`Right, sir,' said the cabman.
The horse was whipped up and the cab rattled off along the quay amid a chorus of
laughter and adieux.
Gabriel had not gone to the door with the others. He was in a dark part of the hall
gazing up the staircase. A woman was standing near the top of the first flight, in the
shadow also. He could not see her face but he could see the terra-cotta and salmon-
pink panels of her skirt which the shadow made appear black and white. It was his
wife. She was leaning on the banisters, listening to something. Gabriel was surprised
at her stillness and strained his ear to listen also. But he could hear little save the noise
of laughter and dispute on the front steps, a few chords struck on the piano and a few
notes of a man's voice singing.
He stood still in the gloom of the hall, trying to catch the air that the voice was
singing and gazing up at his wife. There was grace and mystery in her attitude as if
she were a symbol of something. He asked himself what is a woman standing on the
stairs in the shadow, listening to distant music, a symbol of. If he were a painter he
would paint her in that attitude. Her blue felt hat would show off the bronze of her
hair against the darkness and the dark panels of her skirt would show off the light
ones. Distant Music he would call the picture if he were a painter.
The hall-door was closed, and Aunt Kate, Aunt Julia, and Mary Jane came down the
hall, still laughing.
`Well, isn't Freddy terrible?' said Mary Jane. `He's really terrible.'
Gabriel said nothing, but pointed up the stairs towards where his wife was standing.
Now that the hall-door was closed the voice and the piano could be heard more
clearly. Gabriel held up his hand for them to be silent. The song seemed to be in the
old Irish tonality and the singer seemed uncertain both of his words and of his voice.
The voice, made plaintive by distance and by the singer's hoarseness, faintly
illuminated the cadence of the air with words expressing grief:
O, the rain falls on my heavy locks
And the dew wets my skin,
My babe lies cold...
`O,' exclaimed Mary Jane. `It's Bartell D'Arcy singing, and he wouldn't sing all the
night. O, I'll get him to sing a song before he goes.'
`O, do, Mary Jane,' said Aunt Kate.
Mary Jane brushed past the others and ran to the staircase, but before she reached it
the singing stopped and the piano was closed abruptly.
`O, what a pity!' she cried. `Is he coming down, Gretta?'
Gabriel heard his wife answer yes and saw her come down towards them. A few steps
behind her were Mr Bartell D'Arcy and Miss O'Callaghan.
`O, Mr D'Arcy,' cried Mary Jane, `it's downright mean of you to break off like that
when we were all in raptures listening to you.'
`I have been at him all the evening,' said Miss O'Callaghan, `and Mrs Conroy, too,
and he told us he had a dreadful cold and couldn't sing.'
`O, Mr D'Arcy,' said Aunt Kate, `now that was a great fib to tell.'
`Can't you see that I'm as hoarse as a crow?' said Mr D'Arcy roughly.
He went into the pantry hastily and put on his overcoat. The others, taken back by his
rude speech, could find nothing to say. Aunt Kate wrinkled her brows and made signs
to the others to drop the subject. Mr D'Arcy stood swathing his neck carefully and
frowning.
`It's the weather,' said Aunt Julia, after a pause.
`Yes, everybody has colds,' said Aunt Kate readily, `everybody.'
`They say,' said Mary Jane, `we haven't had snow like it for thirty years, and I read
this morning in the newspapers that the snow is general all over Ireland.'
`I love the look of snow,' said Aunt Julia sadly.
`So do I,' said Miss O'Callaghan. `I think Christmas is never really Christmas unless
we have the snow on the ground.'
`But poor Mr D'Arcy doesn't like the snow,' said Aunt Kate, smiling.
Mr D'Arcy came from the pantry, fully swathed and buttoned, and in a repentant tone
told them the history of his cold. Everyone gave him advice and said it was a great
pity and urged him to be very careful of his throat in the night air. Gabriel watched his
wife, who did not join in the conversation. She was standing right under the dusty
fanlight and the flame of the gas lit up the rich bronze of her hair, which he had seen
her drying at the fire a few days before. She was in the same attitude and seemed
unaware of the talk about her. At last she turned towards them and Gabriel saw that
there was colour on her cheeks and that her eyes were shining. A sudden tide of joy
went leaping out of his heart.
`Mr D'Arcy,' she said, `what is the name of that song you were singing?'
