by George Moore
“But do none of you ever want to walk out with a young girl?” I said.
“We’re like other people, sir. We would like it well enough, but it isn’t the custom of the country, and if we did it we would be talked about.”
I began to like my young carman, and his answer to my question pleased me as much as any answer he had yet given me, and I told him that Father Madden objected to the looms because they entailed meetings, etc., and if he were not present the boys would talk on subjects they should not talk about.
“Now, do you think it is right for a priest to prevent men from meeting to discuss their business?” I said, turning to the driver, determined to force him into an expression of opinion.
“It isn’t because he thinks the men would talk about things they should not talk about that he is against an organization. Didn’t he tell your honour that things would have to take their course. That is why he will do nothing, because he knows well enough that everyone in the parish will have to leave it, that every house will have to fall. Only the chapel will remain standing, and the day will come when Father Tom will say Mass to the blind woman and to no one else. Did you see the blind woman to-day at Mass, sir, in the right-hand corner, with the shawl over her head?”
“Yes,” I said, “I saw her. If any one is a saint, that woman seems to be one.”
“Yes, sir, she is a very pious woman, and her piety is so well known that she is the only one who dared to brave Father Madden; she was the only one who dared to take Julia Cahill to live with her. It was Julia who put the curse on the parish.”
“A curse! But you are joking.”
“No, your honour, there was no joke in it. I was only telling you what must come. She put her curse on the village twenty years ago, and every year a roof has fallen in and a family has gone away.”
“And you believe that all this happens on account of Julia’s curse?”
“To be sure I do,” he said. He flicked his horse pensively with the whip, and my disbelief seemed to disincline him for further conversation.
“But,” I said, “who is Julia Cahill, and how did she get the power to lay a curse upon the village? Was she a young woman or an old one?”
“A young one, sir.”
“How did she get the power?”
“Didn’t she go every night into the mountains? She was seen one night over yonder, and the mountains are ten miles off, and whom would she have gone to see except the fairies? And who could have given her the power to curse the village?”
“But who saw her in the mountains? She would never walk so far in one evening.”
“A shepherd saw her, sir.”
“But he may have been mistaken.”
“He saw her speaking to some one, and nobody for the last two years that she was in this village dared to speak to her but the fairies and the old woman you saw at Mass to-day, sir.”
“Now, tell me about Julia Cahill; what did she do?”
“It is said, sir, she was the finest girl in these parts. I was only a gossoon at the time, about eight or nine, but I remember that she was tall, sir, nearly as tall as you are, and she was as straight as one of those poplar-trees,” he said, pointing to three trees that stood against the sky. “She walked with a little swing in her walk, so that all the boys, I have heard, who were grown up used to look after her, and she had fine black eyes, sir, and she was nearly always laughing. This was the time when Father Madden came to the parish. There was courting in it then, and every young man and every young woman made their own marriages, and their marriages were made at the cross-road dancing, and in the summer evenings under the hedges. There was no dancer like Julia; they used to gather about to see her dance, and whoever walked with her under the hedges in the summer, could never think about another woman. The village was fairly mad about her, many a fight there was over her, so I suppose the priest was right. He had to get rid of her; but I think he might not have been so hard upon her as he was. It is said that he went down to her house one evening; Julia’s people were well-to-do people; they kept a shop; you might have seen it as we came along the road, just outside of the village it is. And when he came in there was one of the richest farmers in the country who was trying to get Julia for his wife. Instead of going to Julia, he had gone to the father. There are two counters in the shop, and Julia was at the other, and she had made many a good pound for her parents in that shop; and he said to the father: ‘Now, what fortune are you going to give with Julia?’ And the father said there was many a man who would take her without any, and Julia was listening quietly all the while at the opposite counter. The man who had come to marry her did not know what a spirited girl she was, and he went on till he got the father to say that he would give L70, and, thinking he had got him so far, he said, ‘Julia will never cross my doorway unless you give her L80.’ Julia said never a word, she just sat there listening, and it was then that the priest came in. He listened for awhile, and then he went over to Julia and said, ‘Are you not proud to hear that you will have such a fine fortune?’ And he said, ‘I shall be glad to see you married. I would marry you for nothing, for I cannot have any more of your goings-on in my parish. You’re the beginning of the dancing and courting here; the ball-alley, too — I am going to put all that down.’ Julia did not answer a single word to him, and he went over to them that were disputing about the L80, and he said, ‘Now, why not make it L75,’ and the father agreed to that, since the priest said it, and the three men thought the marriage was settled. And Father Tom thought that he would get not less than L10 for the marrying of her. They did not even think to ask her, and little did they think what she was going to say, and what she said was that she would not marry any one until it pleased herself, and that she would pick a man out of this parish or out of the next that pleased her. Her husband should marry her, and not so many pounds to be paid when they signed the book or when the first baby was born. This is how marriages are settled now. Well, sir, the priest went wild when he heard Julia speak like this; he had only just come to the parish, and did not know how self-minded Julia was. Her father did, though, and he said nothing; he let Julia and the priest fight it out, and he said to the man who had come to marry her, ‘My good man, you can go your way; you will never get her, I can tell that.’ And the priest was heard saying, ‘Do you think I am going to let you go on turning the head of every boy in the parish? Do you think I am going to see fighting and quarrelling for you? Do you think I am going to see you first with one boy and then with the other? Do you think I am going to hear stories like I heard last week about poor Peter Carey, who they say, has gone out of his mind on account of your treatment? No,’ he said, ‘I will have no more of you; I will have you out of my parish, or I will have you married.’ Julia tossed her head, and her father got frightened. He promised the priest that she should walk no more with the young men in the evenings, for he thought he could keep her at home; but he might just as well have promised the priest to tie up the winds. Julia was out the same evening with a young man, and the priest saw her; and next evening she was out with another, and the priest saw her; and not a bit minded was she at the end of the month to marry any of them. It is said that he went down to speak to her a second time, and again a third time; it is said that she laughed at him. After that there was nothing for him to do but to speak against her from the altar. The old people say there were some terrible things in the sermon. I have heard it said that the priest called her the evil spirit that sets men mad. I don’t suppose Father Madden intended to say so much, but once he is started the words come pouring out. The people did not understand half of what he said, but they were very much frightened, and I think more frightened at what they did not understand than at what they did. Soon after that the neighbours began to be afraid to go to buy anything in Cahill’s shop; even the boys who were most mad after Julia were afraid to speak to her, and her own father put her out. No one in the parish would speak to her; they were all afraid of Father Madden. If it had not been for the
blind woman you saw in the chapel to-day, sir, she would have had to go to the poor-house. The blind woman has a little cabin at the edge of the bog, and there Julia lived. She remained for nearly two years, and had hardly any clothes on her back, but she was beautiful for all that, and the boys, as they came back, sir, from the market used to look towards the little cabin in the hopes of catching sight of her. They only looked when they thought they were not watched, for the priest still spoke against her. He tried to turn the blind woman against Julia, but he could not do that; the blind woman kept her until money came from America. Some say that she went to America; some say that she joined the fairies. But one morning she surely left the parish. One morning Pat Quinn heard somebody knocking at his window, somebody asking if he would lend his cart to take somebody to the railway station. It was five o’clock in the morning, and Pat was a heavy sleeper, and he would not get up, and it is said that she walked barefooted all the way to the station, and that is a good ten miles.”
“But you said something about a curse.”
“Yes, sir, a man who was taking some sheep to the fair saw her: there was a fair that day. He saw her standing at the top of the road. The sun was just above the hill, and looking back she cursed the village, raising both hands, sir, up to the sun, and since that curse was spoken, every year a roof has fallen in.”
There was no doubt that the boy believed what he had told me; I could see that he liked to believe the story, that it was natural and sympathetic to him to believe in it; and for the moment I, too, believed in a dancing girl becoming the evil spirit of a village that would not accept her delight.
“He has sent away Life,” I said to myself, “and now they are following Life. It is Life they are seeking.”
“It is said, your honour, that she’s been seen in America, and I am going there this autumn. You may be sure I will keep a look out for her.”
