Hushed are the winds and still the evening gloom,
Not e'en a Zephyr wanders through the grove,
Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb
And scatter flowers on the dust I love.
He paused. He felt the rhythm of the verse about him in the room. How melancholy it
was! Could he, too, write like that, express the melancholy of his soul in verse? There
were so many things he wanted to describe: his sensation of a few hours before on
Grattan Bridge, for example. If he could get back again into that mood...
The child awoke and began to cry. He turned from the page and tried to hush it: but it
would not be hushed. He began to rock it to and fro in his arms, but its wailing cry
grew keener. He rocked it faster while his eyes began to read the second stanza:
Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,
That clay where once...
It was useless. He couldn't read. He couldn't do anything. The wailing of the child
pierced the drum of his ear. It was useless, useless! He was a prisoner for life. His
arms trembled with anger and suddenly bending to the child's face he shouted:
`Stop!'
The child stopped for an instant, had a spasm of fright and began to scream. He
jumped up from his chair and walked hastily up and down the room with the child in
his arms. it began to sob piteously, losing its breath for four or five seconds, and then
bursting out anew. The thin walls of the room echoed the sound. He tried to soothe it,
but it sobbed more convulsively. He looked at the contracted and quivering face of the
child and began to be alarmed. He counted seven sobs without a break between them
and caught the child to his breast in fright. If it died!...
The door was burst open and a young woman ran in, panting.
`What is it? What is it?' she cried.
The child, hearing its mother's voice, broke out into a paroxysm of sobbing.
`It's nothing, Annie... it's nothing... He began to cry... '
She flung her parcels on the floor and snatched the child from him.
`What have you done to him?' she cried, glaring into his face.
Little Chandler sustained for one moment the gaze of her eyes and his heart closed
together as he met the hatred in them. He began to stammer:
`It's nothing... He... he... began to cry... I couldn't... I didn't do anything... What?'
Giving no heed to him she began to walk up and down the room, clasping the child
tightly in her arms and murmuring:
`My little man! My little mannie! Was 'ou frightened, love?'... There now, love! There
now!... Lambabaun! Mamma's little lamb of the world!... There now!'
Little Chandler felt his cheeks suffused with shame and he stood back out of the
lamplight. He listened while the paroxysm of the child's sobbing grew less and less;
and tears of remorse started to his eyes.
Counterparts
The bell rang furiously and, when Miss Parker went to the tube, a furious voice called
out in a piercing North of Ireland accent:
`Send Farrington here!'
Miss Parker returned to her machine, saying to a man who was writing at a desk:
`Mr Alleyne wants you upstairs.'
The man muttered `Blast him!' under his breath and pushed back his chair to stand up.
When he stood up he was tall and of great bulk. He had a hanging face, dark wine-
coloured, with fair eyebrows and moustache: his eyes bulged forward slightly and the
whites of them were dirty. He lifted up the counter and, passing by the clients, went
out of the office with a heavy step.
He went heavily upstairs until he came to the second landing, where a door bore a
brass plate with the inscription Mr Alleyne. Here he halted, puffing with labour and
vexation, and knocked. The shrill voice cried:
`Come in!'
The man entered Mr Alleyne's room. Simultaneously Mr Alleyne, a little man
wearing gold-rimmed glasses on a clean-shaven face, shot his head up over a pile of
documents. The head itself was so pink and hairless it seemed like a large egg
reposing on the papers. Mr Alleyne did not lose a moment:
`Farrington? What is the meaning of this? Why have I always to complain of you?
May I ask you why you haven't made a copy of that contract between Bodley and
Kirwan? I told you it must be ready by four o'clock.'
`But Mr Shelly said, sir--'
`Mr Shelly said, sir... Kindly attend to what I say and not to what Mr Shelly says, sir.
You have always some excuse or another for shirking work. Let me tell you that if the
contract is not copied before this evening I'll lay the matter before Mr Crosbie... Do
you hear me now?'
