The Dead

by James Joyce

　　LILY, the caretaker's daughter, was literally run off her feet.Hardly had she brought one gentleman into the little pantry behindthe office on the ground floor and helped him off with his overcoatthan the wheezy hall-door bell clanged again and she had toscamper along the bare hallway to let in another guest. It was wellfor her she had not to attend to the ladies also. But Miss Kate andMiss Julia had thought of that and had converted the bathroomupstairs into a ladies' dressing-room. Miss Kate and Miss Juliawere there, gossiping and laughing and fussing, walking after eachother to the head of the stairs, peering down over the banisters andcalling down to Lily to ask her who had come.It was always a great affair, the Misses Morkan's annual dance.Everybody who knew them came to it, members of the family, oldfriends of the family, the members of Julia's choir, any of Kate'spupils that were grown up enough, and even some of Mary Jane'spupils too. Never once had it fallen flat. For years and years it hadgone off in splendid style, as long as anyone could remember; eversince Kate and Julia, after the death of their brother Pat, had leftthe house in Stoney Batter and taken Mary Jane, their only niece,to live with them in the dark, gaunt house on Usher's Island, theupper part of which they had rented from Mr. Fulham, thecorn-factor on the ground floor. That was a good thirty years ago ifit was a day. Mary Jane, who was then a little girl in short clothes,was now the main prop of the household, for she had the organ inHaddington Road. She had been through the Academy and gave apupils' concert every year in the upper room of the Antient ConcertRooms. Many of her pupils belonged to the better-class families onthe Kingstown and Dalkey line. Old as they were, her aunts alsodid their share. Julia, though she was quite grey, was still theleading soprano in Adam and Eve's, and Kate, being too feeble togo about much, gave music lessons to beginners on the old squarepiano in the back room. Lily, the caretaker's daughter, didhousemaid's work for them. Though their life was modest, theybelieved in eating well; the best of everything: diamond-bonesirloins, three-shilling tea and the best bottled stout. But Lilyseldom made a mistake in the orders, so that she got on well withher three mistresses. They were fussy, that was all. But the onlything they would not stand was back answers.Of course, they had good reason to be fussy on such a night. Andthen it was long after ten o'clock and yet there was no sign ofGabriel and his wife. Besides they were dreadfully afraid thatFreddy Malins might turn up screwed. They would not wish forworlds that any of Mary Jane's pupils should see him under theinfluence; and when he was like that it was sometimes very hard tomanage him. Freddy Malins always came late, but they wonderedwhat could be keeping Gabriel: and that was what brought themevery two minutes to the banisters to ask Lily had Gabriel orFreddy come."O, Mr. Conroy," said Lily to Gabriel when she opened the doorfor him, "Miss Kate and Miss Julia thought you were nevercoming. Good-night, Mrs. Conroy.""I'll engage they did," said Gabriel, "but they forget that my wifehere takes three mortal hours to dress herself."He stood on the mat, scraping the snow from his goloshes, whileLily led his wife to the foot of the stairs and called out:"Miss Kate, here's Mrs. Conroy."Kate and Julia came toddling down the dark stairs at once. Both ofthem kissed Gabriel's wife, said she must be perished alive, andasked was Gabriel with her."Here I am as right as the mail, Aunt Kate! Go on up. I'll follow,"called out Gabriel from the dark.He continued scraping his feet vigorously while the three womenwent upstairs, laughing, to the ladies' dressing-room. A light fringeof snow lay like a cape on the shoulders of his overcoat and liketoecaps on the toes of his goloshes; and, as the buttons of hisovercoat slipped with a squeaking noise through thesnow-stiffened frieze, a cold, fragrant air from out-of-doorsescaped from crevices and folds."Is it snowing again, Mr. Conroy?" asked Lily.She had preceded him into the pantry to help him off with hisovercoat. Gabriel smiled at the three syllables she had given hissurname and glanced at her. She was a slim; growing girl, pale incomplexion and with hay-coloured hair. The gas in the pantrymade her look still paler. Gabriel had known her when she was achild and used to sit on the lowest step nursing a rag doll."Yes, Lily," he answered, "and I think we're in for a night of it."He looked up at the pantry ceiling, which was shaking with thestamping and shuffling of feet on the floor above, listened for amoment to the piano and then glanced at the girl, who was foldinghis overcoat carefully at the end of a shelf."Tell me. Lily," he said in a friendly tone, "do you still go toschool?""O no, sir," she answered. "I'm done schooling this year and more.""O, then," said Gabriel gaily, "I suppose we'll be going to yourwedding one of these fine days with your young man, eh? "The girl glanced back at him over her shoulder and said with greatbitterness:"The men that is now is only all palaver and what they can get outof you."Gabriel coloured, as if he felt he had made a mistake and, withoutlooking at her, kicked off his goloshes and flicked actively with hismuffler at his patent-leather shoes.He was a stout, tallish young man. The high colour of his cheekspushed upwards even to his forehead, where it scattered itself in afew formless patches of pale red; and on his hairless face therescintillated restlessly the polished lenses and the bright gilt rims ofthe glasses which screened his delicate and restless eyes. Hisglossy black hair was parted in the middle and brushed in a longcurve behind his ears where it curled slightly beneath the grooveleft by his hat.When he had flicked lustre into his shoes he stood up and pulledhis waistcoat down more tightly on his plump body. Then he tooka coin rapidly from his pocket."O Lily," he said, thrusting it into her hands, "it's Christmastime,isn't it? Just... here's a little...."He walked rapidly towards the door."O no, sir!" cried the girl, following him. "Really, sir, I wouldn'ttake it.""Christmas-time! Christmas-time!" said Gabriel, almost trotting tothe stairs and waving his hand to her in deprecation.The girl, seeing that he had gained the stairs, called out after him:"Well, thank you, sir."He waited outside the drawing-room door until the waltz shouldfinish, listening to the skirts that swept against it and to theshuffling of feet. He was still discomposed by the girl's bitter andsudden retort. It had cast a gloom over him which he tried to dispelby arranging his cuffs and the bows of his tie. He then took fromhis waistcoat pocket a little paper and glanced at the headings hehad made for his speech. He was undecided about the lines fromRobert Browning, for he feared they would be above the heads ofhis hearers. Some quotation that they would recognise fromShakespeare or from the Melodies would be better. The indelicateclacking of the men's heels and the shuffling of their solesreminded him that their grade of culture differed from his. Hewould only make himself ridiculous by quoting poetry to themwhich they could not understand. They would think that he wasairing his superior education. He would fail with them just as hehad failed with the girl in the pantry. He had taken up a wrongtone. His whole speech was a mistake from first to last, an utterfailure.Just then his aunts and his wife came out of the ladies'dressing-room. His aunts were two small, plainly dressed oldwomen. Aunt Julia was an inch or so the taller. Her hair, drawnlow over the tops of her ears, was grey; and grey also, with darkershadows, was her large flaccid face. Though she was stout in buildand stood erect, her slow eyes and parted lips gave her theappearance of a woman who did not know where she was or whereshe was going. Aunt Kate was more vivacious. Her face, healthierthan her sister's, was all puckers and creases, like a shrivelled redapple, and her hair, braided in the same old-fashioned way, had notlost its ripe nut colour.They both kissed Gabriel frankly. He was their favourite nephewthe son of their dead elder sister, Ellen, who had married T. J.Conroy of the Port and Docks."Gretta tells me you're not going to take a cab back to Monkstowntonight, Gabriel," said Aunt Kate."No," said Gabriel, turning to his wife, "we had quite enough ofthat last year, hadn't we? Don't you remember, Aunt Kate, what acold Gretta got out of it? Cab windows rattling all the way, and theeast wind blowing in after we passed Merrion. Very jolly it was.Gretta caught a dreadful cold."Aunt Kate frowned severely and nodded her head at every word."Quite right, Gabriel, quite right," she said. "You can't be toocareful.""But as for Gretta there," said Gabriel, "she'd walk home in thesnow if she were let."Mrs. Conroy laughed."Don't mind him, Aunt Kate," she said. "He's really an awfulbother, what with green shades for Tom's eyes at night and makinghim do the dumb-bells, and forcing Eva to eat the stirabout. Thepoor child! And she simply hates the sight of it!... O, but you'llnever guess what he makes me wear now!"She broke out into a peal of laughter and glanced at her husband,whose admiring and happy eyes had been wandering from herdress to her face and hair. The two aunts laughed heartily, too, forGabriel's solicitude was a standing joke with them."Goloshes!" said Mrs. Conroy. "That's the latest. Whenever it's wetunderfoot I must put on my galoshes. Tonight even, he wanted meto put them on, but I wouldn't. The next thing he'll buy me will bea diving suit."Gabriel laughed nervously and patted his tie reassuringly, whileAunt Kate nearly doubled herself, so heartily did she enjoy thejoke. The smile soon faded from Aunt Julia's face and hermirthless eyes were directed towards her nephew's face. After apause she asked:"And what are goloshes, Gabriel?""Goloshes, Julia!" exclaimed her sister "Goodness me, don't youknow what goloshes are? You wear them over your... over yourboots, Gretta, isn't it?""Yes," said Mrs. Conroy. "Guttapercha things. We both have a pairnow. Gabriel