“But all this is twenty years ago. You will not know her. A woman changes a good deal in twenty years.”
“There will be no change in her, your honour. She has been with the fairies. But, sir, we shall be just in time to see the clergy come out of the cathedral after the consecration,” he said, and he pointed to the town.
It stood in the middle of a flat country, and as we approached it the great wall of the cathedral rose above dirty and broken cottages, and great masses of masonry extended from the cathedral into the town; and these were the nunnery, its schools and laundry; altogether they seemed like one great cloud.
When, I said, will a ray from the antique sun break forth and light up this country again?
A PLAYHOUSE IN THE WASTE
I HAD ARRANGED to stay with Father MacTurnan till Monday, and I had driven many miles along the road that straggles like a grey thread through the brown bog. On either side there were bog-holes, and great ruts in the road; the horse shied frequently, and once I was preparing to leap from the car, but the driver assured me that the old horse would not leave the road.
“Only once he was near leaving the road, and the wheel of the car must have gone within an inch of the bog-hole. It was the day before Christmas Day, and I was driving the doctor; he saw something, a small white thing gliding along the road, and he was that scared that the hair rose up and went through his cap.”
I could not tell from the driver’s face whether he was aware of his extravagant speech. He seemed to have already forgotten what he had said, and we drove on through the bog till the dismal distant mountains and the cry of a plover forced me to speak again.
“All this parish, then,” I said, “is Father MacTurnan’s.”
“Every mile of it, sir,” he said, “every mile of it; and we see him riding along the roads on his bicycle going to sick-calls buttoned up in his old coat.”
“Do you often come this way?”
“Not very often, sir. No one lives here except the poor people and the priest and the doctor. It is the poorest parish in Ireland, and every third or fourth year there’s a famine; and they would have died long ago if it had not been for Father James.”
“And how does he help them?”
“Isn’t he always writing letters to the Government asking for relief works. Do you see those bits of roads? They are the relief works.”
“Where do those roads lead to?”
“Nowhere. The road stops in the middle of the bog when the money is out.”
“But,” I said, “surely it would be better if the money were spent upon permanent improvements, on drainage, for instance.”
The boy did not answer; he called to his horse, and I had to press him for an answer.
“There’s no fall, sir.”
“And the bog is too big,” I added, in hope of encouraging conversation.
“Faith it is, sir.”
“But we are not very far from the sea, are we?”
“About a couple of miles.”
“Well, then,” I said, “couldn’t a harbour be made?”
“They were thinking about that, but there’s no depth of water, and the engineer said it would be cheaper to send the people to America. Everyone is against emigration now, but the people can’t live here.”
“So there is no hope,” I said, “for home industries, weaving, lace-making.”
“I won’t say that.”
“But has it been tried?”
“The candle do be burning in the priest’s window till one in the morning, and he sitting up thinking of plans to keep the people at home. Do you see that house, sir, fornint my whip, at the top of the hill?” I said I did. “Well, that’s the playhouse that he built.”
“A playhouse,” I said.
“Yes, sir; Father James hoped that people might come from Dublin to see it. No play like it had ever been acted in Ireland before, sir.”
“This carman of mine,” I said to myself, “is an extraordinary fellow, — he has got a story about everyone; he is certainly a legitimate descendant of the old bards,” and I leaned across the car and said to him: —
“And was the play performed?”
“No, sir. The priest had been learning them all the summer, but the autumn was on them before they had got it by rote, and a wind came and blew down one of the walls.”
“And couldn’t Father MacTurnan get the money to build it up?”
“Sure he might have got the money, but where would be the use when there was no luck in it.”
“And who were to act the play?”
“The girls and boys in the parish, and the prettiest girl in all the parish was to play Good Deeds.”
“So it was a miracle play,” I said.
“Do you see that man there, sir? That’s the priest coming out of James Burke’s cabin.”
We should overtake Father MacTurnan in a minute or more. There was no time to hear the story, and I was sorry not to have heard the story of the playhouse from the car-driver. Father MacTurnan got up beside me, and told me we were about a mile from his house and that he had dinner for me. He was a tall, thin man, and his pale, wandering eyes reflected the melancholy of the distant mountains.
