her twisted features. Then she gave a little sigh and said:
`Ah, well! We did our best, the dear knows.'
Mrs Kearney had to go back to the dressing-room.
The artistes were arriving. The bass and the second tenor had already come. The bass,
Mr Duggan, was a slender young man with a scattered black moustache. He was the
son of a hall porter in an office in the city and, as a boy, he had sung prolonged bass
notes in the resounding hall. From this humble state he had raised himself until he had
become a first-rate artiste. He had appeared in grand opera. One night, when an
operatic artiste had fallen ill, he had undertaken the part of the king in the opera of
Maritana at the Queen's Theatre. He sang his music with great feeling and volume
and was warmly welcomed by the gallery; but, unfortunately, he marred the good
impression by wiping his nose in his gloved hand once or twice out of
thoughtlessness. He was unassuming and spoke little. He said yous so softly that it
passed unnoticed and he never drank anything stronger than milk, for his voice's sake.
Mr Bell, the second tenor, was a fair-haired little man who competed every year for
prizes at the Feis Ceoil. On his fourth trial he had been awarded a bronze medal. He
was extremely nervous and extremely jealous of other tenors and he covered his
nervous jealousy with an ebullient friendliness. It was his humour to have people
know what an ordeal a concert was to him. Therefore when he saw Mr Duggan he
went over to him and asked:
`Are you in it too?'
`Yes,' said Mr Duggan.
Mr Bell laughed at his fellow-sufferer, held out his hand and said:
`Shake!'
Mrs Kearney passed by these two young men and went to the edge of the screen to
view the house. The seats were being filled up rapidly and a pleasant noise circulated
in the auditorium. She came back and spoke to her husband privately. Their
conversation was evidently about Kathleen, for they both glanced at her often as she
stood chatting to one of her Nationalist friends, Miss Healy, the contralto. An
unknown solitary woman with a pale face walked through the room. The women
followed with keen eyes the faded blue dress which was stretched upon a meagre
body. Someone said that she was Madam Glynn, the soprano.
`I wonder where did they dig her up,' said Kathleen to Miss Healy. `I'm sure I never
heard of her.'
Miss Healy had to smile. Mr Holohan limped into the dressing-room at that moment
and the two young ladies asked him who was the unknown woman. Mr Holohan said
that she was Madam Glynn from London. Madam Glynn took her stand in a corner of
the room, holding a roll of music stiffly before her and from time to time changing the
direction of her startled gaze. The shadow took her faded dress into shelter but fell
revengefully into the little cup behind her collar-bone. The noise of the hall became
more audible. The first tenor and the baritone arrived together They were both well
dressed, stout, and complacent, and they brought a breath of opulence among the
company.
Mrs Kearney brought her daughter over to them, and talked to them amiably. She
wanted to be on good terms with them but, while she strove to be polite, her eyes
followed Mr Holohan in his limping and devious courses. As soon as she could she
excused herself and went out after him.
`Mr Holohan, I want to speak to you for a moment, she said.'
They went down to a discreet part of the corridor. Mrs Kearney asked him when was
her daughter going to be paid. Mr Holohan said that Mr Fitzpatrick had charge of that.
Mrs Kearney said that she didn't know anything about Mr Fitzpatrick. Her daughter
had signed a contract for eight guineas and she would have to be paid. Mr Holohan
said that it wasn't his business.
`Why isn't it your business?' asked Mrs Kearney. `Didn't you yourself bring her the
contract? Anyway, if it's not your business, it's my business, and I mean to see to it.'
`You'd better speak to Mr Fitzpatrick,' said Mr Holohan distinctly.
`I don't know anything about Mr Fitzpatrick,' repeated Mrs Kearney. `I have my
contract, and I intend to see that it is carried out.'
When she came back to the dressing-room her cheeks were slightly suffused. The
room was lively. Two men in outdoor dress had taken possession of the fireplace and
were chatting familiarly with Miss Healy and the baritone. They were the Freeman
man and Mr O'Madden Burke. The Freeman man had come in to say that he could
not wait for the concert as he had to report the lecture which an American priest was
giving in the Mansion House. He said they were to leave the report for him at the
Freeman office and he would see that it went in. He was a grey-haired man with a
plausible voice and careful manners. He held an extinguished cigar in his hand and
the aroma of cigar smoke floated near him. He had not intended to stay a moment,
because concerts and artistes bored him considerably, but he remained leaning against
the mantelpiece. Miss Healy stood in front of him, talking and laughing. He was old
enough to suspect one reason for her politeness, but young enough in spirit to turn the
moment to account. The warmth, fragrance, and colour of her body appealed to his
senses. He was pleasantly conscious that the bosom which he saw rise and fall slowly
beneath him rose and fell at that moment for him, that the laughter and fragrance and
wilful glances were his tribute. When he could stay no longer he took leave of her
regretfully.
`O'Madden Burke will write the notice,' he explained to Mr Holohan, `and I'll see it
in.'
