by George Moore
She seemed so strange, so inconclusive. There seemed to be at least two, if not three, different women in the letters she had written to him, and he sat wondering how a woman with cheeks like hers, and a voice like hers, and laughter like hers, could take an interest in such arid studies. Her very name, Nora Glynn, seemed so unlike the woman who would accompany Mr. Poole into National Libraries, and sit by him surrounded by learned tomes. Moreover a mistress does not read Hebrew in a National Library with her paramour. But what did he know about such women? He had heard of them supping in fashionable restaurants covered with diamonds, and he thought of them with painted faces and dyed hair, and he was sure that Nora did not dye her hair or paint her face. No, she was not Poole’s mistress. It was only his ignorance of life that could have led him to think of anything so absurd.... And then, weary of thinking and debating with himself, he took down a book that was lent some months ago, a monograph on a learned woman, a learned philosophical writer and translator of exegetical works from the German. Like Nora, she came from the middle classes, and, like Nora, she transgressed, how often he did not know, but with another woman’s husband certainly. A critical writer and exponent of serious literature. Taste for learned studies did not preclude abstinence from those sins which in his ignorance of life he had associated with worldlings! Of course, St. Augustine was such a one. But is a man’s truth also woman’s truth? Apparently it is, and if he could believe the book he had been reading, Nora might very well be Poole’s mistress. Therewith the question came up again, demanding answer: Why did she write declining any correspondence with him, and three weeks afterwards write another letter inveigling him, tempting him, bringing him to this last pitch of unhappiness? Was the letter he returned to her prompted by Mr. Poole and by a spirit of revenge? Three days after he took up his pen and added this paragraph to his unfinished letter:
‘I laid aside my pen, fearing I should ask what are your relations with Mr. Poole. I have tried to keep myself from putting this question to you, but the torture of doubt overcomes me, and even if you should never write to me again, I must ask it. Remember that I am responsible to God for the life you lead. Had it not been for me, you would never have known Poole. You must grant to every man his point of view, and, as a Christian, I cannot put my responsibility out of mind. If you lose your soul, I am responsible for it. Should you write that your relations with Mr. Poole are not innocent, I shall not be relieved of my responsibility, but it will be a relief to me to know the truth. I shall pray for you, and you will repent your sins if you are living in sin. Forgive me the question I am putting to you. I have no right to do so whatever. Whatever right I had over you when you were in my parish has passed from me. I exceeded that right, but that is the old story. Maybe I am repeating my very fault again. It is not unlikely, for what do we do all through our lives but to repeat ourselves? You have forgiven me, and, having forgiven me once, maybe you will forgive me again. However this may be, do not delay writing, for every day will be an agony till I hear from you. At the end of an autumn day, when the dusk is sinking into the room, one lacks courage to live. Religion seems to desert one, and I am thinking of the leaves falling, falling in Derrinrush. All night long they will be falling, like my hopes. Forgive me this miserable letter. But if I didn’t write it, I should not be able to get through the evening. Write to me. A letter from Italy will cheer me and help me to live. All my letters are not like this one. Not very long ago I wrote to you about a hermit who never wearied of life, though he lived upon an island in this lake. Did you receive that letter? I wonder. It is still following you about maybe. It was a pleasant letter, and I should be sorry if you did not get it. Write to me about Italy — about sunshine, about statues and pictures.
‘Ever sincerely yours,
‘OLIVER GOGARTY.’
From Father Oliver Gogarty to Miss Nora Glynn.
‘GARRANARD, BOHOLA,
‘October 20, 19 — .
‘DEAR MISS GLYNN,
‘I wrote last week apologizing for troubling you again with a letter, pleading that the melancholy of autumn and the falling of the leaf forced me to write to someone. I wrote asking for a letter, saying that a letter about Italian sunshine would help me to live. I am afraid my letter must have seemed exaggerated. One writes out of a mood. The mood passes, but when it is with one, one is the victim of it. And this letter is written to say I have recovered somewhat from my depression of spirits.... I have found consolation in a book, and I feel that I must send it to you, for even you may one day feel depressed and lonely. Did you ever read “The Imitation of Christ”? There is no book more soothing to the spirit than it; and on the very first page I found some lines which apply marvellously well to your case:
‘“If thou didst know the whole Bible outwardly, and the sayings of all the philosophers, what would it all profit thee without charity and the grace of God?”
‘Over the page the saint says: “Every man naturally desireth to know; but what doth knowledge avail without the fear of God?”
‘“Truly, a lowly rustic that serveth God is better than a proud philosopher who pondereth the course of the stars and neglecteth himself.”
‘“He that knoweth himself becometh vile to himself, and taketh no delight in the praises of men.”
‘“If I knew all things that are in the world, and were not in charity, what would it profit me in the sight of God, who will judge according to deeds?”
