17 - The Dead, part 3

the seat, mister Brown helping him with advice. At last she was settled comfortably, and Freddy Malins invited mister Brown into the cab. There was a good deal of confused talk, and then mister Brown got into the cab. The cabman settled his rug over his knees and bent down for the address. The confusion grew greater, and the cabman was directed differently by Freddy Malins and mister Brown, each of whom had his head out through window of the cab.

The difficulty was to know where to drop mister Brown along the route, and Aunt Kay and Aunt Julie and Mary Jane helped the discussion from the doorstep with cross directions and contradirections and an abundance of laughter. As for

Freddy Malins, he was speechless with laughter. He popped his head in and out of the window every moment to the great danger of his hat, and told his mother how the discussion was progressing, till at last mister Brown shouted to the bewildered cabman above the din of everyone's laughter. Do you know Trinity College, Yes, sir, said the cabman. Well, drive bang up against Trinity College gates, said mister Brown, and then we'll tell you where to go. You understand now, 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 key amid a chorus of laughter. And Adieus Gabriel had not gone to the door with the others. He was in a dark part of the hall, gazing up the staircase. A woman was standing near the top of the first flight in the shadow. Also he could not see her face, but he could see the terra cotta and salmon pink panels of her skirt, which

the shadow made appear black and white. It was his wife. She was leaning on the banisters, listening to something. Gabriel was surprised at her stillness and strained his ear to listen also, but he could hear little save the noise of laughter and dispute on the front steps. A few chords struck on the piano, and a few notes of a man's voice singing. He stood still in the gloom of the hall, trying to catch the air that the

voice was singing, and gazing up at his wife. There was grace and mystery in her attitude, as if she were a symbol of something. He asked himself, what is a woman standing on the stairs in the shadow, listening to distant music a symbol of If he were a painter, he would paint her in that attitude. Blue felt hat would show off the bronze of her hair against the darkness, and the dark panels of her skirt would show off the light ones distant music. He would call the picture

if he were a painter. The hall door was closed, and Aunt Kate, Aunt Julia, and Mary Jane came down the hall, still laughing. Well, isn't Freddy terrible? Said Mary Jane. He's really terrible. Gabriel said nothing, but pointed up the stairs towards where his wife was standing. Now the hall door was closed, the voice and the piano could be heard more clearly. Gabriel held up his hand for them to be silent. The song seemed to be in the old Irish tonality, and the singer seemed uncertain, both of

his words and of his voice. The voice, made plaintive by distance and by the singer's hoarseness, faintly illuminated the cadence of the air with words expressing grief. Oh the rain falls on my heavy locks, and the dew wets my skin. My babe lies cold, Oh, exclaimed Mary Jane. It's Bartel Darcy singing, and he wouldn't sing all the night. Oh, I'll get him to sing a song before he goes.

Oh do, Mary Jane, said, Aunt Kate. Mary Jane brushed past the others and ran to the staircase, But before she reached it, the singing stopped and the piano was closed abruptly. Oh what a pity, she cried, Is he coming down? Greta Gabriel heard his wife answer yes, and saw her come down towards them. A few steps behind her were mister Bartell Darcy and miss O'Callahan. Oh, mister Darcy, cried Mary Jane. It's downright mean of you to break off like that when we were all in raptures listening

to you. I've been at him all the evening, said miss O'Callahan, and missus Conroy too, and he told us he had a dreadful cold and couldn't sing. Oh, mister Darcy, said Aunt Kate. Now that was a great fib to tell. Can't you see that? I'm horse as a crow, said mister Darcy roughly. He went into the pantry hastily and put on his overcoat. The others, taken aback by his rude speech, could find nothing to say. Aunt Kate wrinkled her brows and made signs the others to drop the subject.