says everyone wears them on the Continent.""O, on the Continent," murmured Aunt Julia, nodding her headslowly.Gabriel knitted his brows and said, as if he were slightly angered:"It's nothing very wonderful, but Gretta thinks it very funnybecause she says the word reminds her of Christy Minstrels.""But tell me, Gabriel," said Aunt Kate, with brisk tact. "Of course,you've seen about the room. Gretta was saying...""0, the room is all right," replied Gabriel. "I've taken one in theGresham.""To be sure," said Aunt Kate, "by far the best thing to do. And thechildren, Gretta, you're not anxious about them?""0, for one night," said Mrs. Conroy. "Besides, Bessie will lookafter them.""To be sure," said Aunt Kate again. "What a comfort it is to have agirl like that, one you can depend on! There's that Lily, I'm sure Idon't know what has come over her lately. She's not the girl shewas at all."Gabriel was about to ask his aunt some questions on this point, butshe broke off suddenly to gaze after her sister, who had wandereddown the stairs and was craning her neck over the banisters."Now, I ask you," she said almost testily, "where is Julia going?Julia! Julia! Where are you going?"Julia, who had gone half way down one flight, came back andannounced blandly:"Here's Freddy."At the same moment a clapping of hands and a final flourish of thepianist told that the waltz had ended. The drawing-room door wasopened from within and some couples came out. Aunt Kate drewGabriel aside hurriedly and whispered into his ear:"Slip down, Gabriel, like a good fellow and see if he's all right, anddon't let him up if he's screwed. I'm sure he's screwed. I'm sure heis."Gabriel went to the stairs and listened over the banisters. He couldhear two persons talking in the pantry. Then he recognised FreddyMalins' laugh. He went down the stairs noisily."It's such a relief," said Aunt Kate to Mrs. Conroy, "that Gabriel ishere. I always feel easier in my mind when he's here.... Julia,there's Miss Daly and Miss Power will take some refreshment.Thanks for your beautiful waltz, Miss Daly. It made lovely time."A tall wizen-faced man, with a stiff grizzled moustache andswarthy skin, who was passing out with his partner, said:"And may we have some refreshment, too, Miss Morkan?""Julia," said Aunt Kate summarily, "and here's Mr. Browne andMiss Furlong. Take them in, Julia, with Miss Daly and MissPower.""I'm the man for the ladies," said Mr. Browne, pursing his lips untilhis moustache bristled and smiling in all his wrinkles. "You know,Miss Morkan, the reason they are so fond of me is----"He did not finish his sentence, but, seeing that Aunt Kate was outof earshot, at once led the three young ladies into the back room.The middle of the room was occupied by two square tables placedend to end, and on these Aunt Julia and the caretaker werestraightening and smoothing a large cloth. On the sideboard werearrayed dishes and plates, and glasses and bundles of knives andforks and spoons. The top of the closed square piano served also asa sideboard for viands and sweets. At a smaller sideboard in onecorner two young men were standing, drinking hop-bitters.Mr. Browne led his charges thither and invited them all, in jest, tosome ladies' punch, hot, strong and sweet. As they said they nevertook anything strong, he opened three bottles of lemonade forthem. Then he asked one of the young men to move aside, and,taking hold of the decanter, filled out for himself a goodly measureof whisky. The young men eyed him respectfully while he took atrial sip."God help me," he said, smiling, "it's the doctor's orders."His wizened face broke into a broader smile, and the three youngladies laughed in musical echo to his pleasantry, swaying theirbodies to and fro, with nervous jerks of their shoulders. Theboldest said:"O, now, Mr. Browne, I'm sure the doctor never ordered anythingof the kind."Mr. Browne took another sip of his whisky and said, with sidlingmimicry:"Well, you see, I'm like the famous Mrs. Cassidy, who is reportedto have said: 'Now, Mary Grimes, if I don't take it, make me take it,for I feel I want it.'"His hot face had leaned forward a little too confidentially and hehad assumed a very low Dublin accent so that the young ladies,with one instinct, received his speech in silence. Miss Furlong,who was one of Mary Jane's pupils, asked Miss Daly what was thename of the pretty waltz she had played; and Mr. Browne, seeingthat he was ignored, turned promptly to the two young men whowere more appreciative.A red-faced young woman, dressed in pansy, came into the room,excitedly clapping her hands and crying:"Quadrilles! Quadrilles!"Close on her heels came Aunt Kate, crying:"Two gentlemen and three ladies, Mary Jane!""O, here's Mr. Bergin and Mr. Kerrigan," said Mary Jane. "Mr.Kerrigan, will you take Miss Power? Miss Furlong, may I get you apartner, Mr. Bergin. O, that'll just do now.""Three ladies, Mary Jane," said Aunt Kate.The two young gentlemen asked the ladies if they might have thepleasure, and Mary Jane turned to Miss Daly."O, Miss Daly, you're really awfully good, after playing for the lasttwo dances, but really we're so short of ladies tonight.""I don't mind in the least, Miss Morkan.""But I've a nice partner for you, Mr. Bartell D'Arcy, the tenor. I'llget him to sing later on. All Dublin is raving about him.""Lovely voice, lovely voice!" said Aunt Kate.As the piano had twice begun the prelude to the first figure MaryJane led her recruits quickly from the room. They had hardly gonewhen Aunt Julia wandered slowly into the room, looking behindher at something."What is the matter, Julia?" asked Aunt Kate anxiously. "Who isit?"Julia, who was carrying in a column of table-napkins, turned to hersister and said, simply, as if the question had surprised her:"It's only Freddy, Kate, and Gabriel with him."In fact right behind her Gabriel could be seen piloting FreddyMalins across the landing. The latter, a young man of about forty,was of Gabriel's size and build, with very round shoulders. His facewas fleshy and pallid, touched with colour only at the thickhanging lobes of his ears and at the wide wings of his nose. He hadcoarse features, a blunt nose, a convex and receding brow, tumidand protruded lips. His heavy-lidded eyes and the disorder of hisscanty hair made him look sleepy. He was laughing heartily in ahigh key at a story which he had been telling Gabriel on the stairsand at the same time rubbing the knuckles of his left fistbackwards and forwards into his left eye."Good-evening, Freddy," said Aunt Julia.Freddy Malins bade the Misses Morkan good-evening in whatseemed an offhand fashion by reason of the habitual catch in hisvoice and then, seeing that Mr. Browne was grinning at him fromthe sideboard, crossed the room on rather shaky legs and began torepeat in an undertone the story he had just told to Gabriel."He's not so bad, is he?" said Aunt Kate to Gabriel.Gabriel's brows were dark but he raised them quickly andanswered:"O, no, hardly noticeable.""Now, isn't he a terrible fellow!" she said. "And his poor mothermade him take the pledge on New Year's Eve. But come on,Gabriel, into the drawing-room."Before leaving the room with Gabriel she signalled to Mr. Browneby frowning and shaking her forefinger in warning to and fro. Mr.Browne nodded in answer and, when she had gone, said to FreddyMalins:"Now, then, Teddy, I'm going to fill you out a good glass oflemonade just to buck you up."Freddy Malins, who was nearing the climax of his story, waved theoffer aside impatiently but Mr. Browne, having first called FreddyMalins' attention to a disarray in his dress, filled out and handedhim a full glass of lemonade. Freddy Malins' left hand accepted theglass mechanically, his right hand being engaged in themechanical readjustment of his dress. Mr. Browne, whose facewas once more wrinkling with mirth, poured out for himself aglass of whisky while Freddy Malins exploded, before he had wellreached the climax of his story, in a kink of high-pitchedbronchitic laughter and, setting down his untasted and overflowingglass, began to rub the knuckles of his left fist backwards andforwards into his left eye, repeating words of his last phrase aswell as his fit of laughter would allow him.Gabriel could not listen while Mary Jane was playing her Academypiece, full of runs and difficult passages, to the husheddrawing-room. He liked music but the piece she was playing hadno melody for him and he doubted whether it had any melody forthe other listeners, though they had begged Mary Jane to playsomething. Four young men, who had come from therefreshment-room to stand in the doorway at the sound of thepiano, had gone away quietly in couples after a few minutes. Theonly persons who seemed to follow the music were Mary Janeherself, her hands racing along the key-board or lifted from it atthe pauses like those of a priestess in momentary imprecation, andAunt Kate standing at her elbow to turn the page.Gabriel's eyes, irritated by the floor, which glittered with beeswaxunder the heavy chandelier, wandered to the wall above the piano.A picture of the balcony scene in Romeo and Juliet hung there andbeside it was a picture of the two murdered princes in the Towerwhich Aunt Julia had worked in red, blue and brown wools whenshe was a girl. Probably in the school they had gone to as girls thatkind of work had been taught for one year. His mother had workedfor him as a birthday present a waistcoat of purple tabinet, withlittle foxes' heads upon it, lined with brown satin and having roundmulberry buttons. It was strange that his mother had had nomusical talent though Aunt Kate used to call her the brains carrierof the Morkan family. Both she and Julia had always seemed alittle proud of their serious and matronly sister. Her photographstood before the pierglass. She held an open book on her knees andwas pointing out something in it to Constantine who, dressed in aman-o-war suit, lay at her feet. It was she who had chosen thename of her sons for she was very sensible of the dignity of familylife. Thanks to her, Constantine was now senior curate inBalbrigan and, thanks to her, Gabriel himself had taken his degreein the Royal University. A shadow passed over his face