Eveline

by James Joyce

　　SHE sat at the window watching the evening invade the avenue.Her head was leaned against the window curtains and in hernostrils was the odour of dusty cretonne. She was tired.Few people passed. The man out of the last house passed on hisway home; she heard his footsteps clacking along the concretepavement and afterwards crunching on the cinder path before thenew red houses. One time there used to be a field there in whichthey used to play every evening with other people's children. Thena man from Belfast bought the field and built houses in it -- notlike their little brown houses but bright brick houses with shiningroofs. The children of the avenue used to play together in that field-- the Devines, the Waters, the Dunns, little Keogh the cripple, sheand her brothers and sisters. Ernest, however, never played: he wastoo grown up. Her father used often to hunt them in out of the fieldwith his blackthorn stick; but usually little Keogh used to keep nixand call out when he saw her father coming. Still they seemed tohave been rather happy then. Her father was not so bad then; andbesides, her mother was alive. That was a long time ago; she andher brothers and sisters were all grown up her mother was dead.Tizzie Dunn was dead, too, and the Waters had gone back toEngland. Everything changes. Now she was going to go away likethe others, to leave her home.Home! She looked round the room, reviewing all its familiarobjects which she had dusted once a week for so many years,wondering where on earth all the dust came from. Perhaps shewould never see again those familiar objects from which she hadnever dreamed of being divided. And yet during all those years shehad never found out the name of the priest whose yellowingphotograph hung on the wall above the broken harmonium besidethe coloured print of the promises made to Blessed Margaret MaryAlacoque. He had been a school friend of her father. Whenever heshowed the photograph to a visitor her father used to pass it with acasual word:"He is in Melbourne now."She had consented to go away, to leave her home. Was that wise?She tried to weigh each side of the question. In her home anywayshe had shelter and food; she had those whom she had known allher life about her. O course she had to work hard, both in thehouse and at business. What would they say of her in the Storeswhen they found out that she had run away with a fellow? Say shewas a fool, perhaps; and her place would be filled up byadvertisement. Miss Gavan would be glad. She had always had anedge on her, especially whenever there were people listening."Miss Hill, don't you see these ladies are waiting?""Look lively, Miss Hill, please."She would not cry many tears at leaving the Stores.But in her new home, in a distant unknown country, it would notbe like that. Then she would be married -- she, Eveline. Peoplewould treat her with respect then. She would not be treated as hermother had been. Even now, though she was over nineteen, shesometimes felt herself in danger of her father's violence. She knewit was that that had given her the palpitations. When they weregrowing up he had never gone for her like he used to go for Harryand Ernest, because she was a girl but latterly he had begun tothreaten her and say what he would do to her only for her deadmother's sake. And no she had nobody to protect her. Ernest wasdead and Harry, who was in the church decorating business, wasnearly always down somewhere in the country. Besides, theinvariable squabble for money on Saturday nights had begun toweary her unspeakably. She always gave her entire wages -- sevenshillings -- and Harry always sent up what he could but the troublewas to get any money from her father. He said she used tosquander the money, that she had no head, that he wasn't going togive her his hard-earned money to throw about the streets, andmuch more, for he was usually fairly bad on Saturday night. In theend he would give her the money and ask her had she any intentionof buying Sunday's dinner. Then she had to rush out as quickly asshe could and do her marketing, holding her black leather pursetightly in her hand as she elbowed her way through the crowds andreturning home late under her load of provisions. She had hardwork to keep the house together and to see that the two youngchildren who had been left to hr charge went to school regularlyand got their meals regularly. It was hard work -- a hard life -- butnow that she was about to leave it she did not find it a whollyundesirable life.She was about to explore another life with Frank. Frank was verykind, manly, open-hearted. She was to go away with him by thenight-boat to be his wife and to live with him in Buenos Ayreswhere he had a home waiting