Mister Darcy stood, swathing his neck carefully and frowning. It's the weather, said Aunt Julia, after a pause. Yes everybody has cold, said Aunt Kate readily. Everybody, they say, said Mary Jane. We haven't had snow like it for thirty years. And I read this morning in the newspapers that snow is general all over Ireland. I love the look of snow, said Aunt Julius. Sadly, so do I said Miss O'Callahan. I think Christmas is never really Christmas unless we have

snow on the ground. But poor mister Darcy doesn't like the snow, said Aunt Kate, smiling. Mister Darcy came from the pantry, fully swathed and buttoned, and in a repentant tone, told them the history of his cold. Everyone gave him advice and said it was a great pity, and urged him to be very careful of his throat. In the night air, Gabriel watched his wife, who did not join

in the conversation. She was standing right under the dusty fanlight, and the flame of the gas lit up the rich bronze of her hair, which he had seen her drying at the fire a few days before. She was in the same attitude and seemed unaware of the talk about her. At last, she turned towards them, and Gabriel saw that there was color on her cheeks, and that her eyes were shining. A sudden tide of joy went leaping out of his heart. Mister Darcy, she said, what is the

name of that song you were singing. It's called the Lass of Ogrim, said mister Darcy, but I couldn't remember it properly. Why do you know it the Lass of Ogrim, she repeated. I could think of the name. It's a very nice air, said Mary Jane. I'm sorry you were not in voice to night now, Mary Jane said, Aunt Kate, don't annoy mister Darcy. I won't have him annoyed. Seeing that all were ready to start, she shepherded them to the door, where good night was said. Well, good night,

Aunt Kate, and thanks for the pleasant evening. Good night, Gabriel. Good night, Gretta. Good night, Aunt Kate, and thanks ever so much. Good night, Aunt Julia. Oh, good night, Greta. I didn't see you. Good night, mister Darcy. Good night, Miss O'Callahan, good night, Miss Morgan. Good night again. Good night all save home, good night, good night. The morning was still dark. A dull yellow light brooded over the houses and the river, and the sky seemed to be descending.

It was slushy underfoot, and only streaks and patches of snow lay on the roofs, on the parapets of the quay, and on the area railings. The lamps were still burning redly in the murky air, and across the river the palace of the four Courts stood out menacingly against the heavy sky. She was walking on before him with mister Bartell Darcy, her shoes in a brown parcel tucked under one arm, and her hands holding her skirt up from the slush. She had no longer any grace of attitude,

but Gabriel's eyes were still bright with happiness. The blood went bounding along his veins, and the thoughts went rioting through his brain. Proud, joyful, tender, valorous. She was walking on before him, so lightly and so erect, that he longed to run after her, noiselessly, catch her by the shoulders, and say something foolish and affectionate into her ear. She seemed to him so frail that he longed to defend her against something, and then to be alone with her.

Moments of their secret life together burst like stars upon his memory. A heliotrope envelope was lying beside his breakfast cup, and he was caressing it with his hand. Birds were twittering in the ivy, and the sunny web of the curtain was shimmering along the floor. He could not eat for happiness. They were standing on the crowded platform, and he was placing a ticket inside the warm palm of her glove. He was standing with her in the cold, looking in through a grated window at a man making

bottles in a roaring furnace. It was very cold. Her face, fragrant in the cold air, was quite close to his. And suddenly he called out to the man at the furnace, is the fire hot, sir? But the man could not hear with the noise of the furnace. It was just as well, he might have answered rudely. A wave of yet more tender joy escaped from his heart and went coursing in warm flood along his arteries like the tender

fire of stars. Moments of their life together that no on one knew of or would ever know of, broke upon and illuminated his memory. He longed to recall to her those moments, to make her forget the years of their dull existence together and remember only their moments of ecstasy. For the years he felt had not quenched his soul or hers, their children, His writing, her household cares had

not quenched all their soul's tender fire. In one letter that he had written to her then, he had said, why is it that words like these seemed to me so dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name? Like distant music? These words that he had written years before, were born towards him from the past. He longed to be alone with her when the others had gone away, when he and she were in the room in the hotel, then

they would be alone together. He would call her softly, Greta. Perhaps she would not hear at once, she would be undressed. Then something in his voice would strike her. She would turn and look at him. At the corner of Wine Tavern Street, they met a cab. He was glad of its rattling noise, as it saved him from conversation. She was looking out of the window and seemed tired. The others spoke only a few words, pointing out some building

or street. The horse galloped along wearily under the murky morning sky, dragging his old rattling box after his heels, and Gabriel was again in a cab with her, galloping to catch the boat. Galloping to their honeymoon. As the cab drove across O'Connell Bridge, Miss O'Callahan said, they say you never cross O'Connell Bridge without seeing a white horse. I see a white man this time, said Gabriel. Where, asked mister Bartell Darcy. Gabriel pointed to the statue, on

which lay patches of snow. Then he nodded familiarly to it and waved his hand. Good Night, Dan, he said. Gay. When the cab drew up before the hotel, Gabriel jumped out, and, in spite of mister Bartell Darcy's protest, paid the driver. He gave the man a shilling over his fare. The man saluted and said, a prosperous new year to you, sir.