`Thank you very much, Mr Hendrick,' said Mr Holohan. `You'll see it in, I know.
Now, won't you have a little something before you go?'
`I don't mind,' said Mr Hendrick.
The two men went along some tortuous passages and up a dark staircase and came to
a secluded room where one of the stewards was uncorking bottles for a few
gentlemen. One of these gentlemen was Mr O'Madden Burke, who had found out the
room by instinct. He was a suave, elderly man who balanced his imposing body, when
at rest, upon a large silk umbrella. His magniloquent western name was the moral
umbrella upon which he balanced the fine problem of his finances. He was widely
respected.
While Mr Holohan was entertaining the Freeman man Mrs Kearney was speaking so
animatedly to her husband that he had to ask her to lower her voice. The conversation
of the others in the dressing-room had become strained. Mr Bell, the first item, stood
ready with his music but the accompanist made no sign. Evidently something was
wrong. Mr Kearney looked straight before him, stroking his beard, while Mrs
Kearney spoke into Kathleen's ear with subdued emphasis. From the hall came sounds
of encouragement, clapping and stamping of feet. The first tenor and the baritone and
Miss Healy stood together, waiting tranquilly, but Mr Bell's nerves were greatly
agitated because he was afraid the audience would think that he had come late.
Mr Holohan and Mr O'Madden Burke came into the room. In a moment Mr Holohan
perceived the hush. He went over to Mrs Kearney and spoke with her earnestly. While
they were speaking the noise in the hall grew louder. Mr Holohan became very red
and excited. He spoke volubly, but Mrs Kearney said curtly at intervals:
`She won't go on. She must get her eight guineas.'
Mr Holohan pointed desperately towards the hall where the audience was clapping
and stamping. He appealed to Mr Kearney and to Kathleen. But Mr Kearney
continued to stroke his beard and Kathleen looked down, moving the point of her new
shoe: it was not her fault. Mrs Kearney repeated:
`She won't goon without her money.'
After a swift struggle of tongues Mr Holohan hobbled out in haste. The room was
silent. When the strain of the silence had become somewhat painful Miss Healy said
to the baritone:
`Have you seen Mrs Pat Campbell this week?'
The baritone had not seen her but he had been told that she was very fine. The
conversation went no further. The first tenor bent his head and began to count the
links of the gold chain which was extended across his waist, smiling and humming
random notes to observe the effect on the frontal sinus. From time to time everyone
glanced at Mrs Kearney.
The noise in the auditorium had risen to a clamour when Mr Fitzpatrick burst into the
room, followed by Mr Holohan, who was panting. The clapping and stamping in the
hall were punctuated by whistling. Mr Fitzpatrick held a few banknotes in his hand.
He counted out four into Mrs Kearney's hand and said she would get the other half at
the interval. Mrs Kearney said:
`This is four shillings short.'
But Kathleen gathered in her skirt and said: `Now, Mr Bell,' to the first item, who was
shaking like an aspen. The singer and the accompanist went out together. The noise in
the hall died away. There was a pause of a few seconds, and then the piano was heard.
The first part of the concert was very successful except for Madam Glynn's item. The
poor lady sang Killarney in a bodiless gasping voice, with all the old-fashioned
mannerisms of intonation and pronunciation which she believed lent elegance to her
singing. She looked as if she had been resurrected from an old stage-wardrobe and the
cheaper parts of the hall made fun of her high wailing notes. The first tenor and the
contralto, however, brought down the house. Kathleen played a selection of Irish airs
which was generously applauded. The first part closed with a stirring patriotic
recitation delivered by a young lady who arranged amateur theatricals. It was
deservedly applauded, and, when it was ended, the men went out for the interval,
content.
All this time the dressing-room was a hive of excitement. In one corner were Mr
Holohan, Mr Fitzpatrick, Miss Beirne, two of the stewards, the baritone, the bass, and
Mr O'Madden Burke. Mr O'Madden Burke said it was the most scandalous exhibition
he had ever witnessed. Miss Kathleen Kearney's musical career was ended in Dublin
after that, he said. The baritone was asked what did he think of Mrs Kearney's
conduct. He did not like to say anything. He had been paid his money and wished to
be at peace with men. However, he said that Mrs Kearney might have taken the
artistes into consideration. The stewards and the secretaries debated hotly as to what
should be done when the interval came.
`I agree with Miss Beirne,' said Mr O'Madden Burke. `Pay her nothing.'
In another corner of the room were Mrs Kearney and her husband, Mr Bell, Miss
Healy, and the young lady who had to recite the patriotic piece. Mrs Kearney said that
the committee had treated her scandalously. She had spared neither trouble nor
expense and this was how she was repaid.
