Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  And troth and faith, Tadhg wasn’t far wrong, for when she appeared the words that slipped from him were: Biddy, you’re just Mother Eve herself, come out of the word of God. Now, if you start talking of the Bible I’ll run away and put on my clothes. You won’t mind me saying, Biddy, that you’re round as a gossoon, with sloping shoulders and great big breasts. You don’t think them too large? No, he said; I like the breasts because the hips are thin. I wouldn’t have any part of you changed, and none of the sculptors of old Greece could have mended you. My master Sir Ulick would have bowed his knee to you, for before a naked woman such as you are, Biddy, her loveliness wouldn’t leave a bit of pride in him. Well, it’s good to think I am pleasing somebody! Pleasing me! said Tadhg. I shall leave this world happy now, for though I have never sinned with a woman I have seen God’s creation. And is it my back or my front that you like the best? I wouldn’t separate the back from the front, but perhaps you are more willowy down the spine. And now you have seen your fill of me, and I can put my things on. Another minute, Biddy, just a minute more. And Tadhg stared his eyes out at her. If you look at me any longer you’ll be sick of seeing me! and she took herself back into the thicket. When she came out again in her smock, Tadhg said: You are the finest woman in the county of Mayo, and there isn’t a man wouldn’t say the same as I do if he saw you without the smock. I like this smock, she said; I paid a good penny for it in Ballinrobe before our marriage. I don’t know what you’ve got against it, or against the petticoat either, and it embroidered. I never heard of a man that hated clothes as much as you do, Tadhg honey. And now that’s nonsense enough for one day, and the supper to be got. She threw some sticks on the fire, but the sticks were small and couldn’t bring the pot to the boil, and while she was getting bigger ones she found Tadhg sitting where she had left him, with his head on his chest and his eyes turned in, and he all down and out. You’ll be better lying a bit, honey. And taking hold of him she pulled him to his feet and kept him on them till they reached the hut, where she stretched him back with a pillow under his head. The pot’s boiling, said she, and she got to thinking about her man, and that he wasn’t well at all, at all.

  The poor old man, said she; I don’t think he’s long for this world; and doubtful if he would have much appetite for the bowl of porridge, she added some spoonfuls of honeycomb. A little sup of the milk is all I want, he said, and having drunk he dropped back into a doze. It’s a strong weakness is on him, she said, and not healthy sleep. The sun was up before he stirred, and after a little walk she brought him back to his bed, and he slept till nearly midday, when he woke up refreshed, and she said: That was a fine fright you gave me last night. I am tougher than you think, he said. Now, are you hungry? I have some nice eels hanging up. Tadhg shook his head. And I got a trout whilst you were sleeping. A taste of the trout wouldn’t hurt me, said he. He is very weak surely, she said, turning from the pan, and she made up her mind that she’d go to the Abbey for help. He’d like to see the Abbot anyhow; ‘twill cheer him up.... But the Abbot was in his own bed and wouldn’t leave it for the next three days, for he was trying to cure himself of a bad cold on the chest; but still, coughing or not, he was worried when he heard about Tadhg, and he sent Biddy back with one of the brethren who was said to know what a sick man wanted almost before he looked at him. Now, ODorachy, said he, I’ve brought you a bottle of wine, and you can have a sup out of it from time to time; and keep still between the sups — rest is what you need. And when he went back to the boat he warned Biddy that she must keep him quiet, which she promised to do. Although, said she, he’s a restless man, and the minute he feels a little better he’ll be about, trotting the glades and thinking of the story he’ll be telling the pilgrims, or tuning his harp, or thinking up new tunes to amuse them; for he’s bent on making the next pilgrimage a great success, if it kills him. Well, he’ll see no pilgrims if you don’t keep him quiet! Biddy promised to do her best, and was finely scared on finding Tadhg by the little quay waiting to meet her. You’re doing just what Brother Luke said you weren’t to do; come you back to the bed at once, and I’ll make you a nice warm drink.