The same to you, said Gabriel, cordially. She leaned for a moment on his arm, and getting out of the cab, and while standing at the kerbstone bidding the others good night, she leaned lightly on his arm, as lightly as when she had danced with him a few hours before. He felt proud and happy, then happy that she was his, proud of her grace and wifely carriage. But now after the kindling again of so many memories. The first touch of her body, musical and strange and perfumed, sent through

him a keen pang of lust. Under Cover of her silence, he pressed her arm closely to his side, and as they stood at the hotel door, he felt that they had escaped from their lives and duties, escaped from home and friends, and run away, together with the wild and radiant hearts, to a new adventure. An old man was dozing in a great hooded chair in the hall. He lit a candle in the office and went before them to the stairs. They followed him in silence, their feet

falling in soft thuds on the thickly carpeted stairs. She mounted the stairs behind the porter, her head bowed in the ascent, her frail shoulders curved as with a burden, her skirt girt tightly about her. He could have flung his arms about her hips and held her still, for his arms were trembling with desire to seize her, and only the stress of his nails against the palms of his hands held the wild impulse of his body and check. The porter halted on the stairs to settle his guttering candle.

They halted too, on the steps below him. In the silence, Gabriel could hear the falling of the molten wax into the tray and the thumping of his own heart against his rears ribbs. The porter led them along a corridor and opened the door. Then he set his unstable candle down on a toilet table and asked at what hour they were to be called in the morning, Eight, said Gabriel. The porter pointed to the tap of the electric light and began a muttered apology, but Gabriel cut him short.

We don't want any light. We have light enough from the street, and I say, he added, pointing to the candle, you might remove that handsome article like a good man. The porter took up his candle again, but slowly, for he was surprised by such a novel idea. Then he mumbled good night and went out. Gabriel shut the lock to a ghastly light from the street lamp lay in a long shaft from one window to the door. Gabriel threw his overcoat and hat on a couch and crossed

the room towards the window. He looked down into the street in order that his emotion might calm a little. Then he turned and leaned against a chest of drawers with his back to the light. She had taken off her hat and cloak and was standing before a large swinging mirror, unhooking her waist. Gabriel paused for a few moments, watching her, and then said, Gretta. She turned away from the mirror slowly and walked along the shaft of light towards him. Her face looked so serious and weary that

the words would not pass Gabriel's lips. No, it was not the moment yet, you look tired, he said, I am a little. She answered, you don't feel ill or weak, No, tired, that's all. She went on to the window and stood there looking out. Gabriel waited again, and then, fearing that diffidence was about to conquer him, he said abruptly, by the way, Greta, what is it you know that poor fellow melons? He said quickly, yes, what about him? Well, poor fellow, he's a decent sort of chap after all,

continued Gabriel in a false voice. He gave me back the sovereign I lent him, and I didn't expect it. Really. It's a pity he wouldn't keep away from that brown because He's not a bad fellow. Really, he was trembling now with annoyance. Why did she seem so abstracted? He did not know how he could begin. Was she annoyed too about something? If she would only turn to him, or come to him of her own accord, to take her as she was would be brutal. No, he must

see some ardor in her eyes first. He longed to be master of her strange mood. When did you lend him the pound? She asked? After a pause. Gabriel strove to restrain himself from breaking out into brutal language about

the Sottish melons and his pound. He longed to cry to her from his soul, to crush her body against his, to overmaster her, But he said, oh, at Christmas, when he opened that little Christmas card shop in Henry Street, he was in such a fever of rage and desire that he did not hear her come from the window. She stood before him for an instant, looking at him strangely, then suddenly raising herself on tiptoe and resting her hands lightly on his shoulders, she kissed him. You are a