as heremembered her sullen opposition to his marriage. Some slightingphrases she had used still rankled in his memory; she had oncespoken of Gretta as being country cute and that was not true ofGretta at all. It was Gretta who had nursed her during all her lastlong illness in their house at Monkstown.He knew that Mary Jane must be near the end of her piece for shewas playing again the opening melody with runs of scales afterevery bar and while he waited for the end the resentment dieddown in his heart. The piece ended with a trill of octaves in thetreble and a final deep octave in the bass. Great applause greetedMary Jane as, blushing and rolling up her music nervously, sheescaped from the room. The most vigorous clapping came fromthe four young men in the doorway who had gone away to therefreshment-room at the beginning of the piece but had come backwhen the piano had stopped.Lancers were arranged. Gabriel found himself partnered with MissIvors. She was a frank-mannered talkative young lady, with afreckled face and prominent brown eyes. She did not wear alow-cut bodice and the large brooch which was fixed in the frontof her collar bore on it an Irish device and motto.When they had taken their places she said abruptly:"I have a crow to pluck with you.""With me?" said Gabriel.She nodded her head gravely."What is it?" asked Gabriel, smiling at her solemn manner."Who is G. C.?" answered Miss Ivors, turning her eyes upon him.Gabriel coloured and was about to knit his brows, as if he did notunderstand, when she said bluntly:"O, innocent Amy! I have found out that you write for The DailyExpress. Now, aren't you ashamed of yourself?""Why should I be ashamed of myself?" asked Gabriel, blinking hiseyes and trying to smile."Well, I'm ashamed of you," said Miss Ivors frankly. "To say you'dwrite for a paper like that. I didn't think you were a West Briton."A look of perplexity appeared on Gabriel's face. It was true that hewrote a literary column every Wednesday in The Daily Express,for which he was paid fifteen shillings. But that did not make hima West Briton surely. The books he received for review werealmost more welcome than the paltry cheque. He loved to feel thecovers and turn over the pages of newly printed books. Nearlyevery day when his teaching in the college was ended he used towander down the quays to the second-hand booksellers, toHickey's on Bachelor's Walk, to Web's or Massey's on Aston'sQuay, or to O'Clohissey's in the bystreet. He did not know how tomeet her charge. He wanted to say that literature was abovepolitics. But they were friends of many years' standing and theircareers had been parallel, first at the University and then asteachers: he could not risk a grandiose phrase with her. Hecontinued blinking his eyes and trying to smile and murmuredlamely that he saw nothing political in writing reviews of books.When their turn to cross had come he was still perplexed andinattentive. Miss Ivors promptly took his hand in a warm grasp andsaid in a soft friendly tone:"Of course, I was only joking. Come, we cross now."When they were together again she spoke of the Universityquestion and Gabriel felt more at ease. A friend of hers had shownher his review of Browning's poems. That was how she had foundout the secret: but she liked the review immensely. Then she saidsuddenly:"O, Mr. Conroy, will you come for an excursion to the Aran Islesthis summer? We're going to stay there a whole month. It will besplendid out in the Atlantic. You ought to come. Mr. Clancy iscoming, and Mr. Kilkelly and Kathleen Kearney. It would besplendid for Gretta too if she'd come. She's from Connacht, isn'tshe?""Her people are," said Gabriel shortly."But you will come, won't you?" said Miss Ivors, laying her armhand eagerly on his arm."The fact is," said Gabriel, "I have just arranged to go----""Go where?" asked Miss Ivors."Well, you know, every year I go for a cycling tour with somefellows and so----""But where?" asked Miss Ivors."Well, we usually go to France or Belgium or perhaps Germany,"said Gabriel awkwardly."And why do you go to France and Belgium," said Miss Ivors,"instead of visiting your own land?""Well," said Gabriel, "it's partly to keep in touch with thelanguages and partly for a change.""And haven't you your own language to keep in touch with --Irish?" asked Miss Ivors."Well," said Gabriel, "if it comes to that, you know, Irish is not mylanguage."Their neighbours had turned to listen to the cross- examination.Gabriel glanced right and left nervously and tried to keep his goodhumour under the ordeal which was making a blush invade hisforehead."And haven't you your own land to visit," continued Miss Ivors,"that you know nothing of, your own people, and your owncountry?""0, to tell you the truth," retorted Gabriel suddenly, "I'm sick of myown country, sick of it!""Why?" asked Miss Ivors.Gabriel did not answer for his retort had heated him."Why?" repeated Miss Ivors.They had to go visiting together and, as he had not answered her,Miss Ivors said warmly:"Of course, you've no answer."Gabriel tried to cover his agitation by taking part in the dance withgreat energy. He avoided her eyes for he had seen a sourexpression on her face. But when they met in the long chain hewas surprised to feel his hand firmly pressed. She looked at himfrom under her brows for a moment quizzically until he smiled.Then, just as the chain was about to start again, she stood on tiptoeand whispered into his ear:"West Briton!"When the lancers were over Gabriel went away to a remote cornerof the room where Freddy Malins' mother was sitting. She was astout feeble old woman with white hair. Her voice had a catch in itlike her son's and she stuttered slightly. She had been told thatFreddy had come and that he was nearly all right. Gabriel askedher whether she had had a good crossing. She lived with hermarried daughter in Glasgow and came to Dublin on a visit once ayear. She answered placidly that she had had a beautiful crossingand that the captain had been most attentive to her. She spoke alsoof the beautiful house her daughter kept in Glasgow, and of all thefriends they had there. While her tongue rambled on Gabriel triedto banish from his mind all memory of the unpleasant incidentwith Miss Ivors. Of course the girl or woman, or whatever she was,was an enthusiast but there was a time for all things. Perhaps heought not to have answered her like that. But she had no right tocall him a West Briton before people, even in joke. She had triedto make him ridiculous before people, heckling him and staring athim with her rabbit's eyes.He saw his wife making her way towards him through the waltzingcouples. When she reached him she said into his ear:"Gabriel. Aunt Kate wants to know won't you carve the goose asusual. Miss Daly will carve the ham and I'll do the pudding.""All right," said Gabriel."She's sending in the younger ones first as soon as this waltz isover so that we'll have the table to ourselves.""Were you dancing?" asked Gabriel."Of course I was. Didn't you see me? What row had you withMolly Ivors?""No row. Why? Did she say so?""Something like that. I'm trying to get that Mr. D'Arcy to sing. He'sfull of conceit, I think.""There was no row," said Gabriel moodily, "only she wanted me togo for a trip to the west of Ireland and I said I wouldn't."His wife clasped her hands excitedly and gave a little jump."O, do go, Gabriel," she cried. "I'd love to see Galway again.""You can go if you like," said Gabriel coldly.She looked at him for a moment, then turned to Mrs. Malins andsaid:"There's a nice husband for you, Mrs. Malins."While she was threading her way back across the room Mrs.Malins, without adverting to the interruption, went on to tellGabriel what beautiful places there were in Scotland and beautifulscenery. Her son-in-law brought them every year to the lakes andthey used to go fishing. Her son-in-law was a splendid fisher. Oneday he caught a beautiful big fish and the man in the hotel cookedit for their dinner.Gabriel hardly heard what she said. Now that supper was comingnear he began to think again about his speech and about thequotation. When he saw Freddy Malins coming across the room tovisit his mother Gabriel left the chair free for him and retired intothe embrasure of the window. The room had already cleared andfrom the back room came the clatter of plates and knives. Thosewho still remained in the drawing room seemed tired of dancingand were conversing quietly in little groups. Gabriel's warmtrembling fingers tapped the cold pane of the window. How cool itmust be outside! How pleasant it would be to walk out alone, firstalong by the river and then through the park! The snow would belying on the branches of the trees and forming a bright cap on thetop of the Wellington Monument. How much more pleasant itwould be there than at the supper-table!He ran over the headings of his speech: Irish hospitality, sadmemories, the Three Graces, Paris, the quotation from Browning.He repeated to himself a phrase he had written in his review: "Onefeels that one is listening to a thought- tormented music." MissIvors had praised the review. Was she sincere? Had she really anylife of her own behind all her propagandism? There had neverbeen any ill-feeling between them until that night. It unnerved himto think that she would be at the supper-table, looking up at himwhile he spoke with her critical quizzing eyes. Perhaps she wouldnot be sorry to see him fail in his speech. An idea came into hismind and gave him courage. He would say, alluding to Aunt Kateand Aunt Julia: "Ladies and Gentlemen, the generation which isnow on the wane among us may have had its faults but for my partI think it had certain qualities of hospitality, of humour, ofhumanity, which the new and very serious and hypereducatedgeneration that is growing up around us seems to me to lack." Verygood: that was one for Miss Ivors. What did he care that his auntswere only two ignorant old women?A murmur in the room attracted his attention. Mr. Browne wasadvancing from the door, gallantly escorting Aunt Julia, wholeaned upon his arm, smiling and hanging her head. An irregularmusketry of applause escorted her also as far as the piano andthen, as Mary