`Yes, sir.'
`Do you hear me now?... Ay and another little matter! I might as well be talking to the
wall as talking to you. Understand once for all that you get a half an hour for your
lunch and not an hour and a half. How many courses do you want? I'd like to know...
Do you mind me now?'
`Yes, sir.'
Mr Alleyne bent his head again upon his pile of papers. The man stared fixedly at the
polished skull which directed the affairs of Crosbie & Alleyne, gauging its fragility. A
spasm of rage gripped his throat for a few moments and then passed, leaving after it a
sharp sensation of thirst. The man recognized the sensation and felt that he must have
a good night's drinking. The middle of the month was passed and, if he could get the
copy done in time, Mr Alleyne might give him an order on the cashier. He stood still,
gazing fixedly at the head upon the pile of papers. Suddenly Mr Alleyne began to
upset all the papers, searching for something. Then, as if he had been unaware of the
man's presence till that moment, he shot up his head again, saying:
`Eh? Are you going to stand there all day? Upon my word, Farrington, you take things
easy!'
`I was waiting to see... '
`Very good, you needn't wait to see. Go downstairs and do your work.'
The man walked heavily towards the door and, as he went out of the room, he heard
Mr Alleyne cry after him that if the contract was not copied by evening Mr Crosbie
would hear of the matter.
He returned to his desk in the lower office and counted the sheets which remained to
be copied. He took up his pen and dipped it in the ink, but he continued to stare
stupidly at the last words he had written: In no case shall the said Bernard Bodley
be... The evening was falling and in a few minutes they would be lighting the gas:
then he could write. He felt that he must slake the thirst in his throat. He stood up
from his desk and, lifting the counter as before, passed out of the office. As he was
passing out the chief clerk looked at him inquiringly.
`It's all right, Mr Shelly,' said the man, pointing with his finger to indicate the
objective of his journey.
The chief clerk glanced at the hat-rack, but, seeing the row complete, offered no
remark. As soon as he was on the landing the man pulled a shepherd's plaid cap out of
his pocket, put it on his head and ran quickly down the rickety stairs. From the street
door he walked on furtively on the inner side of the path towards the corner and all at
once dived into a doorway. He was now safe in the dark snug of O'Neill's shop, and,
filling up the little window that looked into the bar with his inflamed face, the colour
of dark wine or dark meat, he called out:
`Here, Pat, give us a g.p., like a good fellow.'
The curate brought him a glass of plain porter. The man drank it at a gulp and asked
for a caraway seed. He put his penny on the counter and, leaving the curate to grope
for it In the gloom, retreated out of the snug as furtively as he had entered it.
Darkness, accompanied by a thick fog, was gaining upon the dusk of February and the
lamps in Eustace Street had been lit. The man went up by the houses until he reached
the door of the office, wondering whether he could finish his copy in time. On the
stairs a moist pungent odour of perfumes saluted his nose: evidently Miss Delacour
had come while he was out in O'Neill's. He crammed his cap back again into his
pocket and re-entered the office, assuming an air of absent-mindedness.
`Mr Alleyne has been calling for you,' said the chief clerk severely. `Where were
you?'
The man glanced at the two clients who were standing at the counter as if to intimate
that their presence prevented him from answering. As the clients were both male the
chief clerk allowed himself a laugh.
`I know that game,' he said. `Five times in one day is a little bit... Well, you better
look sharp and get a copy of our correspondence in the Delacour case for Mr Alleyne.'
This address in the presence of the public, his run upstairs, and the porter he had
gulped down so hastily confused the man and as he sat down at his desk to get what
was required, he realized how hopeless was the task of finishing his copy of the
contract before half past five. The dark damp night was coming and he longed to
spend it in the bars, drinking with his friends amid the glare of gas and the clatter of
glasses. He got out the Delacour correspondence and passed out of the office. He
hoped Mr Alleyne would not discover that the last two letters were missing.