  Next day Tadhg seemed almost as well as ever he was, and feeling his strength returning, he said he must be at his story. Can’t you make the story just as well lying down? To which he made no answer, but bade her be off. He came back very tired that evening, and finding him weak the next day and with a dawny look on his face, she said: I have business over at the monastery, and you’ll be taking care of yourself till I return. Don’t leave me now, Biddy, he said. Brother Luke can’t help me. I am not long for this world. Now, let you not be talking like that! And after drinking some wine and eating, he seemed again to get his strength. And one day, speaking queer and not like a man at all but the way a prophet might, maybe, he said: When a man gets into the eighties there isn’t much of the world left in him and not much wish to live; there does be a secret hankering in old men for a good rest, a thing there’s very little of in this world. But what do you want to talk like that for? said Biddy. You aren’t thinking of dying on me? You’ll get into the nineties before you stop. Well, he said, I may live a few years more. I am feeling better this day than I have done for a long time. But all the same, Biddy, I won’t be long in it, and there’s one thing now that I’d like you to do for me. I’d see you once more the way I saw you before, so that I may finish the story. Now, of all the men! said Biddy. Can’t you be asking me anything else at all father than that? You wouldn’t let me die, Biddy, without finishing the story that I set out to do? I’m going to heaven, Biddy, where there are no clothes at all, and if that be so I’ll be all the better for another look at you. Why can’t you wait till I join you in heaven, where we’ll be looking at each other always without wearying of each other, so it is said. Well, the argument went on, and Biddy felt nowise inclined to consent, but in the end, when she saw that the old man would come to more harm by her not doing it than by her doing it, she went behind the blackthorns and came out the same as before. Hardly any hips at all on you, Biddy. Ah! that’s the great disfigurement in women — the same hips. But I have a big bosom. The bosom goes in well with the rest of you, and it’s as you are that I like you. Now, turn a little the other way. He was a long time admiring the willowy curve of her back. Built like a weasel you are, he said, with a dip in the middle. Biddy wasn’t altogether pleased at being compared with a weasel, but she didn’t like to say a thing that would contrary the old man, so she stood in the way that he seemed to care most for till she got a cramp in one of her legs; and she was about to ask him to let her shift them when she heard a faint cry. Now, what is that? she said, and turning round she went over and had a look at Tadhg. He’s gone at last! and she closed his eyes, wondering if he’d know her the next time they met. I must go over to the Abbey, for the funeral will be to-morrow. They’ll bury him beside his master, where he’ll be happier than he was with me. He wasn’t unhappy with me either.

  A great story, Alec. I can see and hear it all, the Abbot coming over to the island to get a true account of Tadhg’s death from Biddy; and I can hear her answering him: Not a story I’d like to be telling your reverence. Biddy, I would have the truth from you plainly. Since your reverence is willing to listen to how my poor man came to his death, I’d say it was through the odd fancy that took him to make a grand story... About what, Biddy? Saving your reverence’s presence, about my rump. About your rump, Biddy! My poor Tadhg set great store on seeing me naked, and every right he had, your reverence, to seeing me whatever way he wanted, we being husband and wife. He had it from yourself, else I’d never have stripped before him. But you haven’t told me how he died, Biddy. He died saying that my back was like a willow branch and the round of my rump as fine as anything ever dug up in Greece. A strange death surely, Alec, and a noble death, for shouldn’t every man die in love with his wife? You have exceeded me in invention. The Ballinrobe cock is outdone, and the crow is to the Westport rooster!

  Aphrodite in Aulisr />
  On the 22 August 1931, the Hull Daily Mail announced the publication of Aphrodite in Aulis. Describing Moore as a “veteran Irish novelist”, the feature states that he took four years to write the novel and announces that it will be his last book. “If so, the literary world will be the poorer for the loss of his writing”, the article states and adds that it is a “charming tale”. Moore was seventy-nine years old by this time and had not enjoyed good health, so it is little wonder that he was being realistic about his future ability to complete a project. First published as a limited edition by Heinemann in 1930 and by Fountain Press in New York, the novel is dedicated to Sir John Thomson Walker, who is credited with being the impetus behind the book. This tale of an actor from ancient times continues Moore’s interest and foray into the ancient past, initially sparked by Brook Kerith.

