The Empire Trilogy

by J. G. Farrell

  After he had crossed two more fields and a stream a gravel road came into sight which the Major judged would take him into Kilnalough. The day had turned chilly now that the sun was declining. The thin grey smoke of turf-fires rose from one or two of the chimneys of Kilnalough, very faint against the opal sky to the west where there were no clouds; the horizon looked very cold and clear, as if it were already winter. He shivered. Winter 1919. A peacetime winter: skating on frozen ponds, roasted chestnuts? He had forgotten what winter in peacetime was like and through the unbroken bubble of bitterness in his mind, inches thick like plate glass, he tried to visualize it. But the war was still there. He had not yet finished with it. Although he no longer attended morning prayers to be confronted by the photographs from Edward’s memorial, there were other photographs, smudged and accusing, that still continued even now to appear on the front page of the Weekly Irish Times. The harvest was not yet complete. And what about the survivors? The pathetic letters inquiring about pensions and employment printed in “Our Servicemen’s Bureau” and signed WHIZZ BANG, DUBLIN TOMMY, DELVILLE WOOD, 1916, IMPERIAL RULE, DUBLIN and suchlike? When would it all be finished and forgotten?

  On his way down the main street he was hailed by a man whom he at first did not recognize. Nearer at hand, though, he recalled the dapper appearance and the obsequious smile: it was Mr Devlin, Sarah’s father. He had been spotted by Sarah from her bedroom window. She was bored and had nothing to do, confined to bed by a slight chill, it was nothing really, the doctor said, but the Major knew how young people were... they were inclined to be fretful. She was over the worst, of course, thanks very much, but she was so highly strung...In short, she had asked him to ask the Major, if it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition (he needn’t stay more than a minute—it was more for the sake of variety than anything else) if he wouldn’t mind stopping by for a chat...just to say “Hello.”

  “I’d be delighted. I’m afraid the dog is rather muddy, though.”

  “Well, we could shut him up somewhere,” replied Mr Devlin, looking at the dog with distaste. He led the way through a side door of the bank.

  “Careful he doesn’t gobble up all your bank-notes,” laughed the Major as the dog shook itself and frisked cheerfully about the room. Mr Devlin did not appear to find this funny, however; indeed, he looked quite upset. The dog was shut in the kitchen and the Major was shown upstairs to the room where, propped against pillows, her eyes shining, her cheeks flushed and looking, as her father had said, fretful, Sarah was waiting for him.

  “I’ll be downstairs,” Mr Devlin said, adding with a cough: “I’ll leave this door open in case you need anything.” And he withdrew. They could hear his footsteps descending the stairs.

  “Well, what’s this I hear about you being sick? You’ve had a chill, I understand, but you’re better now. I must say you look as if you’re sparkling with health.”

  “Major, do stop talking nonsense and come and sit down. Here on the bed...don’t worry, I won’t bite you. And where’s the lovely dog you were with? It was really the dog I wanted to see, not you. And now I suppose you’ll be thinking it was for yourself. Men are so conceited, young as I am that’s one thing I’ve found out. And you needn’t bother to contradict me, Major, because I know it’s true, and I’m perfectly sure that you’re more conceited than anyone, I can tell instantly by that absurd moustache you have on your lip, it’s written all over your face, not to mention your ridiculous ‘ramrod posture’ which is the most arrogant thing I ever saw in my life. Why can’t you let yourself droop a bit like a normal person? Well, it’s none of my business, thank heaven. And you needn’t smile like that either in that condescending way you have, as if I know nothing at all because I’m a country girl. I’m sure you think I’m a complete fool who knows nothing at all; I expect you’re used to these young women they have in England who paint their faces and stay out all night—the magazines are full of talk of such creatures—smearing paint on one’s skin, I must say it sounds disgusting!” And she laughed, a trifle hysterically.

  “Dogs? Painted women? Really, what nonsense you talk. I think you must be more ill than I supposed.”