Jane seated herself on the stool, and Aunt Julia, nolonger smiling, half turned so as to pitch her voice fairly into theroom, gradually ceased. Gabriel recognised the prelude. It was thatof an old song of Aunt Julia's -- Arrayed for the Bridal. Her voice,strong and clear in tone, attacked with great spirit the runs whichembellish the air and though she sang very rapidly she did not misseven the smallest of the grace notes. To follow the voice, withoutlooking at the singer's face, was to feel and share the excitement ofswift and secure flight. Gabriel applauded loudly with all theothers at the close of the song and loud applause was borne infrom the invisible supper-table. It sounded so genuine that a littlecolour struggled into Aunt Julia's face as she bent to replace in themusic-stand the old leather-bound songbook that had her initialson the cover. Freddy Malins, who had listened with his headperched sideways to hear her better, was still applauding wheneveryone else had ceased and talking animatedly to his motherwho nodded her head gravely and slowly in acquiescence. At last,when he could clap no more, he stood up suddenly and hurriedacross the room to Aunt Julia whose hand he seized and held inboth his hands, shaking it when words failed him or the catch inhis voice proved too much for him."I was just telling my mother," he said, "I never heard you sing sowell, never. No, I never heard your voice so good as it is tonight.Now! Would you believe that now? That's the truth. Upon myword and honour that's the truth. I never heard your voice sound sofresh and so... so clear and fresh, never."Aunt Julia smiled broadly and murmured something aboutcompliments as she released her hand from his grasp. Mr. Browneextended his open hand towards her and said to those who werenear him in the manner of a showman introducing a prodigy to anaudience:"Miss Julia Morkan, my latest discovery!"He was laughing very heartily at this himself when Freddy Malinsturned to him and said:"Well, Browne, if you're serious you might make a worsediscovery. All I can say is I never heard her sing half so well aslong as I am coming here. And that's the honest truth.""Neither did I," said Mr. Browne. "I think her voice has greatlyimproved."Aunt Julia shrugged her shoulders and said with meek pride:"Thirty years ago I hadn't a bad voice as voices go.""I often told Julia," said Aunt Kate emphatically, "that she wassimply thrown away in that choir. But she never would be said byme."She turned as if to appeal to the good sense of the others against arefractory child while Aunt Julia gazed in front of her, a vaguesmile of reminiscence playing on her face."No," continued Aunt Kate, "she wouldn't be said or led by anyone,slaving there in that choir night and day, night and day. Six o'clockon Christmas morning! And all for what?""Well, isn't it for the honour of God, Aunt Kate?" asked Mary Jane,twisting round on the piano-stool and smiling.Aunt Kate turned fiercely on her niece and said:"I know all about the honour of God, Mary Jane, but I think it's notat all honourable for the pope to turn out the women out of thechoirs that have slaved there all their lives and put littlewhipper-snappers of boys over their heads. I suppose it is for thegood of the Church if the pope does it. But it's not just, Mary Jane,and it's not right."She had worked herself into a passion and would have continuedin defence of her sister for it was a sore subject with her but MaryJane, seeing that all the dancers had come back, intervenedpacifically:"Now, Aunt Kate, you're giving scandal to Mr. Browne who is ofthe other persuasion."Aunt Kate turned to Mr. Browne, who was grinning at this allusionto his religion, and said hastily:"O, I don't question the pope's being right. I'm only a stupid oldwoman and I wouldn't presume to do such a thing. But there's sucha thing as common everyday politeness and gratitude. And if Iwere in Julia's place I'd tell that Father Healey straight up to hisface...""And besides, Aunt Kate," said Mary Jane, "we really are allhungry and when we are hungry we are all very quarrelsome.""And when we are thirsty we are also quarrelsome," added Mr.Browne."So that we had better go to supper," said Mary Jane, "and finishthe discussion afterwards."On the landing outside the drawing-room Gabriel found his wifeand Mary Jane trying to persuade Miss Ivors to stay for supper. ButMiss Ivors, who had put on her hat and was buttoning her cloak,would not stay. She did not feel in the least hungry and she hadalready overstayed her time."But only for ten minutes, Molly," said Mrs. Conroy. "That won'tdelay you.""To take a pick itself," said Mary Jane, "after all your dancing.""I really couldn't," said Miss Ivors."I am afraid you didn't enjoy yourself at all," said Mary Janehopelessly."Ever so much, I assure you," said Miss Ivors, "but you really mustlet me run off now.""But how can you get home?" asked Mrs. Conroy."O, it's only two steps up the quay."Gabriel hesitated a moment and said:"If you will allow me, Miss Ivors, I'll see you home if you arereally obliged to go."But Miss Ivors broke away from them."I won't hear of it," she cried. "For goodness' sake go in to yoursuppers and don't mind me. I'm quite well able to take care ofmyself.""Well, you're the comical girl, Molly," said Mrs. Conroy frankly."Beannacht libh," cried Miss Ivors, with a laugh, as she ran downthe staircase.Mary Jane gazed after her, a moody puzzled expression on herface, while Mrs. Conroy leaned over the banisters to listen for thehall-door. Gabriel asked himself was he the cause of her abruptdeparture. But she did not seem to be in ill humour: she had goneaway laughing. He stared blankly down the staircase.At the moment Aunt Kate came toddling out of the supper-room,almost wringing her hands in despair."Where is Gabriel?" she cried. "Where on earth is Gabriel? There'severyone waiting in there, stage to let, and nobody to carve thegoose!""Here I am, Aunt Kate!" cried Gabriel, with sudden animation,"ready to carve a flock of geese, if necessary."A fat brown goose lay at one end of the table and at the other end,on a bed of creased paper strewn with sprigs of parsley, lay a greatham, stripped of its outer skin and peppered over with crustcrumbs, a neat paper frill round its shin and beside this was around of spiced beef. Between these rival ends ran parallel lines ofside-dishes: two little minsters of jelly, red and yellow; a shallowdish full of blocks of blancmange and red jam, a large greenleaf-shaped dish with a stalk-shaped handle, on which lay bunchesof purple raisins and peeled almonds, a companion dish on whichlay a solid rectangle of Smyrna figs, a dish of custard topped withgrated nutmeg, a small bowl full of chocolates and sweets wrappedin gold and silver papers and a glass vase in which stood some tallcelery stalks. In the centre of the table there stood, as sentries to afruit-stand which upheld a pyramid of oranges and Americanapples, two squat old-fashioned decanters of cut glass, onecontaining port and the other dark sherry. On the closed squarepiano a pudding in a huge yellow dish lay in waiting and behind itwere three squads of bottles of stout and ale and minerals, drawnup according to the colours of their uniforms, the first two black,with brown and red labels, the third and smallest squad white, withtransverse green sashes.Gabriel took his seat boldly at the head of the table and, havinglooked to the edge of the carver, plunged his fork firmly into thegoose. He felt quite at ease now for he was an expert carver andliked nothing better than to find himself at the head of a well-ladentable."Miss Furlong, what shall I send you?" he asked. "A wing or a sliceof the breast?""Just a small slice of the breast.""Miss Higgins, what for you?""O, anything at all, Mr. Conroy."While Gabriel and Miss Daly exchanged plates of goose and platesof ham and spiced beef Lily went from guest to guest with a dishof hot floury potatoes wrapped in a white napkin. This was MaryJane's idea and she had also suggested apple sauce for the goosebut Aunt Kate had said that plain roast goose without any applesauce had always been good enough for her and she hoped shemight never eat worse. Mary Jane waited on her pupils and sawthat they got the best slices and Aunt Kate and Aunt Julia openedand carried across from the piano bottles of stout and ale for thegentlemen and bottles of minerals for the ladies. There was a greatdeal of confusion and laughter and noise, the noise of orders andcounter-orders, of knives and forks, of corks and glass-stoppers.Gabriel began to carve second helpings as soon as he had finishedthe first round without serving himself. Everyone protested loudlyso that he compromised by taking a long draught of stout for hehad found the carving hot work. Mary Jane settled down quietly toher supper but Aunt Kate and Aunt Julia were still toddling roundthe table, walking on each other's heels, getting in each other's wayand giving each other unheeded orders. Mr. Browne begged ofthem to sit down and eat their suppers and so did Gabriel but theysaid there was time enough, so that, at last, Freddy Malins stood upand, capturing Aunt Kate, plumped her down on her chair amidgeneral laughter.When everyone had been well served Gabriel said, smiling:"Now, if anyone wants a little more of what vulgar people callstuffing let him or her speak."A chorus of voices invited him to begin his own supper and Lilycame forward with three potatoes which she had reserved for him."Very well," said Gabriel amiably, as he took another preparatorydraught, "kindly forget my existence, ladies and gentlemen, for afew minutes."He set to his supper and took no part in the conversation withwhich the table covered Lily's removal of the plates. The subject oftalk was the opera company which was then at the Theatre Royal.Mr. Bartell D'Arcy, the tenor, a dark- complexioned young manwith a smart moustache, praised very highly the leading contraltoof the company but Miss Furlong thought she had a rather vulgarstyle of production. Freddy Malins said there was a Negrochieftain singing in the second part of the Gaiety pantomime whohad one of the finest tenor voices he had ever heard."Have