  In the time of Pericles, Kebren is a handsome young actor in his early twenties, who has fallen on hard times. He has no talent for the family business of fishmongery and his father has squandered the family savings on women from Corinth and riotous living; Kebren now lives in one room, a jobbing actor, surviving on sour wine and bread. One night, he has a vivid dream in which he receives a message from one of the gods, urging him to travel to Aulis. He immediately rises, packs his bundle of belongings and sets out from Athens. On his journey he encounters a goatherd, who shares a meal with him and has to pass through a forest where hunting takes place.

  Finally, he reaches the Bay of Aulis and approaches Otanes, an affluent merchant, who is overseeing the loading of a large galley at the wharf. Kebren explains that he has embarked on a long journey and hopes to pay his way by reading and explaining the Iliad to audiences. Otanes invites him to stay with him and his young daughter, Biote and in return, Kebren gives his lecture on the Iliad in a private performance, just for Otane and his daughter. It is a gripping rendition and Otanes requests Kebren not to return to Athens the next day, as he had planned, but to stay long enough to read all twenty-four books of Homer to him and his daughter, one book per day. For his services, his passage to the next place in his itinerary – Cnidus – would be paid in full.

  Meanwhile, Kebren becomes increasingly drawn to Biotes, enchanted by her laugh, the sweetness of her perfume and drawn in by poignant stories of her life with her late mother. He accompanies Biotes on a visit into the countryside to stay with friends of the family and a faltering courtship between the two young people follows as they spend more time in each other’s company; however, Kebren holds back, thinking of his future travels. As he says to her father, “I love your daughter, Otanes, but I love my life”. However, Otanes has a plan. He wishes to see his daughter married and to provide grandchildren, so he asks Kebren to stay on after reading the Iliad and read the Odyssey next, which will take much longer. Eventually, Kebren does marry Biote and he settles into family life, but local gossips have much to say on the matter. It is never good luck, the gossips insist, to divert a man from his chosen mission in order to make him marry and stay in one place and it is never sensible to expect a man to suppress his art in favour of commerce.

  Moore fashions vivid insights of the ancient world in this believable novel. For example, Timotheus, Otane’s most senior house slave, is terrified of anything happening to Otane’s beloved daughter, as he is convinced that Otanes would kill himself if she died; then what would become of Timotheus and the other slaves in the household? This would have been an ever-present worry amongst slaves in the ancient world, especially if they were well treated by a current owner. Timotheus is also a gossip and recounts many tales from “below stairs” to Kebren, about the antics and personalities of different household servants. The role played by the creative arts in the ancient world is well depicted and there is a strong theme of “be careful what you wish for” in the narrative which allows for strong story telling. For an elderly and rather eccentric author’s swansong, it is a strong and entertaining read, but very different to the Zola-esque novels of Moore’s heyday.

  The first edition’s title page

  CONTENTS

  SIR JOHN THOMSON WALKER

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX

  CHAPTER XXI

  CHAPTER XXII

  Sir John William Thomson-Walker (1871-1937) was a Scottish surgeon, Hunterian Professor of Surgery at the Royal College of Surgeons of England and a leader in the field of urology.

  SIR JOHN THOMSON WALKER

  MY DEAR SIR John. Since time began, that is to say, since books came to be written, authors have been at pains to devise ingenious pretexts for dedicating their books to important people. I am exempted from the pains of my predecessors by the fact that the book I am dedicating to you comes to you by right; without you it would never have been written. The book was dependent upon you from the day that I came to see you two years ago. When I caught sight of you coming down the passage I knew instinctively that the truth was drawing near, and when you said: An operation is necessary, I assented, pleading, however, for a month’s delay. I am planning a book, I said; it will take a year to write, but in a month I can draw up a plan that will cheer me during the long weeks in the Nursing Home, helping away the weary hours, night and day. Will you grant me a month? You acquiesced, but I read in your face that you were against the delay, and after a week of struggle I entered the Home, to which you came every day to listen to my confused babble, giving enough attention to it to keep the thought out of my mind that I was dying. You sat weighing good hopes with bad, determined to save my life if it could be saved, and at the end of two months and a half I staggered out of the Home into a cab, a shrunken piece of wreckage, craving for the seashore.