  “When I saw you walking down the street (look, from the window I can just see people passing by) I said to myself: ‘There goes that absurd English person with a beautiful dog. How nice it would be to have a chat with him...’ But now you’re here I can’t think of a single thing to say and I can’t imagine for the life of me why a few moments ago I wanted to talk to you...But never mind, I shall make the best of it and surely think of something. And there you sit looking uncomfortable and really it almost looks as if your hand is sitting beside you, it hardly looks like a hand at all; it looks like some big leathery creature, like a toad or something, and it looks so rough and dry, is the other one the same? Yes, I can see that it is. They look as if they’re made of leather dried out in the sun...You know, Brendan (I shall call you Brendan since I no longer recognize the British Army which is a force of occupation in Ireland against the wishes of the people, you don’t mind, do you?), when I was a child I used to dream that I was lying in bed with a toad sitting on my chest and although that sounds rather frightful it was really a pleasant, warm feeling. This toad used to be a particular friend of mine, I wish I could have dreams like that now. But tell me (I mustn’t bore you with my childhood or else you’ll make some excuse and hurry away), tell me why you were looking so miserable when you were walking along. Has Angela been making you miserable? But no, don’t tell me, because I really don’t want to know anything about your private affairs. They’re of no concern to me, you’d simply be wasting my time. Instead I shall tell you something about Ireland since you clearly know nothing. Have you even heard of the Easter Rebellion in Dublin?”

  Of course he had heard of it, he assured her smiling. That was the treacherous attack by Irish hooligans on the British Army so busily engaged in defending Ireland against the Kaiser.

  “Did Ireland ask to be defended?”

  “Whether they asked for it or not they obviously wanted it, since so many Irishmen were fighting in the army.”

  “Obviously? Nothing was less obvious! The Irish people weren’t even consulted. No one asked them anything. Why should it make any difference to them whether they were invaded by the Germans or by the British? It might even be better to be subject to the Germans; at least it would make a change...” And the Major was quite wrong in saying that the heroes of the Easter Rising were hooligans. On the contrary, there were many gentlemen among these patriots. Did he know nothing at all? How ignorant the English (only politeness, she laughed, prevented her from saying “the enemy”), how ignorant the English were. Had he even heard of the débutante Countess Markievicz who with a pistol in her belt defended the College of Surgeons and was sentenced to death for shooting at a gentleman looking out of the window of the Unionist Club (even though the shot missed)? Or did he think that Joseph Plunkett, jewels flaring on his fingers like a Renaissance prince and who was, in fact, the son of a papal count, did he think that this man was a hooligan? Already doomed with T.B., he had got up out of his bed to fight; did that make him sound like a treacherous criminal? Did the Major know that Joseph Plunkett got married to Grace Gifford (a beautiful young aristocrat whose Protestant family disowned her, naturally, the pigs) by the light of a candle held by a British soldier in the chapel of Kilmainham gaol in the early hours of the morning shortly before he faced a firing-squad? Did that sound like the behaviour of a hooligan?

  “Indeed, no,” said the Major smiling. “It sounds more like the last act of an opera composed by a drunken Italian librettist.”

  “Ah, it’s impossible to argue with someone so cynical!”

  “But you ask me to believe in these operatic characters when one reads entirely different things in the newspaper. Just the other day I was reading about a woman who had pig rings put in her buttocks for supplying milk to the police...and then there was the brass band that started a rough house with
the police, using their instruments as clubs... and a donkey stabbed to death for carrying turf to the R.I.C. barracks and labelled as a traitor to Ireland!”

  “Such things are invented by the British to discredit us. We’ve no way of knowing whether the newspapers tell the truth. Everything belongs to the British in Ireland. Everything.”

  There was silence for a moment. Sarah’s flush had faded but she still looked rather fretful. She said abruptly: “Did you know that Edward thinks you a cold person, Brendan?”

  “No, I didn’t know that,” said the Major, surprised.