you heard him?" he asked Mr. Bartell D'Arcy across thetable."No," answered Mr. Bartell D'Arcy carelessly."Because," Freddy Malins explained, "now I'd be curious to hearyour opinion of him. I think he has a grand voice.""It takes Teddy to find out the really good things," said Mr.Browne familiarly to the table."And why couldn't he have a voice too?" asked Freddy Malinssharply. "Is it because he's only a black?"Nobody answered this question and Mary Jane led the table backto the legitimate opera. One of her pupils had given her a pass forMignon. Of course it was very fine, she said, but it made her thinkof poor Georgina Burns. Mr. Browne could go back farther still, tothe old Italian companies that used to come to Dublin -- Tietjens,Ilma de Murzka, Campanini, the great Trebelli, Giuglini, Ravelli,Aramburo. Those were the days, he said, when there wassomething like singing to be heard in Dublin. He told too of howthe top gallery of the old Royal used to be packed night after night,of how one night an Italian tenor had sung five encores to Let melike a Soldier fall, introducing a high C every time, and of how thegallery boys would sometimes in their enthusiasm unyoke thehorses from the carriage of some great prima donna and pull herthemselves through the streets to her hotel. Why did they neverplay the grand old operas now, he asked, Dinorah, LucreziaBorgia? Because they could not get the voices to sing them: thatwas why."Oh, well," said Mr. Bartell D'Arcy, "I presume there are as goodsingers today as there were then.""Where are they?" asked Mr. Browne defiantly."In London, Paris, Milan," said Mr. Bartell D'Arcy warmly. "Isuppose Caruso, for example, is quite as good, if not better thanany of the men you have mentioned.""Maybe so," said Mr. Browne. "But I may tell you I doubt itstrongly.""O, I'd give anything to hear Caruso sing," said Mary Jane."For me," said Aunt Kate, who had been picking a bone, "therewas only one tenor. To please me, I mean. But I suppose none ofyou ever heard of him.""Who was he, Miss Morkan?" asked Mr. Bartell D'Arcy politely."His name," said Aunt Kate, "was Parkinson. I heard him when hewas in his prime and I think he had then the purest tenor voice thatwas ever put into a man's throat.""Strange," said Mr. Bartell D'Arcy. "I never even heard of him.""Yes, yes, Miss Morkan is right," said Mr. Browne. "I rememberhearing of old Parkinson but he's too far back for me.""A beautiful, pure, sweet, mellow English tenor," said Aunt Katewith enthusiasm.Gabriel having finished, the huge pudding was transferred to thetable. The clatter of forks and spoons began again. Gabriel's wifeserved out spoonfuls of the pudding and passed the plates downthe table. Midway down they were held up by Mary Jane, whoreplenished them with raspberry or orange jelly or withblancmange and jam. The pudding was of Aunt Julia's making andshe received praises for it from all quarters She herself said that itwas not quite brown enough."Well, I hope, Miss Morkan," said Mr. Browne, "that I'm brownenough for you because, you know, I'm all brown."All the gentlemen, except Gabriel, ate some of the pudding out ofcompliment to Aunt Julia. As Gabriel never ate sweets the celeryhad been left for him. Freddy Malins also took a stalk of celery andate it with his pudding. He had been told that celery was a capitalthing for the blood and he was just then under doctor's care. Mrs.Malins, who had been silent all through the supper, said that herson was going down to Mount Melleray in a week or so. The tablethen spoke of Mount Melleray, how bracing the air was downthere, how hospitable the monks were and how they never askedfor a penny-piece from their guests."And do you mean to say," asked Mr. Browne incredulously, "thata chap can go down there and put up there as if it were a hotel andlive on the fat of the land and then come away without payinganything?""O, most people give some donation to the monastery when theyleave." said Mary Jane."I wish we had an institution like that in our Church," said Mr.Browne candidly.He was astonished to hear that the monks never spoke, got up attwo in the morning and slept in their coffins. He asked what theydid it for."That's the rule of the order," said Aunt Kate firmly."Yes, but why?" asked Mr. Browne.Aunt Kate repeated that it was the rule, that was all. Mr. Brownestill seemed not to understand. Freddy Malins explained to him, asbest he could, that the monks were trying to make up for the sinscommitted by all the sinners in the outside world. The explanationwas not very clear for Mr. Browne grinned and said:"I like that idea very much but wouldn't a comfortable spring beddo them as well as a coffin?""The coffin," said Mary Jane, "is to remind them of their last end."As the subject had grown lugubrious it was buried in a silence ofthe table during which Mrs. Malins could be heard saying to herneighbour in an indistinct undertone:"They are very good men, the monks, very pious men."The raisins and almonds and figs and apples and oranges andchocolates and sweets were now passed about the table and AuntJulia invited all the guests to have either port or sherry. At first Mr.Bartell D'Arcy refused to take either but one of his neighboursnudged him and whispered something to him upon which heallowed his glass to be filled. Gradually as the last glasses werebeing filled the conversation ceased. A pause followed, brokenonly by the noise of the wine and by unsettlings of chairs. TheMisses Morkan, all three, looked down at the tablecloth. Someonecoughed once or twice and then a few gentlemen patted the tablegently as a signal for silence. The silence came and Gabriel pushedback his chairThe patting at once grew louder in encouragement and then ceasedaltogether. Gabriel leaned his ten trembling fingers on thetablecloth and smiled nervously at the company. Meeting a row ofupturned faces he raised his eyes to the chandelier. The piano wasplaying a waltz tune and he could hear the skirts sweeping againstthe drawing-room door. People, perhaps, were standing in thesnow on the quay outside, gazing up at the lighted windows andlistening to the waltz music. The air was pure there. In the distancelay the park where the trees were weighted with snow. TheWellington Monument wore a gleaming cap of snow that flashedwestward over the white field of Fifteen Acres.He began:"Ladies and Gentlemen,"It has fallen to my lot this evening, as in years past, to perform avery pleasing task but a task for which I am afraid my poor powersas a speaker are all too inadequate.""No, no!" said Mr. Browne."But, however that may be, I can only ask you tonight to take thewill for the deed and to lend me your attention for a few momentswhile I endeavour to express to you in words what my feelings areon this occasion."Ladies and Gentlemen, it is not the first time that we havegathered together under this hospitable roof, around this hospitableboard. It is not the first time that we have been the recipients -- orperhaps, I had better say, the victims -- of the hospitality of certaingood ladies."He made a circle in the air with his arm and paused. Everyonelaughed or smiled at Aunt Kate and Aunt Julia and Mary Jane whoall turned crimson with pleasure. Gabriel went on more boldly:"I feel more strongly with every recurring year that our country hasno tradition which does it so much honour and which it shouldguard so jealously as that of its hospitality. It is a tradition that isunique as far as my experience goes (and I have visited not a fewplaces abroad) among the modern nations. Some would say,perhaps, that with us it is rather a failing than anything to beboasted of. But granted even that, it is, to my mind, a princelyfailing, and one that I trust will long be cultivated among us. Ofone thing, at least, I am sure. As long as this one roof shelters thegood ladies aforesaid -- and I wish from my heart it may do so formany and many a long year to come -- the tradition of genuinewarm-hearted courteous Irish hospitality, which our forefathershave handed down to us and which we in turn must hand down toour descendants, is still alive among us."A hearty murmur of assent ran round the table. It shot throughGabriel's mind that Miss Ivors was not there and that she had goneaway discourteously: and he said with confidence in himself:"Ladies and Gentlemen,"A new generation is growing up in our midst, a generationactuated by new ideas and new principles. It is serious andenthusiastic for these new ideas and its enthusiasm, even when it ismisdirected, is, I believe, in the main sincere. But we are living ina sceptical and, if I may use the phrase, a thought-tormented age:and sometimes I fear that this new generation, educated orhypereducated as it is, will lack those qualities of humanity, ofhospitality, of kindly humour which belonged to an older day.Listening tonight to the names of all those great singers of the pastit seemed to me, I must confess, that we were living in a lessspacious age. Those days might, without exaggeration, be calledspacious days: and if they are gone beyond recall let us hope, atleast, that in gatherings such as this we shall still speak of themwith pride and affection, still cherish in our hearts the memory ofthose dead and gone great ones whose fame the world will notwillingly let die.""Hear, hear!" said Mr. Browne loudly."But yet," continued Gabriel, his voice falling into a softerinflection, "there are always in gatherings such as this sadderthoughts that will recur to our minds: thoughts of the past, ofyouth, of changes, of absent faces that we miss here tonight. Ourpath through life is strewn with many such sad memories: andwere we to brood upon them always we could not find the heart togo on bravely with our work among the living. We have all of usliving duties and living affections which claim, and rightly claim,our strenuous endeavours."Therefore, I will not linger on the past. I will not let any gloomymoralising intrude upon us here tonight. Here we are gatheredtogether for a brief moment from the bustle and rush of oureveryday routine. We are met here as friends, in the spirit ofgood-fellowship, as colleagues, also to a certain extent, in the truespirit of camaraderie, and as the guests of -- what shall I call them?