed agreeably. The weather was still
and sunny. He could hear the ducks in the reeds. The hours dreamed
themselves away, and it became his habit to go to the lake every
morning. One morning he met the landlord, and they walked together,
talking of the country, of what it had been, and the ruin it was
slipping into. James Bryden told him that ill health had brought him
back to Ireland; and the landlord lent him his boat, and Bryden rowed
about the islands, and resting upon his oars he looked at the old
castles, and remembered the pre-historic raiders that the landlord had
told him about. He came across the stones to which the lake dwellers
had tied their boats, and these signs of ancient Ireland were pleasing
to Bryden in his present mood.
As well as the great lake there was a smaller lake in the bog where the
villagers cut their turf. This lake was famous for its pike, and the
landlord allowed Bryden to fish there, and one evening when he was
looking for a frog with which to bait his line he met Margaret Dirken
driving home the cows for the milking. Margaret was the herdsman's
daughter, and she lived in a cottage near the Big House; but she came
up to the village whenever there was a dance, and Bryden had found
himself opposite to her in the reels. But until this evening he had had
little opportunity of speaking to her, and he was glad to speak to
someone, for the evening was lonely, and they stood talking together.
"You're getting your health again," she said. "You'll soon be leaving
us."
"I'm in no hurry."
"You're grand people over there; I hear a man is paid four dollars a
day for his work."
"And how much," said James, "has he to pay for his food and for his
clothes?"
Her cheeks were bright and her teeth small, white and beautifully even;
and a woman's soul looked at Bryden out of her soft Irish eyes. He was
troubled and turned aside, and catching sight of a frog looking at him
out of a tuft of grass he said:--
"I have been looking for a frog to put upon my pike line."
The frog jumped right and left, and nearly escaped in some bushes, but
he caught it and returned with it in his hand.
"It is just the kind of frog a pike will like," he said. "Look at its
great white belly and its bright yellow back."
And without more ado he pushed the wire to which the hook was fastened
through the frog's fresh body, and dragging it through the mouth he
passed the hooks through the hind legs and tied the line to the end of
the wire.
"I think," said Margaret, "I must be looking after my cows; it's time I
got them home."
"Won't you come down to the lake while I set my line?"
She thought for a moment and said:--
"No, I'll see you from here."
He went down to the reedy tarn, and at his approach several snipe got
up, and they flew above his head uttering sharp cries. His fishing-rod
was a long hazel stick, and he threw the frog as far as he could into
the lake. In doing this he roused some wild ducks; a mallard and two
ducks got up, and they flew towards the larger lake. Margaret watched
them; they flew in a line with an old castle; and they had not
disappeared from view when Bryden came towards her, and he and she
drove the cows home together that evening.
They had not met very often when she said, "James, you had better not
come here so often calling to me."
"Don't you wish me to come?"
"Yes, I wish you to come well enough, but keeping company is not the
custom of the country, and I don't want to be talked about."
"Are you afraid the priest would speak against us from the altar?"
"He has spoken against keeping company, but it is not so much what the
priest says, for there is no harm in talking."
"But if you are going to be married there is no harm in walking out
together."
"Well, not so much, but marriages are made differently in these parts;
there is not much courting here."
And next day it was known in the village that James was going to marry
Margaret Dirken.
His desire to excel the boys in dancing had aroused much gaiety in the
parish, and for some time past there had been dancing in every house
where there was a floor fit to dance upon; and if the cottager had no
money to pay for a barrel of beer, James Bryden, who had money, sent
him a barrel, so that Margaret might get her dance. She told him that
they sometimes crossed over into another parish where the priest was
not so averse to dancing, and James wondered. And next morning at Mass
he wondered at their simple fervour. Some of them held their hands
above their heads as they prayed, and all this was very new and very
old to James Bryden. But the obedience of these people to their priest
surprised him. When he was a lad they had not been so obedient, or he
had forgotten their obedience; and he listened in mixed anger and
wonderment to the priest who was scolding his parishioners, speaking to
them by name, saying that he had heard there was dancing going on in
their homes. Worse than that, he said he had seen boys and girls
loitering about the roads, and the talk that went on was of one
kind--love. He said that newspapers containing love-stories were
finding their way into the people's houses, stories about love, in
which there was nothing elevating or ennobling. The people listened,
accepting the priest's opinion without question. And their submission
was pathetic. It was the submission of a primitive people clinging to
religious authority, and Bryden contrasted the weakness and
incompetence of the people about him with the modern restlessness and
cold energy of the people he had left behind him.