  “I think it’s because you’re always so very polite and distant.” She smiled at the Major’s look of concern and shook her head. “However, I told him I thought quite the opposite ...in fact, I told him I thought you were probably as soft as a steamed pudding.”

  “That doesn’t sound very complimentary, I must say. But how do you know what Edward thinks of me? You said he was always unfriendly to you. I thought you never saw him.”

  “Oh, in Kilnalough one meets everyone,” Sarah said vaguely. “One couldn’t avoid people even if one wanted to. Now do stop looking so uneasy. Close the door and come and sit here on the bed. Don’t be silly, you don’t have to be paying any attention to him (my father, I mean)...What, you’re off already? Don’t say I’ve offended you again!” And she broke into peals of laughter that rang pleasantly in the Major’s ears all the way home.

  But before he reached the Majestic a disturbing thought occurred to him. Could it be that Dr Ryan had been talking about Sarah and not about Angela with his “chill” and his “touch of fever” and his “father as spineless as jelly”? If that were so, poor Angela might be gravely ill after all. And the more he thought about it the more likely it seemed.

  “Well,” said Ripon, who was drunk. “It was the most farcical business I’ve ever seen in my life. It happened right after the Soloheadbeg affair, which was the first of many attacks on the peelers, and, as you might expect, indignation and patriotism were running high. There we are, all sitting at the dinner table munching peacefully when suddenly Himself stands up and says in ringing tones: ‘I intend to go into Kilnalough this evening to have a drink and show the flag. Any of you men who care to join me will be most welcome.’ Well, a hush falls, nobody says a word...‘Ripon, how about you?’ Needless to say, I had no appetite for such a reckless venture. Himself puts on a contemptuous expression and says: ‘Very well, if no one cares to join me I shall go by myself.’ We’re all looking rather sheepish—at least I was—but inwardly heaving a sigh of relief (lucky for you, Major, that you weren’t staying here at the time; you don’t look to me like a man who could resist a call on his patriotism) when lo and behold, from a shadowy table at the other end of the dining-room a voice pipes up, thin, quavering, but determined. It’s Miss Johnston. ‘I shall accompany you, Mr Spencer!’ Everyone is dumbfounded. ‘And I shall come too!’ cries Miss Staveley. And soon everyone is clamouring and even Mr Porter, whose wife had volunteered, is carried away by the general enthusiasm and changes his mind. And so Himself rather reluctantly found himself at the head of a party of old ladies—there must have been a good half-dozen of them—plus the doddering old Porter and plus, finally, having scented a splendid fiasco on the wind, myself.

  “By the time we arrived, of course, everyone including me was practically fainting with terror (too bad you weren’t there, Major, since you’re obviously abnormally brave when it comes to a rough house). Byrne’s pub isn’t such a bad place, though nobody, mind you, would think of going there unless for the purpose of harassing the natives, nobody from the Majestic anyway. A bit ramshackle, perhaps, with its thatched roof and stone walls. There was a rank, beery smell from the open door which made the ladies wrinkle their noses.

  “I hadn’t ever been in there before so I had a look round (looking for the safest place in case there was a scrap, you know, Major, not being a brave and manly fellow like you). Dark, low ceiling, shabby, sawdust on the floor, chairs and tables all wooden, a bit of stench coming from the old ghuslkhana (as Father insists on calling it), a long mirror over the bar badly in need of silvering, and propped against it, beside a plaster statue of Johnny Walker with cane and monocle, a calendar or something with one of those frightfully gruesome Sacred Hearts on it. I think there were probably some wilted tulips in a jam jar in front of it.

  “Oh, look! I’ve forgotten that there was another man in our party, that frightful tutor fellow Evans, who’s always lurking in the shadows. Actually, on this occasion he was as keen as mustard. As soon as he heard what Himself was planning he volunteered right away, could hardly restrain the chappie from leaping at the first native we saw. Anyway, there he was looking around keenly, frightfully belligerent (you’d have been delighted with him, Major, I’m sure; no white feathers for old Evans), but fortunately none of the locals seemed anxious to let him fracture their jaws.