-- the Three Graces of the Dublin musical world."The table burst into applause and laughter at this allusion. AuntJulia vainly asked each of her neighbours in turn to tell her whatGabriel had said."He says we are the Three Graces, Aunt Julia," said Mary Jane.Aunt Julia did not understand but she looked up, smiling, atGabriel, who continued in the same vein:"Ladies and Gentlemen,"I will not attempt to play tonight the part that Paris played onanother occasion. I will not attempt to choose between them. Thetask would be an invidious one and one beyond my poor powers.For when I view them in turn, whether it be our chief hostessherself, whose good heart, whose too good heart, has become abyword with all who know her, or her sister, who seems to begifted with perennial youth and whose singing must have been asurprise and a revelation to us all tonight, or, last but not least,when I consider our youngest hostess, talented, cheerful,hard-working and the best of nieces, I confess, Ladies andGentlemen, that I do not know to which of them I should award theprize."Gabriel glanced down at his aunts and, seeing the large smile onAunt Julia's face and the tears which had risen to Aunt Kate's eyes,hastened to his close. He raised his glass of port gallantly, whileevery member of the company fingered a glass expectantly, andsaid loudly:"Let us toast them all three together. Let us drink to their health,wealth, long life, happiness and prosperity and may they longcontinue to hold the proud and self-won position which they holdin their profession and the position of honour and affection whichthey hold in our hearts."All the guests stood up, glass in hand, and turning towards thethree seated ladies, sang in unison, with Mr. Browne as leader:For they are jolly gay fellows,For they are jolly gay fellows,For they are jolly gay fellows,Which nobody can deny.Aunt Kate was making frank use of her handkerchief and evenAunt Julia seemed moved. Freddy Malins beat time with hispudding-fork and the singers turned towards one another, as if inmelodious conference, while they sang with emphasis:Unless he tells a lie,Unless he tells a lie,Then, turning once more towards their hostesses, they sang:For they are jolly gay fellows,For they are jolly gay fellows,For they are jolly gay fellows,Which nobody can deny.The acclamation which followed was taken up beyond the door ofthe supper-room by many of the other guests and renewed timeafter time, Freddy Malins acting as officer with his fork on high. The piercing morning air came into the hall where they werestanding so that Aunt Kate said:"Close the door, somebody. Mrs. Malins will get her death ofcold.""Browne is out there, Aunt Kate," said Mary Jane."Browne is everywhere," said Aunt Kate, lowering her voice.Mary Jane laughed at her tone."Really," she said archly, "he is very attentive.""He has been laid on here like the gas," said Aunt Kate in the sametone, "all during the Christmas."She laughed herself this time good-humouredly and then addedquickly:"But tell him to come in, Mary Jane, and close the door. I hope togoodness he didn't hear me."At that moment the hall-door was opened and Mr. Browne came infrom the doorstep, laughing as if his heart would break. He wasdressed in a long green overcoat with mock astrakhan cuffs andcollar and wore on his head an oval fur cap. He pointed down thesnow-covered quay from where the sound of shrill prolongedwhistling was borne in."Teddy will have all the cabs in Dublin out," he said.Gabriel advanced from the little pantry behind the office,struggling into his overcoat and, looking round the hall, said:"Gretta not down yet?""She's getting on her things, Gabriel," said Aunt Kate."Who's playing up there?" asked Gabriel."Nobody. They're all gone.""O no, Aunt Kate," said Mary Jane. "Bartell D'Arcy and MissO'Callaghan aren't gone yet.""Someone is fooling at the piano anyhow," said Gabriel.Mary Jane glanced at Gabriel and Mr. Browne and said with ashiver:"It makes me feel cold to look at you two gentlemen muffled uplike that. I wouldn't like to face your journey home at this hour.""I'd like nothing better this minute," said Mr. Browne stoutly, "thana rattling fine walk in the country or a fast drive with a goodspanking goer between the shafts.""We used to have a very good horse and trap at home," said AuntJulia sadly."The never-to-be-forgotten Johnny," said Mary Jane, laughing.Aunt Kate and Gabriel laughed too."Why, what was wonderful about Johnny?" asked Mr. Browne."The late lamented Patrick Morkan, our grandfather, that is,"explained Gabriel, "commonly known in his later years as the oldgentleman, was a glue-boiler.""O, now, Gabriel," said Aunt Kate, laughing, "he had a starchmill.""Well, glue or starch," said Gabriel, "the old gentleman had a horseby the name of Johnny. And Johnny used to work in the oldgentleman's mill, walking round and round in order to drive themill. That was all very well; but now comes the tragic part aboutJohnny. One fine day the old gentleman thought he'd like to driveout with the quality to a military review in the park.""The Lord have mercy on his soul," said Aunt Katecompassionately."Amen," said Gabriel. "So the old gentleman, as I said, harnessedJohnny and put on his very best tall hat and his very best stockcollar and drove out in grand style from his ancestral mansionsomewhere near Back Lane, I think."Everyone laughed, even Mrs. Malins, at Gabriel's manner and AuntKate said:"O, now, Gabriel, he didn't live in Back Lane, really. Only the millwas there.""Out from the mansion of his forefathers," continued Gabriel, "hedrove with Johnny. And everything went on beautifully untilJohnny came in sight of King Billy's statue: and whether he fell inlove with the horse King Billy sits on or whether he thought hewas back again in the mill, anyhow he began to walk round thestatue."Gabriel paced in a circle round the hall in his goloshes amid thelaughter of the others."Round and round he went," said Gabriel, "and the old gentleman,who was a very pompous old gentleman, was highly indignant. 'Goon, sir! What do you mean, sir? Johnny! Johnny! Mostextraordinary conduct! Can't understand the horse!"The peal of laughter which followed Gabriel's imitation of theincident was interrupted by a resounding knock at the hall door.Mary Jane ran to open it and let in Freddy Malins. Freddy Malins,with his hat well back on his head and his shoulders humped withcold, was puffing and steaming after his exertions."I could only get one cab," he said."O, we'll find another along the quay," said Gabriel."Yes," said Aunt Kate. "Better not keep Mrs. Malins standing inthe draught."Mrs. Malins was helped down the front steps by her son and Mr.Browne and, after many manoeuvres, hoisted into the cab. FreddyMalins clambered in after her and spent a long time settling her onthe seat, Mr. Browne helping him with advice. At last she wassettled comfortably and Freddy Malins invited Mr. Browne into thecab. There was a good deal of confused talk, and then Mr. Brownegot into the cab. The cabman settled his rug over his knees, andbent down for the address. The confusion grew greater and thecabman was directed differently by Freddy Malins and Mr.Browne, each of whom had his head out through a window of thecab. The difficulty was to know where to drop Mr. Browne alongthe route, and Aunt Kate, Aunt Julia and Mary Jane helped thediscussion from the doorstep with cross-directions andcontradictions and abundance of laughter. As for Freddy Malins hewas speechless with laughter. He popped his head in and out of thewindow every moment to the great danger of his hat, and told hismother how the discussion was progressing, till at last Mr. Browneshouted to the bewildered cabman above the din of everybody'slaughter:"Do you know Trinity College?""Yes, sir," said the cabman."Well, drive bang up against Trinity College gates," said Mr.Browne, "and then we'll tell you where to go. You understandnow?""Yes, sir," said the cabman."Make like a bird for Trinity College.""Right, sir," said the cabman.The horse was whipped up and the cab rattled off along the quayamid a chorus of laughter and adieus.Gabriel had not gone to the door with the others. He was in a darkpart of the hall gazing up the staircase. A woman was standingnear the top of the first flight, in the shadow also. He could not seeher face but he could see the terra-cotta and salmon-pink panels ofher skirt which the shadow made appear black and white. It washis wife. She was leaning on the banisters, listening to something.Gabriel was surprised at her stillness and strained his ear to listenalso. But he could hear little save the noise of laughter and disputeon the front steps, a few chords struck on the piano and a fewnotes of a man's voice singing.He stood still in the gloom of the hall, trying to catch the air thatthe voice was singing and gazing up at his wife. There was graceand mystery in her attitude as if she were a symbol of something.He asked himself what is a woman standing on the stairs in theshadow, listening to distant music, a symbol of. If he were apainter he would paint her in that attitude. Her blue felt hat wouldshow off the bronze of her hair against the darkness and the darkpanels of her skirt would show off the light ones. Distant Music hewould call the picture if he were a painter.The hall-door was closed; and Aunt Kate, Aunt Julia and MaryJane 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 hiswife was standing. Now that the hall-door was closed the voiceand the piano could be heard more clearly. Gabriel held up hishand for them to be silent. The song seemed to be in the old Irishtonality and the singer seemed uncertain both of his words and ofhis voice. The voice, made plaintive by distance and by the singer'shoarseness, faintly illuminated the cadence of the air with wordsexpressing grief:O, the rain falls on my heavy locksAnd the dew wets my skin,My babe lies cold..."O," exclaimed Mary Jane. "It's Bartell D'Arcy singing and hewouldn't sing all the night. O, I'll get him to sing a song before hegoes.""O, do, Mary Jane," said Aunt Kate.Mary Jane brushed past the others and ran to the staircase, butbefore she reached it the singing stopped and the piano was closedabruptly."O, what a pity!" she cried. "Is he coming down, Gretta?"Gabriel heard his wife answer yes and saw her come down towardsthem. A few steps behind her were Mr. Bartell D'Arcy and MissO'Callaghan."O, Mr. D'Arcy," cried Mary Jane, "it's downright mean of you tobreak off like that when we were all in raptures listening to you.""I have been at him all the evening," said Miss O'Callaghan, "andMrs. Conroy, too, and he told us he had a dreadful cold andcouldn'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'Arcyroughly.He went into the pantry hastily and put on his overcoat. The others,taken aback by his rude speech, could find nothing to say. AuntKate wrinkled her brows and made signs to the others to drop thesubject. Mr. D'Arcy stood swathing his neck carefully andfrowning."