One evening, as they were dancing, a knock came to the door, and the
piper stopped playing, and the dancers whispered:--
"Some one has told on us; it is the priest."
And the awe-stricken villagers crowded round the cottage fire, afraid
to open the door. But the priest said that if they did not open the
door he would put his shoulder to it and force it open. Bryden went
towards the door, saying he would allow no one to threaten him, priest
or no priest, but Margaret caught his arm and told him that if he said
anything to the priest, the priest would speak against them from the
altar, and they would be shunned by the neighbours. It was Mike Scully
who went to the door and let the priest in, and he came in saying they
were dancing their souls into hell.
"I've heard of your goings on," he said--"of your beer-drinking and
dancing. I will not have it in my parish. If you want that sort of
thing you had better go to America."
"If that is intended for me, sir, I will go back to-morrow. Margaret
can follow."
"It isn't the dancing, it's the drinking I'm opposed to," said the
priest, turning to Bryden.
"Well, no one has drunk too much, sir," said Bryden.
"But you'll sit here drinking all night," and the priest's eyes went
towards the corner where the women had gathered, and Bryden felt that
the priest looked on the women as more dangerous than the porter.
"It's after midnight," he said, taking out his watch. By Bryden's watch
it was only half-past eleven, and while they were arguing about the
time Mrs. Scully offered Bryden's umbrella to the priest, for in his
hurry to stop the dancing the priest had gone out without his; and, as
if to show Bryden that he bore him no ill-will, the priest accepted the
loan of the umbrella, for he was thinking of the big marriage fee that
Bryden would pay him.
"I shall be badly off for the umbrella to-morrow," Bryden said, as soon
as the priest was out of the house. He was going with his father-in-law
to a fair. His father-in-law was learning him how to buy and sell
cattle. And his father-in-law was saying that the country was mending,
and that a man might become rich in Ireland if he only had a little
capital. Bryden had the capital, and Margaret had an uncle on the other
side of the lake who would leave her all he had, that would be fifty
pounds, and never in the village of Duncannon had a young couple begun
life with so much prospect of success as would James Bryden and
Margaret Dirken.
Some time after Christmas was spoken of as the best time for the
marriage; James Bryden said that he would not be able to get his money
out of America before the spring. The delay seemed to vex him, and he
seemed anxious to be married, until one day he received a letter from
America, from a man who had served in the bar with him. This friend
wrote to ask Bryden if he were coming back. The letter was no more than
a passing wish to see Bryden again. Yet Bryden stood looking at it, and
everyone wondered what could be in the letter. It seemed momentous, and
they hardly believed him when he said it was from a friend who wanted
to know if his health were better. He tried to forget the letter, and
he looked at the worn fields, divided by walls of loose stones, and a
great longing came upon him.