“I hope,” said the priest, “that you’re not wet; we have had some showers here.”
“We were caught in a shower coming out of Rathowen, but nothing to signify.”
Our talk then turned on the consecration of the cathedral. I told him everything I thought would interest him, but all the while I was thinking what kind of house he lived in; I had only seen mud huts for many a mile; presently he pointed with his umbrella, and I saw a comfortable whitewashed cottage by the roadside. The idea of the playhouse was ringing in my head, and I began to wonder why he did not train a rose-bush against its wall, and a moment after I felt that it was well that he did not — a rose-bush could only seem incongruous facing that waste hill. We passed into the house, and seeing the priest’s study lined with books, I said, “Reading is his distraction,” and I looked forward to a pleasant talk about books when we had finished our business talk; “and he’ll tell me ab
out the playhouse,” I said. After dinner, when we had said all we had to say on the possibilities of establishing local industries, the priest got up suddenly, — I thought he was going to take a book from the shelves to show me, but he had gone to fetch his knitting, and, without a word of explanation, he began to knit. I saw that he was knitting stockings, and from the rapidity that the needles went to and fro I guessed that he knitted every evening. It may have been only my fancy, but it seemed to me that the priest answered the questions I addressed to him about his books perfunctorily; it even seemed to me that he wished to avoid literary conversation. Yielding to his wish, or what I believed to be his wish, I spoke of practical things, saying that the worst feature of the case was that the Irish no longer cared to live in Ireland.
“Even the well-to-do want to go away. The people are weary of the country; they have suffered too much. I think that they wish to lose themselves.”
“It will be a pity,” the priest said.
“A sort of natural euthanasia,” I said. “A wish to forget themselves.”
“It will be a pity,” the priest said again, and he began to speak of the seventh century, when Ireland had a religion of her own, an art of her own, and a literature of her own.
We drew our chairs closer to the fire, and we spoke of the Cross of Cong and Cormac’s Chapel, and began to mourn the race, as is customary in these times.
“The Celt is melting like snow; he lingers in little patches in the corners of the field, and hands are stretched from every side, for it is human to stretch hands to fleeting things, but as well might we try to retain the snow.”
But as I grew despondent the priest grew hopeful, “No fine race has ever been blotted out.” His eyes, I said, are as melancholy as the mountains, but nature has destined him to bring hope to the hopeless, and my delight in his character caused me to forget to ask him about the playhouse. He had started a school for lace-making, but instead of keeping them at home it had helped them to emigrate; I said that this was the worst feature of the case. But the priest found excellent reasons for thinking that the weaving industry would prove more remunerative; he was sure that if the people could only make a slight livelihood in their own country they would not want to leave it. He instanced Ireland in the eighteenth century, — the population had been killed off until only two millions remained, and in the nineteenth century the population stood at eight millions. I listened, letting the priest talk on, delighting in his incurable optimism; and when the servant opened the door and told the priest he was wanted, I saw him put on his old coat, grown green with age; I said to myself, “No man in the world is better at his own job than this one; hope is what they want;” and returning to the study after seeing him off I stopped suddenly, seeing his eyes filled with kindness as he sat by the deathbed and hearing his kind wisdom. That day I had seen a woman digging in a patch of bog under the grey sky. She wore a red petticoat, a handkerchief was tied round her head, and the moment she caught sight of us she flung down the spade and ran to the hovel, and a man appeared with a horn, and he blew the horn, running to the brow of the hill. I asked the driver the reason of their alarm, and he told me that we had been mistaken for the bailiff. This was true, for I saw two little sheep hardly bigger than geese driven away. There was a pool of green water about this hovel, and all the hovels in the district were the same, — one-roomed hovels, full of peat smoke, and on the hearth a black iron pot, with traces of some yellow meal stirabout in it. The dying man or woman would be lying in a corner on some straw, and the priest would speak a little Irish to these outcast Celts, “to those dim people who wander like animals through the waste,” I said.