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 thirtyyears; and I read this morning in the newspapers that the snow isgeneral 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 reallyChristmas 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, andin a repentant tone told them the history of his cold. Everyone gavehim advice and said it was a great pity and urged him to be verycareful of his throat in the night air. Gabriel watched his wife, whodid not join in the conversation. She was standing right under thedusty fanlight and the flame of the gas lit up the rich bronze of herhair, 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 abouther At last she turned towards them and Gabriel saw that there wascolour on her cheeks and that her eyes were shining. A sudden tideof joy went leaping out of his heart."Mr. D'Arcy," she said, "what is the name of that song you weresinging?""It's called The Lass of Aughrim," said Mr. D'Arcy, "but I couldn'tremember it properly. Why? Do you know it?""The Lass of Aughrim," she repeated. "I couldn't think of thename.""It's a very nice air," said Mary Jane. "I'm sorry you were not invoice tonight.""Now, Mary Jane," said Aunt Kate, "don't annoy Mr. D'Arcy. Iwon'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 pleasantevening.""Good-night, Gabriel. Good-night, Gretta!""Good-night, Aunt Kate, and thanks ever so much. Goodnight,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 thehouses and the river; and the sky seemed to be descending. It wasslushy underfoot; and only streaks and patches of snow lay on theroofs, on the parapets of the quay and on the area railings. Thelamps were still burning redly in the murky air and, across theriver, the palace of the Four Courts stood out menacingly againstthe heavy sky.She was walking on before him with Mr. Bartell D'Arcy, her shoesin a brown parcel tucked under one arm and her hands holding herskirt up from the slush. She had no longer any grace of attitude,but Gabriel's eyes were still bright with happiness. The blood wentbounding along his veins; and the thoughts went rioting throughhis brain, proud, joyful, tender, valorous.She was walking on before him so lightly and so erect that helonged to run after her noiselessly, catch her by the shoulders andsay something foolish and affectionate into her ear. She seemed tohim so frail that he longed to defend her against something andthen to be alone with her. Moments of their secret life togetherburst like stars upon his memory. A heliotrope envelope was lyingbeside his breakfast-cup and he was caressing it with his hand.Birds were twittering in the ivy and the sunny web of the curtainwas shimmering along the floor: he could not eat for happiness.They were standing on the crowded platform and he was placing aticket inside the warm palm of her glove. He was standing with herin the cold, looking in through a grated window at a man makingbottles in a roaring furnace. It was very cold. Her face, fragrant inthe cold air, was quite close to his; and suddenly he called out tothe man at the furnace:"Is the fire hot, sir?"But the man could not hear with the noise of the furnace. It wasjust as well. He might have answered rudely.A wave of yet more tender joy escaped from his heart and wentcoursing in warm flood along his arteries. Like the tender fire ofstars moments of their life together, that no one knew f or wouldever know of, broke upon and illumined his memory. He longed torecall to her those moments, to make her forget the years of theirdull existence together and remember only their moments ofecstasy. For the years, he felt, had not quenched his soul or hers.Their children, his writing, her household cares had not quenchedall their souls' tender fire. In one letter that he had written to herthen he had said: "Why is it that words like these seem to me sodull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to beyour name?"Like distant music these words that he had written years beforewere borne towards him from the past. He longed to be alone withher. When the others had gone away, when he and she were in theroom in the hotel, then they would be alone together. He wouldcall 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 andlook at him....At the corner of Winetavern Street they met a cab. He was glad ofits rattling noise as it saved him from conversation. She waslooking out of the window and seemed tired. The others spokeonly a few words, pointing out some building or street. The horsegalloped along wearily under the murky morning sky, dragging hisold rattling box after his heels, and Gabriel was again in a cab withher, 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 awhite 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. Thenhe 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, inspite of Mr. Bartell D'Arcy's protest, paid the driver. He gave theman 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 andwhile standing at the curbstone, bidding the others good- night.She leaned lightly on his arm, as lightly as when she had dancedwith him a few hours before. He had felt proud and happy then,happy that she was his, proud of her grace and wifely carriage. Butnow, after the kindling again of so many memories, the first touchof her body, musical and strange and perfumed, sent through him akeen pang of lust. Under cover of her silence he pressed her armclosely to his side; and, as they stood at the hotel door, he felt thatthey had escaped from their lives and duties, escaped from homeand friends and run away together with wild and radiant hearts to anew adventure.An old man was dozing in a great hooded chair in the hall. He lit acandle in the office and went before them to the stairs. Theyfollowed him in silence, their feet falling in soft thuds on thethickly carpeted stairs. She mounted the stairs behind the porter,her head bowed in the ascent, her frail shoulders curved as with aburden, her skirt girt tightly about her. He could have flung hisarms about her hips and held her still, for his arms were tremblingwith desire to seize her and only the stress of his nails against thepalms of his hands held the wild impulse of his body in check. Theporter halted on the stairs to settle his guttering candle. Theyhalted, too, on the steps below him. In the silence Gabriel couldhear the falling of the molten wax into the tray and the thumpingof his own heart against his ribs.The porter led them along a corridor and opened a door. Then heset his unstable candle down on a toilet-table and asked at whathour they were to be called in the morning."Eight," said Gabriel.The porter pointed to the tap of the electric-light and began amuttered 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 removethat handsome article, like a good man."The porter took up his candle again, but slowly, for he wassurprised by such a novel idea. Then he mumbled good-night andwent out. Gabriel shot the lock to.A ghastly light from the street lamp lay in a long shaft from onewindow to the door. Gabriel threw his overcoat and hat on a couchand crossed the room towards the window. He looked down intothe street in order that his emotion might calm a little. Then heturned and leaned against a chest of drawers with his back to thelight. She had taken off her hat and cloak and was standing beforea large swinging mirror, unhooking her waist. Gabriel paused for afew moments, watching her, and then said:"Gretta! "She turned away from the mirror slowly and walked along theshaft of light towards him. Her face looked so serious and wearythat the words would not pass Gabriel's lips. No, it was not themoment 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. Gabrielwaited again and then, fearing that diffidence was about toconquer 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, he's a decent sort of chap, after all," continuedGabriel in a false voice. "He gave me back that sovereign I lenthim, and I didn't expect it, really. It's a pity he wouldn't keep awayfrom that Browne, because he's not a bad fellow, really."He was trembling now with annoyance. Why did she seem soabstracted? He did not know how he could begin. Was sheannoyed, too, about something? If she would only turn to him orcome to him of her own accord! To take her as she was would bebrutal. No, he must see some ardour in her eyes first. He longed tobe 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 brutallanguage about the sottish Malins and his pound. He longed to cryto her from his soul, to crush her body against his, to overmasterher. But he said:"O, at Christmas, when he opened that little Christmas-card shopin Henry Street."He was in such a fever of rage and desire that he did not hear hercome from the window. She stood before him for an instant,looking at him strangely. Then, suddenly raising herself on tiptoeand 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 thequaintness of her phrase, put his hands on her hair and begansmoothing it back, scarcely touching it with his fingers. Thewashing had made it fine and brilliant. His heart was brimmingover with happiness. Just when he was wishing for it she had cometo him of her own accord. Perhaps her thoughts had been runningwith his. Perhaps she had felt the impetuous desire that was inhim, and then the yielding mood had come upon her. Now that shehad fallen to him so easily, he