They thought they had only a girl to deal with and that, therefore, they could ride
roughshod over her. But she would show them their mistake. They wouldn't have
dared to have treated her like that if she had been a man. But she would see that her
daughter got her rights: she wouldn't be fooled. If they didn't pay her to the last
farthing she would make Dublin ring. Of course she was sorry for the sake of the
artistes. But what else could she do? She appealed to the second tenor, who said he
thought she had not been well treated. Then she appealed to Miss Healy. Miss Healy
wanted to join the other group, but she did not like to do so because she was a great
friend of Kathleen's and the Kearneys had often invited her to their house.
As soon as the first part was ended Mr Fitzpatrick and Mr Holohan went over to Mrs
Kearney and told her that the other four guineas would be paid after the committee
meeting on the following Tuesday and that, in case her daughter did not play for the
second part, the committee would consider the contract broken and would pay
nothing.
`I haven't seen any committee,' said Mrs Kearney angrily. `My daughter has her
contract. She will get four pounds eight into her hand or a foot she won't put on that
platform.'
`I'm surprised at you, Mrs Kearney,' said Mr Holohan. `I never thought you would
treat us this way.'
`And what way did you treat me?' asked Mrs Kearney.
Her face was inundated with an angry colour and she looked as if she would attack
someone with her hands.
`I'm asking for my rights,' she said.
`You might have some sense of decency,' said Mr Holohan.
`Might I, indeed?... And when I ask when my daughter is going to be paid I can't get a
civil answer.'
She tossed her head and assumed a haughty voice:
`You must speak to the secretary. It's not my business. I'm a great fellow fol-the-
diddle-I-do.'
`I thought you were a lady,' said Mr Holohan, walking away from her abruptly.
After that Mrs Kearney's conduct was condemned on all hands: everyone approved of
what the committee had done. She stood at the door, haggard with rage, arguing with
her husband and daughter, gesticulating with them. She waited until it was time for
the second part to begin in the hope that the secretaries would approach her. But Miss
Healy had kindly consented to play one or two accompaniments. Mrs Kearney had to
stand aside to allow the baritone and his accompanist to pass up to the platform. She
stood still for an instant like an angry stone image and, when the first notes of the
song struck her ear, she caught up her daughter's cloak and said to her husband:
`Get a cab!'
He went out at once. Mrs Kearney wrapped the cloak round her daughter and
followed him. As she passed through the doorway she stopped and glared into Mr
Holohan's face.
`I'm not done with you yet,' she said.
`But I'm done with you,' said Mr Holohan.
Kathleen followed her mother meekly. Mr Holohan began to pace up and down the
room in order to cool himself, for he felt his skin on fire.
`That's a nice lady!' he said. `O, she's a nice lady!'
`You did the proper thing, Holohan,' said Mr O'Madden Burke, poised upon his
umbrella in approval.
Grace
Two gentlemen who were in the lavatory at the time tried to lift him up: but he was
quite helpless. He lay curled up at the foot of the stairs down which he had fallen.
They succeeded in turning him over. His hat had rolled a few yards away and his
clothes were smeared with the filth and ooze of the floor on which he had lain, face
downwards. His eyes were closed and he breathed with a grunting noise. A thin
stream of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
These two gentlemen and one of the curates carried him up the stairs and laid him
down again on the floor of the bar. In two minutes he was surrounded by a ring of
men. The manager of the bar asked everyone who he was and who was with him. No
one knew who he was, but one of the curates said he had served the gentleman with a
small rum.
`Was he by himself?' asked the manager.
`No, sir. There was two gentlemen with him.'
`And where are they?'
No one knew; a voice said:
`Give him air. He's fainted.'
The ring of onlookers distended and closed again elastically. A dark medal of blood
had formed itself near the man's head on the tessellated floor. The manager, alarmed
by the grey pallor of the man's face, sent for a policeman.
His collar was unfastened and his necktie undone. He opened his eyes for an instant,
sighed and closed them again. One of the gentlemen who had carried him upstairs
held a dinged silk hat in his hand. The manager asked repeatedly did no one know
who the injured man was or where had his friends gone. The door of the bar opened
and an immense constable entered. A crowd which had followed him down the
laneway collected outside the door, struggling to look in through the glass panels.
The manager at once began to narrate what he knew. The constable, a young man
with thick immobile features, listened. He moved his head slowly to right and left and
from the manager to the person on the floor, as if he feared to be the victim of some
delusion. Then he drew off his glove, produced a small book from his waist, licked
the lead of his pencil and made ready to indite. He asked in a suspicious provincial
accent:
`Who is the man? What's his name and address?'
A young man in a cycling-suit cleared his way through the ring of bystanders. He
knelt down promptly beside the injured man and called for water. The constable knelt
down also to help. The young man washed the blood from the injured man's mouth
and then called for some brandy. The constable repeated the order in an authoritative
voice until a curate came running with the glass. The brandy was forced down the
man's throat. In a few seconds he opened his eyes and looked about him. He looked at
the circle of faces and then, understanding, strove to rise to his feet.
`You're all right now?' asked the young man in the cycling suit.
`Sha, 's nothing,' said the injured man, trying to stand up.