‘“Cease from overweening desire of knowledge, because many distractions are found there, and much delusion.”
‘I might go on quoting till I reached the end, for on every page I note something that I would have you read. But why quote when I can send you the book? You have lost interest in the sentimental side of religion, but your loss is only momentary. You will never find anyone who will understand you better than this book. You are engaged now in the vain pursuit of knowledge, but some day, when you are weary of knowledge, you will turn to it. I do not ask you to read it now, but promise me that you will keep it. It will be a great consolation to me to know that it is by you.
‘Very sincerely yours,
‘OLIVER GOGARTY, P.P.’
From Father Oliver Gogarty to Miss Nora Glynn.
‘GARRANARD, BOHOLA,
‘November 3, 19 — .
‘DEAR MISS GLYNN,
‘I sent you — I think it must be a fortnight ago — a copy of “The Imitation of Christ.” The copy I sent is one of the original Elizabethan edition, a somewhat rare book and difficult to obtain. I sent you this copy in order to make sure that you would keep it; the English is better than the English of our modern translations. You must not think that I feel hurt because you did not write to thank me at once for having sent you the book. My reason for writing is merely because I should like to know if it reached you. If you have not received it, I think it would be better to make inquiries at once in the post. It would be a pity that a copy of the original Elizabethan edition should be lost. Just write a little short note saying that you have received it.
‘Very sincerely yours,
‘OLIVER GOGARTY, P.P.’
IX
‘THE IMITATION’ DROPPED on his knees, and he wondered if the spiritual impulse it had awakened in him was exhausted, or if the continual splashing of the rain on the pane had got upon his nerves.
‘But it isn’t raining in Italy,’ he said, getting up from his chair; ‘and I am weary of the rain, of myself — I am weary of everything.’ And going to the window, he tried to take ant interest in the weather, asking himself if it would clear up about 3 o’clock. It cleared usually late in the afternoon for a short while, and he would be able to go out for half an hour. But where should he go? He foresaw his walk from end to end before he began it: the descent of the hill, the cart-track and the old ruts full of water, the dead reeds on the shore soaking, the dripping trees. But he knew that about 3 o’clock the clouds would lift, and the sunset begin in the gaps in the mountains. He might go as far as the littl
e fields between Derrinrush and the plantations, and from there he could watch the sunset. But the sunset would soon be over, and he would have to return home, for a long evening without a book. Terrible! And he began to feel that he must have an occupation — his book! To write the story of the island castles would pass the time, and wondering how he might write it, whether from oral tradition or from the books and manuscripts which he might find in national libraries, he went out about 3 o’clock and wandered down the old cart-track, getting his feet very wet, till he came to the pine-wood, into which he went, and stood looking across the lake, wondering if he should go out to Castle Island in a boat — there was no boat, but he might borrow one somewhere — and examine what remained of the castle. But he knew every heap of old stones, every brown bush, and the thick ivy that twined round the last corner wall. Castle Hag had an interest Castle Island had not. The cormorants roosted there; and they must be hungry, for the lake had been too windy for fishing this long while. A great gust whirled past, and he stood watching the clouds drifting overhead — the same thick vapour drifting and going out. For nearly a month he was waiting for a space of blue sky, and a great sadness fell upon him, a sick longing for a change; but if he yielded to this longing he would never return to Garranard. There seemed to be no way out of the difficulty — at least, he could see none.
A last ray lit up a distant hillside, his shadow floated on the wet sand. The evening darkened rapidly, and he walked in a vague diffused light, inexpressibly sad to find Moran waiting for him at the end of an old cart-track, where the hawthorns grew out of a tumbled wall. He would keep Moran for supper. Moran was a human being, and —
‘I’ve come to see you, Gogarty; I don’t know if I’m welcome.’
‘It’s joking you are. You’ll stay and have some supper with me?’
‘Indeed I will, if you give me some drink, for it’s drink that I’m after, and not eating. I’d better get the truth out at once and have done with it. I’ve felt the craving coming on me for the last few days — you know what I mean — and now it’s got me by the throat. I must have drink. Come along, Gogarty, and give me some, and then I’ll say good-bye to you for ever.’
‘Now what are you saying?’
‘Don’t stand arguing with me, for you can’t understand, Gogarty — no one can; I can’t myself. But it doesn’t matter what anybody understands — I’m done for.’
‘We’ll have a bit of supper together. It will pass from you.’
‘Ah, you little know;’ and the priests walked up the hill in silence.
‘Gogarty, there’s no use talking; I’m done for. Let me go.’
‘Come in, will you?’ and he took him by the arm. ‘Come in. I’m a bigger man than you, Moran; come in!’
‘I’m done for,’ Father Moran said again.
Father Oliver made a sign of silence, and when they were in the parlour, and the door shut behind them, he said:
‘You mustn’t talk like that, and Catherine within a step of you.’