wondered why he had been sodiffident.He stood, holding her head between his hands. Then, slipping onearm swiftly about her body and drawing her towards him, he saidsoftly:"Gretta, dear, what are you thinking about?"She did not answer nor yield wholly to his arm. He said again,softly:"Tell me what it is, Gretta. I think I know what is the matter. Do Iknow?"She did not answer at once. Then she said in an outburst of tears:"O, I am thinking about that song, The Lass of Aughrim."She broke loose from him and ran to the bed and, throwing herarms across the bed-rail, hid her face. Gabriel stood stockstill for amoment in astonishment and then followed her. As he passed inthe way of the cheval-glass he caught sight of himself in fulllength, his broad, well-filled shirt-front, the face whose expressionalways puzzled him when he saw it in a mirror, and hisglimmering gilt-rimmed eyeglasses. He halted a few paces fromher and said:"What about the song? Why does that make you cry?"She raised her head from her arms and dried her eyes with theback of her hand like a child. A kinder note than he had intendedwent into his voice."Why, Gretta?" he asked."I am thinking about a person long ago who used to sing thatsong.""And who was the person long ago?" asked Gabriel, smiling."It was a person I used to know in Galway when I was living withmy grandmother," she said.The smile passed away from Gabriel's face. A dull anger began togather again at the back of his mind and the dull fires of his lustbegan to glow angrily in his veins."Someone you were in love with?" he asked ironically."It was a young boy I used to know," she answered, "namedMichael Furey. He used to sing that song, The Lass of Aughrim.He was very delicate."Gabriel was silent. He did not wish her to think that he wasinterested in this delicate boy."I can see him so plainly," she said, after a moment. "Such eyes ashe had: big, dark eyes! And such an expression in them -- anexpression!""O, then, you are in love with him?" said Gabriel."I used to go out walking with him," she said, "when I was inGalway."A thought flew across Gabriel's mind."Perhaps that was why you wanted to go to Galway with that Ivorsgirl?" he said coldly.She looked at him and asked in surprise:"What for?"Her eyes made Gabriel feel awkward. He shrugged his shouldersand said:"How do I know? To see him, perhaps."She looked away from him along the shaft of light towards thewindow in silence."He is dead," she said at length. "He died when he was onlyseventeen. Isn't it a terrible thing to die so young as that?""What was he?" asked Gabriel, still ironically."He was in the gasworks," she said.Gabriel felt humiliated by the failure of his irony and by theevocation of this figure from the dead, a boy in the gasworks.While he had been full of memories of their secret life together,full of tenderness and joy and desire, she had been comparing himin her mind with another. A shameful consciousness of his ownperson assailed him. He saw himself as a ludicrous figure, actingas a pennyboy for his aunts, a nervous, well-meaningsentimentalist, orating to vulgarians and idealising his ownclownish lusts, the pitiable fatuous fellow he had caught a glimpseof in the mirror. Instinctively he turned his back more to the lightlest she might see the shame that burned upon his forehead.He tried to keep up his tone of cold interrogation, but his voicewhen he spoke was humble and indifferent."I suppose you were in love with this Michael Furey, Gretta," hesaid."I was great with him at that time," she said.Her voice was veiled and sad. Gabriel, feeling now how vain itwould be to try to lead her whither he had purposed, caressed oneof her hands and said, also sadly:"And what did he die of so young, Gretta? Consumption, was it?""I think he died for me," she answered.A vague terror seized Gabriel at this answer, as if, at that hourwhen he had hoped to triumph, some impalpable and vindictivebeing was coming against him, gathering forces against him in itsvague world. But he shook himself free of it with an effort ofreason and continued to caress her hand. He did not question heragain, for he felt that she would tell him of herself. Her hand waswarm and moist: it did not respond to his touch, but he continuedto caress it just as he had caressed her first letter to him that springmorning."It was in the winter," she said, "about the beginning of the winterwhen I was going to leave my grandmother's and come up here tothe convent. And he was ill at the time in his lodgings in Galwayand wouldn't be let out, and his people in Oughterard were writtento. He was in decline, they said, or something like that. I neverknew rightly."She paused for a moment and sighed."Poor fellow," she said. "He was very fond of me and he was sucha gentle boy. We used to go out together, walking, you know,Gabriel, like the way they do in the country. He was going to studysinging only for his health. He had a very good voice, poorMichael Furey.""Well; and then?" asked Gabriel."And then when it came to the time for me to leave Galway andcome up to the convent he was much worse and I wouldn't be letsee him so I wrote him a letter saying I was going up to Dublin andwould be back in the summer, and hoping he would be betterthen."She paused for a moment to get her voice under control, and thenwent on:"Then the night before I left, I was in my grandmother's house inNuns' Island, packing up, and I heard gravel thrown up against thewindow. The window was so wet I couldn't see, so I ran downstairsas I was and slipped out the back into the garden and there was thepoor fellow at the end of the garden, shivering.""And did you not tell him to go back?" asked Gabriel."I implored of him to go home at once and told him he would gethis death in the rain. But he said he did not want to live. I can seehis eyes as well as well! He was standing at the end of the wallwhere there was a tree.""And did he go home?" asked Gabriel."Yes, he went home. And when I was only a week in the conventhe died and he was buried in Oughterard, where his people camefrom. O, the day I heard that, that he was dead!"She stopped, choking with sobs, and, overcome by emotion, flungherself face downward on the bed, sobbing in the quilt. Gabrielheld her hand for a moment longer, irresolutely, and then, shy ofintruding on her grief, let it fall gently and walked quietly to thewindow. She was fast asleep.Gabriel, leaning on his elbow, looked for a few momentsunresentfully on her tangled hair and half-open mouth, listening toher deep-drawn breath. So she had had that romance in her life: aman had died for her sake. It hardly pained him now to think howpoor a part he, her husband, had played in her life. He watched herwhile she slept, as though he and she had never lived together asman and wife. His curious eyes rested long upon her face and onher hair: and, as he thought of what she must have been then, inthat time of her first girlish beauty, a strange, friendly pity for herentered his soul. He did not like to say even to himself that herface was no longer beautiful, but he knew that it was no longer theface for which Michael Furey had braved death.Perhaps she had not told him all the story. His eyes moved to thechair over which she had thrown some of her clothes. A petticoatstring dangled to the floor. One boot stood upright, its limp upperfallen down: the fellow of it lay upon its side. He wondered at hisriot of emotions of an hour before. From what had it proceeded?From his aunt's supper, from his own foolish speech, from the wineand dancing, the merry-making when saying good-night in the hall,the pleasure of the walk along the river in the snow. Poor AuntJulia! She, too, would soon be a shade with the shade of PatrickMorkan and his horse. He had caught that haggard look upon herface for a moment when she was singing Arrayed for the Bridal.Soon, perhaps, he would be sitting in that same drawing-room,dressed in black, his silk hat on his knees. The blinds would bedrawn down and Aunt Kate would be sitting beside him, cryingand blowing her nose and telling him how Julia had died. Hewould cast about in his mind for some words that might consoleher, and would find only lame and useless ones. Yes, yes: thatwould happen very soon.The air of the room chilled his shoulders. He stretched himselfcautiously along under the sheets and lay down beside his wife.One by one, they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly intothat other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade andwither dismally with age. He thought of how she who lay besidehim had locked in her heart for so many years that image of herlover's eyes when he had told her that he did not wish to live.Generous tears filled Gabriel's eyes. He had never felt like thathimself towards any woman, but he knew that such a feeling mustbe love. The tears gathered more thickly in his eyes and in thepartial darkness he imagined he saw the form of a young manstanding under a dripping tree. Other forms were near. His soulhad approached that region where dwell the vast hosts of the dead.He was conscious of, but could not apprehend, their wayward andflickering existence. His own identity was fading out into a greyimpalpable world: the solid world itself, which these dead had onetime reared and lived in, was dissolving and dwindling.A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. Ithad begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silverand dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time hadcome for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, thenewspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It wasfalling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills,falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softlyfalling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too,upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where MichaelFurey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses andheadstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns.His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintlythrough the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of theirlast end, upon all the living and the dead.