The moist pungent perfume lay all the way up to Mr Alleyne's room. Miss Delacour
was a middle-aged woman of Jewish appearance. Mr Alleyne was said to be sweet on
her or on her money. She came to the office often and stayed a long time when she
came. She was sitting beside his desk now in an aroma of perfumes, smoothing the
handle of her umbrella and nodding the great black feather in her hat. Mr Alleyne had
swivelled his chair round to face her and thrown his right foot jauntily upon his left
knee. The man put the correspondence on the desk and bowed respectfully, but
neither Mr Alleyne nor Miss Delacour took any notice of his bow. Mr Alleyne tapped
a finger on the correspondence and then flicked it towards him as if to say: `That's all
right, you can go.'
The man returned to the lower office and sat down again at his desk. He stared
intently at the incomplete phrase: In no case shall the said Bernard Bodley be... and
thought how strange it was that the last three words began with the same letter. The
chief clerk began to hurry Miss Parker, saying she would never have the letters typed
in time for post. The man listened to the clicking of the machine for a few minutes
and then set to work to finish his copy. But his head was not clear and his mind
wandered away to the glare and rattle of the public-house. It was a night for hot
punches. He struggled on with his copy, but when the clock struck five he had still
fourteen pages to write. Blast it! He couldn't finish it in time. He longed to execrate
aloud, to bring his fist down on something violently. He was so enraged that he wrote
Bernard Bernard instead of Bernard Bodley and had to begin again on a clean sheet.
He felt strong enough to clear out the whole office singlehanded. His body ached to
do something, to rush Out and revel in violence. All the indignities of his life enraged
him.
Could he ask the cashier privately for an advance? No, the cashier was no good, no
damn good: he wouldn't give an advance... He knew where he would meet the boys:
Leonard and O'Halloran and Nosey Flynn. The barometer of his emotional nature was
set for a spell of riot.
His imagination had so abstracted him that his name was called twice before he
answered. Mr Alleyne and Miss Delacour were standing outside the counter and all
the clerks had turned round in anticipation of something. The man got up from his
desk. Mr Alleyne began a tirade of abuse, saying that two letters were missing. The
man answered that he knew nothing about them, that he had made a faithful copy. The
tirade continued: it was so bitter and violent that the man could hardly restrain his fist
from descending upon the head of the manikin before him.
`I know nothing about any other two letters,' he said stupidly.
`You - know - nothing. Of course you know nothing,' said Mr Alleyne. `Tell me,' he
added, glancing first for approval to the lady beside him, `do you take me for a fool?
Do you think me an utter fool?'
The man glanced from the lady's face to the little egg-shaped head and back again;
and, almost before he was aware of it, his tongue had found a felicitous moment:
`I don't think, sir,' he said, `that that's a fair question to put to me.'
There was a pause in the very breathing of the clerks. Everyone was astounded (the
author of the witticism no less than his neighbours) and Miss Delacour, who was a
stout amiable person, began to smile broadly. Mr Alleyne flushed to the hue of a wild
rose and his mouth twitched with a dwarf's passion. He shook his fist in the man's
face till it seemed to vibrate like the knob of some electric machine:
`You impertinent ruffian! You impertinent ruffian! I'll make short work of you! Wait
till you see! You'll apologize to me for your impertinence or you'll quit the office
instanter! You'll quit this, I'm telling you, or you'll apologize to me!'
He stood in a doorway opposite the office, watching to see if the cashier would come
out alone. All the clerks passed out and finally the cashier came out with the chief
clerk. It was no use trying to say a word to him when he was with the chief clerk. The
man felt that his position was bad enough. He had been obliged to offer an abject
apology to Mr Alleyne for his impertinence, but he knew what a hornet's nest the
office would be for him. He could remember the way in which Mr Alleyne had
hounded little Peake out of the office in order to make room for his own nephew. He
felt savage and thirsty and revengeful, annoyed with himself and with everyone else.