The smell of the Bowery slum had come across the Atlantic, and had
found him out in this western headland; and one night he awoke from a
dream in which he was hurling some drunken customer through the open
doors into the darkness. He had seen his friend in his white duck
jacket throwing drink from glass into glass amid the din of voices and
strange accents; he had heard the clang of money as it was swept into
the till, and his sense sickened for the bar-room. But how should he
tell Margaret Dirken that he could not marry her? She had built her
life upon this marriage. He could not tell her that he would not marry
her... yet he must go. He felt as if he were being hunted; the thought
that he must tell Margaret that he could not marry her hunted him day
after day as a weasel hunts a rabbit. Again and again he went to meet
her with the intention of telling her that he did not love her, that
their lives were not for one another, that it had all been a mistake,
and that happily he had found out it was a mistake soon enough. But
Margaret, as if she guessed what he was about to speak of, threw her
arms about him and begged him to say he loved her, and that they would
be married at once. He agreed that he loved her, and that they would be
married at once. But he had not left her many minutes before the
feeling came upon him that he could not marry her--that he must go
away. The smell of the bar-room hunted him down. Was it for the sake of
the money that he might make there that he wished to go back? No, it
was not the money. What then? His eyes fell on the bleak country, on
the little fields divided by bleak walls; he remembered the pathetic
ignorance of the people, and it was these things that he could not
endure. It was the priest who came to forbid the dancing. Yes, it was
the priest. As he stood looking at the line of the hills the bar-room
seemed by him. He heard the politicians, and the excitement of politics
was in his blood again. He must go away from this place--he must get
back to the bar-room. Looking up he saw the scanty orchard, and he
hated the spare road that led to the village, and he hated the little
hill at the top of which the village began, and he hated more than all
other places the house where he was to live with Margaret Dirken--if he
married her. He could see it from where he stood--by the edge of the
lake, with twenty acres of pasture land about it, for the landlord had
given up part of his demesne land to them.
He caught sight of Margaret, and he called to her to come through the
stile.
"I have just had a letter from America."
"About the money?" she said.
"Yes, about the money. But I shall have to go over there."
He stood looking at her, seeking for words; and she guessed from his
embarrassment that he would say to her that he must go to America
before they were married.
"Do you mean, James, you will have to go at once?"
"Yes," he said, "at once. But I shall come back in time to be married
in August. It will only mean delaying our marriage a month."
They walked on a little way talking; every step he took James felt that
he was a step nearer the Bowery slum. And when they came to the gate
Bryden said:--
"I must hasten or I shall miss the train."
"But," she said, "you are not going now--you are not going to-day?"
"Yes, this morning. It is seven miles. I shall have to hurry not to
miss the train."
And then she asked him if he would ever come back.
"Yes," he said, "I am coming back."
"If you are coming back, James, why not let me go with you?"
"You could not walk fast enough. We should miss the train."
"One moment, James. Don't make me suffer; tell me the truth. You are
not coming back. Your clothes--where shall I send them?"
He hurried away, hoping he would come back. He tried to think that he
liked the country he was leaving, that it would be better to have a
farmhouse and live there with Margaret Dirken than to serve drinks
behind a counter in the Bowery. He did not think he was telling her a
lie when he said he was coming back. Her offer to forward his clothes
touched his heart, and at the end of the road he stood and asked
himself if he should go back to her. He would miss the train if he
waited another minute, and he ran on. And he would have missed the
train if he had not met a car. Once he was on the car he felt himself
safe--the country was already behind him. The train and the boat at
Cork were mere formulae; he was already in America.
The moment he landed he felt the thrill of home that he had not found
in his native village, and he wondered how it was that the smell of the
bar seemed more natural than the smell of the fields, and the roar of
crowds more welcome than the silence of the lake's edge. However, he
offered up a thanksgiving for his escape, and entered into negotiations
for the purchase of the bar-room.
He took a wife, she bore him sons and daughters, the bar-room
prospered, property came and went; he grew old, his wife died, he
retired from business, and reached the age when a man begins to feel
there are not many years in front of him, and that all he has had to do
in life has been done. His children married, lonesomeness began to
creep about him; in the evening, when he looked into the fire-light, a
vague, tender reverie floated up, and Margaret's soft eyes and name
vivified the dusk. His wife and children passed out of mind, and it
seemed to him that a memory was the only real thing he possessed, and
the desire to see Margaret again grew intense. But she was an old
woman, she had married, maybe she was dead. Well, he would like to be
buried in the village where he was born.
There is an unchanging, silent life within every man that none knows
but himself, and his unchanging, silent life was his memory of Margaret
Dirken. The bar-room was forgotten and all that concerned it, and the
things he saw most clearly were the green hillside, and the bog lake
and the rushes about it, and the greater lake in the distance, and
behind it the blue lines of wandering hills.