by George Moore
One of the advantages of Dublin is that one can get out of it as easily as any other city. Steamers were always leaving, morning and evening; she didn’t know how many, but a great many. On the other hand, if she took the straight course and confided her sex to Helen before the marriage, Helen might promise not to tell; but she might break her promise; life in Morrison’s Hotel would be unendurable, and she’d have to endure it. What a hue and cry! But one way was as bad as the other. If she had only asked Hubert Page! but she hadn’t a thought at the time of going to do likewise. What’s one man’s meat is another man’s poison, and she began to regret Hubert’s confession to her. If it hadn’t been for that flea she wouldn’t be in this mess; and she was deep in it! Three months’ company isn’t a day, and everybody in Morrison’s Hotel asking whether she or Joe Mackins would be the winner, urging her to make haste else Joe would come with a rush at the finish. A lot of racing talk that she didn’t understand — or only half. If she could get out of this mess somehow — But it was too late. She must go through with it. But how? A different sort of girl altogether was needed, but she liked Helen. Her way of standing on a doorstep, her legs a little apart, jawing a tradesman, and she’d stand up to Mrs. Baker and to the chef himself. She liked the way Helen’s eyes lighted up when a thought came into her mind; her cheery laugh warmed Albert’s heart as nothing else did. Before she met Helen she often feared her heart was growing cold. She might try the world over and not find one that would run the shop she had in mind as well as Helen. But the shop wouldn’t wait; the owners of the shop would withdraw their offer if it was not accepted before next Monday. And to-day is Friday, Albert said to herself. This evening or never. To-morrow Helen’ll be on duty all day; on Sunday she’ll contrive some excuse to get out to meet Joe Mackins. After all, why not this evening? for what must be had better be faced bravely; and while the tram rattled down the long street, Rathmines Avenue, past the small houses atop of high steps, pretty boxes with ornamental trees in the garden, some with lawns, with here and there a more substantial house set in the middle of three or four fields at least, Albert meditated, plan after plan rising up in her mind; and when the car turned to the right and then to the left and proceeded at a steady pace up the long incline, Rathgar Avenue, Albert’s courage was again at ebb. All the subterfuges she had woven — the long discussion in which she would maintain that marriage should not be considered as a sexual adventure, but a community of interests — seemed to have lost all significance; the points that had seemed so convincing in Rathmines Avenue were forgotten in Rathgar Avenue, and at Terenure she came to the conclusion that there was no use trying to think the story out beforehand; she would have to adapt her ideas to the chances that would arise as they talked under the trees in the dusk in a comfortable hollow, where they could lie at length out of hearing of the other lads and lasses whom they would find along the banks, resting after the labour of the day in dim contentment, vaguely conscious of each other, satisfied with a vague remark, a kick or a push.
It was the hope that the river’s bank would tempt him into confidence that had suggested to Helen that they might spend the evening by the Dodder. Albert had welcomed the suggestion, feeling sure that if there was a place in the world that would make the telling of her secret easy it was the banks of the Dodder; and she was certain she would be able to speak it in the hollow under the ilex-trees. But speech died from her lips, and the silence round them seemed sinister and foreboding. She seemed to dread the river flowing over its muddy bottom, without ripple or eddy; and she started when Helen asked her of what she was thinking. Albert answered: Of you, dear; and how pleasant it is to be sitting with you. On these words the silence fell again, and Albert tried to speak, but her tongue was too thick in her mouth; she felt like choking, and the silence was not broken for some seconds, each seeming a minute. At last a lad’s voice was heard: I’ll see if you have any lace on your drawers; and the lass answered: You shan’t. There’s a pair that’s enjoying themselves, Helen said, and she looked upon the remark as fortunate, and hoped it would give Albert the courage to pursue his courtship. Albert, too, looked upon the remark as fortunate, and she tried to ask if there was lace on all women’s drawers; and meditated a reply that would lead her into a confession of her sex. But the words: It’s so long since I’ve worn any, died on her lips; and instead of speaking these words she spoke of the Dodder, saying: What a pity it isn’t nearer Morrison’s. Where would you have it? Helen replied — flowing down Sackville Street into the Liffey? We should be lying there as thick as herrings, without room to move, or we should be unable to speak to each other without being overheard. I dare say you are right, Albert answered, and she was so frightened that she added: But we have to be back at eleven o’clock, and it takes an hour to get there. We can go back now if you like, Helen rapped out. Albert apologised, and hoping that something would happen to help her out of her difficulty, she began to represent Morrison’s Hotel as being on the whole advantageous to servants. But Helen did not respond. She seems to be getting angrier and angrier, Albert said to herself, and she asked, almost in despair, if the Dodder was pretty all the way down to the sea. And remembering a walk with Joe, Helen answered: There are woods as far as Dartry — the Dartry Dye Works, don’t you know them? But I don’t think there are any very pretty spots. You know Ring’s End, don’t you? Albert said she had been there once; and Helen spoke of a large three-masted vessel that she had seen some Sundays ago by the quays. You were there with Joe Mackins, weren’t you? Well, what if I was? Only this, Albert answered, that I don’t think it is usual for a girl to keep company with two chaps, and I thought —