Mr Alleyne would never give him an hour's rest; his life would be a hell to him. He
had made a proper fool of himself this time. Could he not keep his tongue in his
cheek? But they had never pulled together from the first, he and Mr Alleyne, ever
since the day Mr Alleyne had overheard him mimicking his North of Ireland accent to
amuse Higgins and Miss Parker; that had been the beginning of it. He might have
tried Higgins for the money, but sure Higgins never had anything for himself. A man
with two establishments to keep up, of course he couldn't...
He felt his great body again aching for the comfort of the public-house. The fog had
begun to chill him and he wondered could he touch Pat in O'Neill's. He could not
touch him for more than a bob - and a bob was no use. Yet he must get money
somewhere or other: he had spent his last penny for the g.p. and soon it would be too
late for getting money anywhere. Suddenly, as he was fingering his watch chain, he
thought of Terry Kelly's pawn-office in Fleet Street. That was the dart! Why didn't he
think of it sooner?
He went through the narrow alley of Temple Bar quickly, muttering to himself that
they could all go to hell, because he was going to have a good night of it. The clerk in
Terry Kelly's said A crown! but the consignor held out for six shillings; and in the end
the six shillings was allowed him literally. He came out of the pawn-office joyfully,
making a little cylinder of the coins between his thumb and fingers. In Westmoreland
Street the footpaths were crowded with young men and women returning from
business, and ragged urchins ran here and there yelling out the names of the evening
editions. The man passed through the crowd, looking on the spectacle generally with
proud satisfaction and staring masterfully at the office-girls. His head was full of the
noises of tram-gongs and swishing trolleys and his nose already sniffed the curling
fumes of punch. As he walked on he preconsidered the terms in which he would
narrate the incident to the boys:
`So, I just looked at him - coolly, you know, and looked at her. Then I looked back at
him again - taking my time you know. "I don't think that's a fair question to put to
me," says I.'
Nosey Flynn was sitting up in his usual corner of Davy Byrne's and, when he heard
the story, he stood Farrington a half-one, saying it was as smart a thing as ever he
heard. Farrington stood a drink in his turn. After a while O'Halloran and Paddy
Leonard came in and the story was repeated to them. O'Halloran stood tailors of malt,
hot, all round and told the story of the retort he had made to the chief clerk when he
was in Callan's of Fownes's Street; but, as the retort was after the manner of the
liberal shepherds in the eclogues, he had to admit that it was not as clever as
Farrington's retort. At this Farrington told the boys to polish off that and have another.
Just as they were naming their poisons who should come in but Higgins! Of course he
had to join in with the others. The men asked him to give his version of it, and he did
so with great vivacity, for the sight of five small hot whiskies was very exhilarating.
Everyone roared laughing when he showed the way in which Mr Alleyne shook his
fist in Farrington's face. Then he imitated Farrington, saying, `And here was my nabs,
as cool as you please,' while Farrington looked at the company out of his heavy dirty
eyes, smiling and at times drawing forth stray drops of liquor from his moustache
with the aid of his lower lip.
When that round was over there was a pause. O'Halloran had money, but neither of
the other two seemed to have any; so the whole party left the shop somewhat
regretfully. At the corner of Duke Street Higgins and Nosey Flynn bevelled off to the
left, while the other three turned back towards the city. Rain was drizzling down on
the cold streets and, when they reached the Ballast Office, Farrington suggested the
Scotch House. The bar was full of men and loud with the noise of tongues and
glasses. The three men pushed past the whining match-sellers at the door and formed
a little party at the corner of the counter. They began to exchange stories. Leonard
introduced them to a young fellow named Weathers who was performing at the Tivoli
as an acrobat and knockabout artiste. Farrington stood a drink all round. Weathers
said he would take a small Irish and Apollinaris. Farrington, who had definite notions
of what was what, asked the boys would they have an Apollinaris too; but the boys