very generous person, Gabriel, she said. Gabriel trembling with delight at her sudden kiss and at the quaintness of her phrase, put his hands on her hair and began smoothing it back, scarcely, touching it with his fingers. The washing had made it fine and brilliant. His heart was brimming over with happiness, just when he was wishing for it. She had come to him of her own accord. Perhaps her thoughts had

been running with his. Perhaps she had felt the impetuous desire that was in him, and then the yielding mood had come upon her. Now that she had fallen to him so easily, he wondered why he had been so diffident. He stood, holding her head between his hands, then slipping one arm swiftly about her body, and drawing her towards him. He said, softly, 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, Greta,

I think I know what is the matter? Do I know? She did not answer at once. Then she said, an outburst of tears, Oh, I'm thinking about that song, the Lass of Ogrim. She broke loose from him and ran to the bed and throwing her arms across the bed rail hid her face. Gabriel stood stock still for a

moment in astonishment, and then followed her. As he passed in the way of the cheval glass, he caught sight of himself in full length, his broad, well filled shirt front, the face whose expression a way puzzled him when he saw it in a mirror, and his glimmering, gilt rimmed eyeglasses. He halted a few paces from her and said, what about the song? Why does that make you cry? She raised her head from her arms and dried her eyes

on the back of her hand like a child. A kinder note than he had intended went into his voice. Why Greta, he asked, I am thinking about a person long ago who used to sing that song. And who was that person long ago? Asked Gabriel, smiling. It was a person I used to know in Galway when I was living with my grandmother, she said. The smile passed away from Gabriel's face. A dull anger began to gather again at the back of his mind, and the dull fires of his lust began to glow angrily in his veins.

Some one you were in love with, he asked ironically. It was a young boy I used to know, she answered, named Mike Fury. He used to sing that song, the lass of Ogram. He was very delicate. Gabriel was silent. He did not wish her to think that he was interested in this delicate boy. I can see him so plainly, she said, after a moment. Such eyes as he had, big dark eyes, and such an expression in them, an expression. Oh,

then you are in love with him, said Gabriel. I used to go out walking with him, she said, when I was in Galway. A thought flew across Gabriel's mind. Perhaps that was why he wanted to go to Galway with that Ivors girl, he said coldly. She looked at him and asked, in surprise what for Her eyes made Gabriel feel awkward. He shrugged his shoulders and said, how do I know to see him? Perhaps? She looked away from him along the shaft of light towards the window

in silence. He's dead, she said at length. He died when he was only seventeen. Isn't it a terrible thing to die so young as that? And what was he asked Gabriel still ironically. He was in the gas works she said. Gabriel felt humiliated by the failure of his irony and by the evocation of this figure from the dead, a boy in the gas works. While he had been full of memories of their secret life together, full of tenderness and joy and desire, she had been comparing him

in her mind with another. A shameful consciousness of his own person assailed him. He saw himself as a ludicrous figure, acting as a penny boy for his aunts, a nervous, well meaning sentimentalist, or rating to vulgarians, and idealizing his own clownish lust, the pitiable, fatuous fellow he had caught a glimpse of in the mirror. Instinctively, he turned his back more to the light, lest she might see the

shame that burned upon his forehead. He tried to keep up his tone of cold interrogation, but his voice when he spoke, was humble and indifferent. I suppose you were in love with this Michael Fury Gretta, he said, I was great with him at that time, She said, her voice was veiled and sad. Gabriel, feeling now how vain it would be to try to lead her whither he had purposed caressed one of her hands and said, also sadly, and what did he die of? So young? Greta consumption?

Was it? I think he died from me, she answered. A vague terror seized Gabriel at this answer, as if at that hour when he had hoped to triumph, some impalpable and vignant, addictive being was coming against him, gathering forces against him in its vague world. But he shook himself free of it with an effort of reason, and continued to caress her hand. He did not question her again, for he felt that she would tell him of herself.