‘I’ve told you, Gogarty, I’m done for, and I’ve just come here to bid you good-bye; but before we part I’d like to hear you say that I haven’t been wanting in my duties — that in all the rest, as far as you know, I’ve been as good a man as another.’
‘In all but one thing I know no better man, and I’ll not hear that there’s no hope.’
‘Better waste no time talking. Just let me hear you say again that I’ve been a good man in everything but one thing.’
‘Yes, indeed;’ and the priests grasped hands.
And Catherine came into the room to ask if Father Moran was stopping to supper. Father Oliver answered hurriedly: ‘Yes, yes, he’s staying. Bring in supper as soon as you can;’ and she went away, to come back soon after with the cloth. And while she laid it the priests sat looking at each other, not daring to speak, hoping that Catherine did not suspect from their silence and manner that anything was wrong. She seemed to be a long while laying the cloth and bringing in the food; it seemed to them as if she was delaying on purpose. At last the door was closed, and they were alone.
‘Now, Moran, sit down and eat a bit, won’t you?’
‘I can’t eat anything. Give me some whisky; that is what I want. Give me some whisky, and I will go away and you’ll never see me again. Just a glass to keep me going, and I will go straight out of your parish, so that none of the disgrace will fall upon you; or — what do you think? You could put me up here; no one need know I’m here. All I want are a few bottles of whisky.’
‘You mean that I should put you up here and let you get drunk?’
‘You know what I mean well enough. I’m like that. And it’s well for you who don’t want whisky. But if it hadn’t been for whisky I should have been in a mad-house long ago. Now, just tell me if you’ll give me drink. If you will, I’ll stay and talk with you, for I know you’re lonely; if not, I’ll just be off with myself.’
‘Moran, you’ll be better when you’ve had something to eat. It will pass from you. I will give you a glass of beer.’
‘A glass of beer! Ah, if I could tell you the truth! We’ve all our troubles, Gogarty — trouble that none knows but God. I haven’t been watching you — I’ve been too tormented about myself to think much of anyone else — but now and then I’ve caught sight of a thought passing across your mind. We all suffer, you like another, and when the ache becomes too great to be borne we drink. Whisky is the remedy; there’s none better. We drink and forget, and that is the great thing. There are times, Gogarty, when one doesn’t want to think, when one’s afraid, aren’t there? — when one wants to forget that one’s alive. You’ve had that feeling, Gogarty. We all have it. And now I must be off. I must forget everything. I want to drink and to feel the miles passing under my feet.’
And on that he got up from the fire.
‘Come, Moran, I won’t hear you speak like that.’
‘Let me go. It’s no use; I’m done for;’ and Father Oliver saw his eyes light up.
‘I’ll not keep you against your will, but I’ll go a piece of the road with you.’
‘I’d sooner you didn’t come, Gogarty.’
Without answering, Father Oliver caught up his hat and followed Father Moran out of the house. They walked without speaking, and when they got to the gate Father Oliver began to wonder which way his unhappy curate would choose for escape. ‘Now why does he take the southern road?’ And a moment after he guessed that Moran was making for Michael Garvey’s public-house, ‘and after drinking there,’ he said to himself, ‘he’ll go on to Tinnick.’ After a couple of miles, however, Moran turned into a by-road leading through the mountains, and they walked on without saying a word.
And they walked mile after mile through the worn mountain road.
‘You’ve come far enough, Gogarty; go back. Regan’s public-house is outside of your parish.’
‘If it’s outside my parish, it’s only the other side of the boundary; and you said, Moran, that you wouldn’t touch whisky till to-morrow morning.’
The priests walked on again, and Father Oliver fell to thinking now what might be the end of this adventure. He could see there was no hope of persuading Father Moran from the bottle of whisky.
‘What time do you be making it, Gogarty?’
‘It isn’t ten o’clock yet.’
‘Then I’ll walk up and down till the stroke of twelve ... I’ll keep my promise to you.’
‘But they’ll all be in bed by twelve. What will you do then?’
Father Moran didn’t give Father Gogarty an answer, but started off again, and this time he was walking very fast; and when they got as far as Regan’s public-house Father Oliver took his friend by the arm, reminding him again of his promise.
‘You promised not to disgrace the parish.’
‘I said that.... Well, if it’s walking your heart is set upon, you shall have your bellyful of it.’
And he was off again like a man walking for a wager. But Father Oliver, who wouldn’t be
out-walked, kept pace with him, and they went striding along, walking without speaking.
Full of ruts and broken stones, the road straggled through the hills, and Father Oliver wondered what would happen when they got to the top of the hill. For the sea lay beyond the hill. The road bent round a shoulder of the hill, and when Father Oliver saw the long road before him his heart began to fail him, and a cry of despair rose to his lips; but at that moment Moran stopped.