`It's called "The Lass of Aughrim",' said Mr D'Arcy, `but I couldn't remember it
properly. Why? Do you know it?'
"`The Lass of Aughrim",' she repeated. `I couldn't think of the name.'
`It's a very nice air,' said Mary Jane. `I'm sorry you were not in voice tonight.'
`Now, Mary Jane,' said Aunt Kate, `don't annoy Mr D'Arcy. I won't have him
annoyed.'
Seeing that all were ready to start she shepherded them to the door, where good night
was said:
`Well, good night, Aunt Kate, and thanks for the pleasant evening.'
`Good night, Gabriel. Good night, Gretta!'
`Good night, Aunt Kate, and thanks ever so much. Good night, Aunt Julia.'
`O, good night, Gretta, I didn't see you.'
`Good night, Mr D'Arcy. Good night, Miss O'Callaghan.'
`Good night, Miss Morkan.'
`Good night, again.'
`Good night, all. Safe home.'
`Good night. Good night.'
The morning was still dark. A dull, yellow light brooded over the houses and the
river; and the sky seemed to be descending. It was slushy underfoot, and only streaks
and patches of snow lay on the roofs, on the parapets of the quay and on the area
railings. The lamps were still burning redly in the murky air and, across the river, the
palace of the Four Courts stood out menacingly against the heavy sky.
She was walking on before him with Mr Bartell D'Arcy, her shoes in a brown parcel
tucked under one arm and her hands holding her skirt up from the slush. She had no
longer any grace of attitude, but Gabriel's eyes were still bright with happiness. The
blood went bounding along his veins and the thoughts went rioting through his brain,
proud, joyful, tender, valorous.
She was walking on before him so lightly and so erect that he longed to run after her
noiselessly, catch her by the shoulders and say something foolish and affectionate into
her ear. She seemed to him so frail that he longed to defend her against something and
then to be alone with her. Moments of their secret life together burst like stars upon
his memory. A heliotrope envelope was lying beside his breakfast-cup and he was
caressing it with his hand. Birds were twittering in the ivy and the sunny web of the
curtain was shimmering along the floor: he could not eat for happiness. They were
standing on the crowded platform and he was placing a ticket inside the warm palm of
her glove. He was standing with her in the cold, looking in through a grated window
at a man making bottles in a roaring furnace. It was very cold. Her face, fragrant in
the cold air, was quite close to his, and suddenly he called out to the man at the
furnace:
`Is the fire hot, sir?'
But the man could no! hear with the noise of the furnace. It was just as well. He might
have answered rudely.
A wave of yet more tender joy escaped from his heart and went coursing in warm
flood along his arteries. Like the tender fire of stars moments of their life together,
that no one knew of or would ever know of, broke upon and illumined his memory.
He longed to recall to her those moments, to make her forget the years of their dull
existence together and remember only their moments of ecstasy. For the years, he felt,
had not quenched his soul or hers. Their children, his writing, her household cares had
not quenched all their souls' tender fire. In one letter that he had written to her then he
had said: `Why is it that words like these seem to me so dull and cold? Is it because
there is no word tender enough to be your name?'
Like distant music these words that he had written years before were borne towards
him from the past. He longed to be alone with her. When the others had gone away,
when he and she were in the room in their hotel, then they would be alone together.
He would call her softly:
`Gretta!'
Perhaps she would not hear at once: she would be undressing. Then something in his
voice would strike her. She would turn and look at him...
At the corner of Winetavern Street they met a cab. He was glad of its rattling noise as
it saved him from conversation. She was looking out of the window and seemed tired.
The others spoke only a few words, pointing out some building or street. The horse
galloped along wearily under the murky morning sky, dragging his old rattling box
after his heels, and Gabriel was again in a cab with her, galloping to catch the boat,
galloping to their honeymoon.
As the cab drove across O'Connell Bridge Miss O'Callaghan said:
`They say you never cross O'Connell Bridge without seeing a white horse.'
`I see a white man this time,' said Gabriel.
`Where?' asked Mr Bartell D'Arcy.
Gabriel pointed to the statue, on which lay patches of snow. Then he nodded
familiarly to it and waved his hand.
`Good night, Dan,' he said gaily.