  “In fact, everything was quite peaceful. Surprising number of people there, sitting around or leaning on the bar, men for the most part. A couple of haggard and blowsy women at one of the tables, some men playing cards at another, an old crone by the fire with a big glass of porter beside her. Everyone had obviously been having a jolly good time until we showed up. But now there was Himself, standing there like that terrifying stone statue that turns up at the feast at the end of Don Giovanni to deal with the rotter who’s been tampering with everyone’s daughters! It was most alarming, Major, I can assure you (though naturally it wouldn’t have been alarming for a man of your moral fibre). So Himself goes clanking across the room to a big table in the very middle at which there was nobody except a toothless, wrinkled old man. This old codger had his white head lowered over an immense mug from which he was supping liquid with a faint whistling noise. As he came up for breath he inhaled his shaggy brown moustache and sucked it white and dry before lowering his head again. This fellow took to his heels when he saw the stone statue approaching. Can’t say I blame him, actually.

  “Chairs were found and we all sat down. ‘Could we have some service please,’ demanded the Man of Stone in a voice from Beyond the Tomb. A perspiring red-faced chap in an apron scurried out from behind the bar wiping his hands.

  “Silence still gripped the room, Major, like a heavy frost. Everyone at our table was wondering why ‘they’ didn’t start talking again, in respectful undertones, of course. Suddenly one of the men at the bar snorted into his glass, sending a great brown spray over his neighbours, hanging on helplessly to the brass rail, barking again and again with uncontrollable laughter, gasping so desperately for air that for a while it wasn’t clear that it was laughter and not some dreadful epileptic fit he was having. Little by little, though, his need for air strangled his merriment and he was led outside, half drowned, by one of his companions, who then returned alone. After this some of the other men were obviously having trouble keeping their faces straight; on every side faces were long and solemn, tight as violin strings. (It was awful, Major, you’ve no idea.) The restrained laughter bulged like an abscess in the room. At any moment one had the feeling that the wretched thing might burst with a loud report and drench us all with the yellow pus of laughter (sorry about some of these metaphors, Major, I’m doing m’best). One could feel it coming, that terrible, cataclysmic burst of laughter...

  “At this point Himself, alone in the silence, stood up and began to sing:

  ‘GodSaveourGraciousKing

  LongliveourNobleKing

  GodSavetheKing.’

  The other members of the Majestic party were now on their feet. Two or three of the ladies, their voices reedy and defiant, joined in here and fluted:

  ‘Sendhimvictor-rious

  Happyandglor-rious

  LongtoreignOh!-verus

  Go-od sa-ave the King.’

  (Oh, Major, you can’t imagine what it was like! Your hackles would have bristled with pride at that dear uplifting sound!)

  “Well, an instant of silence followed. Then it came
: a great rolling storm of applause, of laughter, of clapping and crying and cheering. The noise was positively deafening. The skin that covered that straining, bulging tension in the room had broken and the relief was divine, Major. Even I was applauding.

  “The Man of Stone and the ladies, however, looked far from pleased at this favourable reception. Their faces darkened, the Man of Stone grimly licked his granite lips while the ladies elevated their rheumy eyes to a more noble, uncompromising angle than ever. What was to be done? Hardly had the cascade of applause begun to subside when the Man of Stone, marble nostrils quivering, launched once more into the National Anthem, singing the same verse as before (I suppose there are others, you’re the sort of chap, Major, who’d be likely to know about that sort of thing, but never mind for the moment.)

  “This time not only the contingent from the Majestic but also some throaty tenors from the bar joined in, raising their foaming tankards and showing a tendency, common to many Irishmen when singing, to warble sentimentally and allow their eyes to fill with tears. In our party at that moment, Major, muscles were tensing, necks were growing red, veins were bulging, fists were being clenched. Evans, the appalling tutor-wallah, in particular, looked as if he were about to swoon in an ecstasy of hate and violence if he didn’t get to bash someone up pretty quickly.