Her hand was warm and moist, it did not respond to his touch, but he continued to caress it, just as he had caressed her first letter to him that spring morning. It was in the winter, she said, about the beginning of winter, when I was going to leave my grandmother's and come up here to the convent. And he was ill at the time in his lodgings in Galway and wouldn't be let out. And his people in Otterard were written to He was in decline, they said,

or something like that. I never knew. Rightly, She paused for a moment and sighed, poor fellow. She said, he was very fond of me, and he was such a gentle boy. We used to go out together walking Gabriel like the way they do in the country. He was going to study singing, only for his health. He had a very good voice. Poor Michael fury well and then asked Gabriel. And then when it came time for me to leave Galway and come up to the convent, he was much worse, and I wouldn't be let to see him.

So I wrote him a letter saying I was going up to Dublin and would be back in the summer, and hoping he would be better. Then she paused for a moment to get her voice under control, and then went on. Then the night before I left, I was in my grandmother's house in Nun's Island, packing up, and I heard gravel thrown up against the window. The window was so wet I couldn't see. So I ran downstairs as I was and slipped out the back into the garden, and there was the poor fellow at the end of

the garden, shivering. Did you not tell him to go back, asked Gabriel. I implored of him to go home at once, and told him he would get his death in the rain, but he said he did not want to live. His eyes as well as well. He was standing at the end of the wall where there was a tree. And did he go home, asked Gabriel. Yes, he went home, and when I was only a week in the convent, he died and was buried in Otrard, where his people came from. Oh, the day I heard that he was dead.

She stopped choking with sobs, and, overcome by emotion, flung herself face downward on the bed, sobbing in the quilt. Gabriel held her hand for a moment longer, irresolutely, and then, shy of intruding on her grief, let it fall gently, and walked quietly to the window. She was fast asleep. Gabriel, leaning on his elbow, looked for a few moments unrestfully on her tangled hair and half open mouth, listening to her deep drawn breath. So she had had that romance

in her life. A man had died for her sake. It hardly pained him now to think how poor part he her husband, had played in her life. He watched her while she slept, as though he and she had never lived together as man and wife. His curious eyes rested upon her face and on her hair, And as he thought of what she must have been then, in that time of her first girlish beauty, a strange, friendly

pity for her entered his soul. He did not like to say, even to himself that her face was no longer beautiful, but he knew that it was no longer the face for which Michael Fury had braved death. Perhaps she had not told him all the story. His eyes moved to the chair over which she had thrown some of her clothes, a petticoat string dangling to the floor. One boot stood upright, its limp upper falling down. The

fellow of it lay on its side. He wondered at his riot of emotions of an hour before, from what had it proceeded from his aunt's supper, from his own foolish speech, from the wine and dancing, the merrymaking when saying good night in the hall, the pleasure of the walk along the river in the snow. Poor Aunt Julia, she too would soon be a shade, with the shade of Patrick Morkan and his horse. He had caught that haggard look upon her face for a moment when she

was singing arraid for the bridle. Soon, perhaps he would be sitting in that same drawing room, dressed in black, his silk hat on his knees. The blinds would be drawn down, and Aunt Kate would be sitting beside him, crying and blowing her nose and telling him how Juliet died. He would cast about in his mind for some words that might console her, and would find only lame and useless ones. Yes, Yes, that would happen very soon. The

air of the room chilled his shoulders. He stretched himself cautiously along under the sheets and lay down beside his wife. One by one, they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other world in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age. He thought of how she who lay beside him and locked in her heart for so many years that image of her lover'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 that himself towards any woman, but he knew that such a feeling must be loved. The tears gathered more thickly in his eyes, and in the partial darkness he imagined he saw the form of a young man standing under a dripping tree. Other forms were near. His soul had approached that region, wear dwell. The vast hosts of the dead he was conscious of, but could not apprehend their wayward and flickering existence. His own identity was fading out into a gray, impalpable world.

The solid world itself, which these dead had one time reared and lived in, was dissolving and dwindling. A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily, the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right. Snow was general all over Ireland.

It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the bog of Allen, and further westward, softly falling into the dark and mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling to upon every part of the lonely church yard, on the hill where Michael fury lay buried, It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gait, on

the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe, and faintly falling like the descent of their last end upon the living, and the dead end of the dead End of Dubliners by James Joyce.