When the cab drew up before the hotel, Gabriel jumped out and, in spite of Mr Bartell
D'Arcy's protest, paid the driver. He gave the man a shilling over his fare. The man
saluted and said:
`A prosperous New Year to you, sir.'
`The same to you,' said Gabriel cordially.
She leaned for a moment on his arm in getting out of the cab and while standing at the
kerb-stone, bidding the others good night. She leaned lightly on his arm, as lightly as
when she had danced with him a few hours before. He had felt proud and happy then,
happy that she was his, proud of her grace and wifely carriage. But now, after the
kindling again of so many memories, the first touch of her body, musical and strange
and perfumed, sent through him a keen pang of lust. Under cover of her silence he
pressed her arm closely to his side, and, as they stood at the hotel door, he felt that
they had escaped from their lives and duties, escaped from home and friends and run
away together with wild and radiant hearts to a new adventure.
An old man was dozing in a great hooded chair in the hall. He lit a candle in the office
and went before them to the stairs. They followed him in silence, their feet falling in
soft thuds on the thickly carpeted stairs. She mounted the stairs behind the porter, her
head bowed in the ascent, her frail shoulders curved as with a burden, her skirt girt
tightly about her. He could have flung his arms about her hips and held her still, for
his arms were trembling with desire to seize her and only the stress of his nails against
the palms of his hands held the wild impulse of his body in check. The porter halted
on the stairs to settle his guttering candle. They halted, too, on the steps below him. In
the silence Gabriel could hear the falling of molten wax into the tray and the
thumping of his own heart against his ribs.
The porter led them along a corridor and opened a door. Then he set his unstable
candle down on a toilet-table and asked at what hour they were to be called in the
morning.
`Eight,' said Gabriel.
The porter pointed to the tap of the electric-light and began a muttered apology, but
Gabriel cut him short.
`We don't want any light. We have light enough from the street. And I say,' he added,
pointing to the candle, `you might remove that handsome article, like a good man.'
The porter took up his candle again, but slowly, for he was surprised by such a novel
idea. Then he mumbled good night and went out. Gabriel shot the lock to.
A ghastly light from the street lamp lay in a long shaft from one window to the door.
Gabriel threw his overcoat and hat on a couch and crossed the room towards the
window. He looked down into the street in order that his emotion might calm a little.
Then he turned and leaned against a chest of drawers with his back to the light. She
had taken off her hat and cloak and was standing before a large swinging mirror,
unhooking her waist. Gabriel paused for a few moments, watching her, and then said:
`Gretta!'
She turned away from the mirror slowly and walked along the shaft of light towards
him. Her face looked so serious and weary that the words would not pass Gabriel's
lips. No, it was not the moment yet.
`You looked tired,' he said.
`I am a little,' she answered.
`You don't feel ill or weak?'
`No, tired: that's all.'
She went on to the window and stood there, looking out. Gabriel waited again and
then, fearing that diffidence was about to conquer him, he said abruptly:
`By the way, Gretta!'
`What is it?'
`You know that poor fellow Malins?' he said quickly.
`Yes. What about him?'
`Well, poor fellow, be's a decent sort of chap, after all,' continued Gabriel in a false
voice. `He gave me back that sovereign I lent him, and I didn't expect it, really. It's a
pity he wouldn't keep away from that Browne, because he's not a bad fellow, really.'
He was trembling now with annoyance. Why did she seem so abstracted? He did not
know how he could begin. Was she annoyed, too, about something? If she would only
turn to him or come to him of her own accord! To take her as she was would be
brutal. No, he must see some ardour in her eyes first. He longed to be master of her
strange mood.
`When did you lend him the pound?' she asked, after a pause.
Gabriel strove to restrain himself from breaking out into brutal language about the
sottish Malins and his pound. He longed to cry to her from his soul, to crush her body
against his, to overmaster her. But he said:
`O, at Christmas, when he opened that little Christmas-card shop, in Henry Street.'
He was in such a fever of rage and desire that he did not hear her come from the
window. She stood before him for an instant, looking at him strangely. Then,
suddenly raising herself on tiptoe and resting her hands lightly on his shoulders, she
kissed him.
`You are a very generous person, Gabriel,' she said.
Gabriel, trembling with delight at her sudden kiss and at the quaintness of her phrase,
put his hands on her hair and began smoothing it back, scarcely touching it with his
fingers. The washing had made it fine and brilliant. His heart was brimming over with