for her. How well she rememberedthe first time she had seen him; he was lodging in a house on themain road where she used to visit. It seemed a few weeks ago. Hewas standing at the gate, his peaked cap pushed back on his headand his hair tumbled forward over a face of bronze. Then they hadcome to know each other. He used to meet her outside the Storesevery evening and see her home. He took her to see The BohemianGirl and she felt elated as she sat in an unaccustomed part of thetheatre with him. He was awfully fond of music and sang a little.People knew that they were courting and, when he sang about thelass that loves a sailor, she always felt pleasantly confused. Heused to call her Poppens out of fun. First of all it had been anexcitement for her to have a fellow and then she had begun to likehim. He had tales of distant countries. He had started as a deck boyat a pound a month on a ship of the Allan Line going out toCanada. He told her the names of the ships he had been on and thenames of the different services. He had sailed through the Straitsof Magellan and he told her stories of the terrible Patagonians. Hehad fallen on his feet in Buenos Ayres, he said, and had come overto the old country just for a holiday. Of course, her father hadfound out the affair and had forbidden her to have anything to sayto him."I know these sailor chaps," he said.One day he had quarrelled with Frank and after that she had tomeet her lover secretly.The evening deepened in the avenue. The white of two letters inher lap grew indistinct. One was to Harry; the other was to herfather. Ernest had been her favourite but she liked Harry too. Herfather was becoming old lately, she noticed; he would miss her.Sometimes he could be very nice. Not long before, when she hadbeen laid up for a day, he had read her out a ghost story and madetoast for her at the fire. Another day, when their mother was alive,they had all gone for a picnic to the Hill of Howth. Sheremembered her father putting on her mothers bonnet to make thechildren laugh.Her time was running out but she continued to sit by the window,leaning her head against the window curtain, inhaling the odour ofdusty cretonne. Down far in the avenue she could hear a streetorgan playing. She knew the air Strange that it should come thatvery night to remind her of the promise to her mother, her promiseto keep the home together as long as she could. She rememberedthe last night of her mother's illness; she was again in the closedark room at the other side of the hall and outside she heard amelancholy air of Italy. The organ-player had been ordered to goaway and given sixpence. She remembered her father struttingback into the sickroom saying:"Damned Italians! coming over here!"As she mused the pitiful vision of her mother's life laid its spell onthe very quick of her being -- that life of commonplace sacrificesclosing in final craziness. She trembled as she heard again hermother's voice saying constantly with foolish insistence:"Derevaun Seraun! Derevaun Seraun!"She stood up in a sudden impulse of terror. Escape! She mustescape! Frank would save her. He would give her life, perhapslove, too. But she wanted to live. Why should she be unhappy? Shehad a right to happiness. Frank would take her in his arms, fold herin his arms. He would save her.She stood among the swaying crowd in the station at the NorthWall. He held her hand and she knew that he was speaking to her,saying something about the passage over and over again. Thestation was full of soldiers with brown baggages. Through the widedoors of the sheds she caught a glimpse of the black mass of theboat, lying in beside the quay wall, with illumined portholes. Sheanswered nothing. She felt her cheek pale and cold and, out of amaze of distress, she prayed to God to direct her, to show her whatwas her duty. The boat blew a long mournful whistle into the mist.If she went, tomorrow she would be on the sea with Frank,steaming towards Buenos Ayres. Their passage had been booked.Could she still draw back after all he had done for her? Herdistress awoke a nausea in her body and she kept moving her lipsin silent fervent prayer.A bell clanged upon her heart. She felt him seize her hand:"Come!"All the seas of the world tumbled about her heart. He was drawingher into them: he would drown her. She gripped with both hands atthe iron railing."Come!"No! No! No! It was impossible. Her hands clutched the iron infrenzy. Amid the seas she sent a cry of anguish."Eveline! Evvy!"He rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to follow. He wasshouted at to go on but he still called to her. She set her white faceto him, passive, like a helpless animal. Her eyes gave him no signof love or farewell or recognition.