Now, what did you think? Helen said. That you didn’t care for me well enough —— For what? she asked. You know we’ve been going out for three months, and it doesn’t seem natural to keep talking always, never wanting to put your arm round a girl’s waist. I suppose Joe isn’t like me, then? Albert asked; and Helen laughed, a scornful little laugh. But Albert went on, isn’t the time for kissing when one is wedded? This is the first time you’ve said anything about marriage, Helen rapped out. But I thought there had always been an understanding between us, said Albert, and it’s only now I can tell you what I have to offer. The words were well chosen. Tell me about it, Helen said, her eyes and voice revealing her cupidity to Albert, who continued all the same to unfold her plans, losing herself in details that bored Helen, whose thoughts returned to the dilemma she was in — to refuse Albert’s offer or to break with Joe; and that she should be obliged to do either one or the other was a disappointment to her. All you say about the shop is right enough, but it isn’t a very great compliment to a girl. What, to ask her to marry? Albert interjected. Well, no, not if you haven’t kissed her first. Don’t speak so loud, Albert whispered; I’m sure that couple heard what you said, for they went away laughing. I don’t care whether they laughed or cried, Helen answered. You don’t want to kiss me, do you? and I don’t want to marry a man who isn’t in love with me. But I do want to kiss you, and Albert bent down and kissed Helen on both cheeks. Now you can’t say I haven’t kissed you, can you? You don’t call that kissing, do you? Helen asked. But how do you wish me to kiss you, Helen? Well, you are an innocent! she said, and she kissed Albert vindictively. Helen, leave go of me; I’m not used to such kisses. Because you’re not in love, Helen replied. In love? Albert repeated. I loved my old nurse very much, but I never wished to kiss her like that. At this Helen exploded with laughter. So you put me in the same class with your old nurse! Well, after that! Come, she said, taking pity upon Albert for a moment, are you or are you not in love with me? I love you deeply, Helen, Albert said. Love? she repeated: the men who have walked out with me were in love with me — In love, Albert repeated after her. I’m sure I love you. I like men to be in love with me, she answered. But that’s like an animal, Helen. Whatever put all that muck in your head? I’m going home, she replied, and rose to her feet and started out on the path leading across the darkening fields. You
’re not angry with me, Helen? Angry? No, I’m not angry with you; you’re a fool of a man, that’s all. But if you think me a fool of a man, why did you come out this evening to sit under those trees? And why have we been keeping company for the last three months, Albert continued, going out together every week? You didn’t always think me a fool of a man, did you? Yes, I did, she answered; and Albert asked Helen for a reason for choosing her company. Oh, you bother me asking reasons for everything, Helen said. But why did you make me love you? Albert asked. Well, if I did, what of it? and as for walking out with you, you won’t have to complain of that any more. You don’t mean, Helen, that we are never going to walk out again? Yes, I do, she said sullenly. You mean that for the future you’ll be walking out with Joe Mackins, Albert lamented. That’s my business, she answered. By this time they were by the stile at the end of the field, and in the next field there was a hedge to get through and a wood, and the little path they followed was full of such vivid remembrances that Albert could not believe that she was treading it with Helen for the last time, and besought Helen to take back the words that she would never walk out with her again.
The tram was nearly empty and they sat at the far end, close together, Albert beseeching Helen not to cast her off. If I’ve been stupid to-day, Albert pleaded, it’s because I’m tried of the work in the hotel; I shall be different when we get to Lisdoonvarna: we both want a change of air; there’s nothing like the salt water and the cliffs of Clare to put new spirits into a man. You will be different and I’ll be different; everything will be different. Don’t say no, Helen; don’t say no. I’ve looked forward to this week in Lisdoonvarna, and Albert urged the expense of the lodgings she had already engaged. We shall have to pay for the lodgings; and there’s the new suit of clothes that has just come back from the tailor’s; I’ve looked forward to wearing it, walking with you in the strand, the waves crashing up into cliffs, with green fields among them, I’ve been told! We shall see the ships passing and wonder whither they are going. I’ve bought three neck-ties and some new shirts, and what good will these be to me if you’ll not come to Lisdoonvarna with me? The lodgings will have to be paid for, a great deal of money, for I said in my letter we shall want two bedrooms. But there need only be one bedroom; but perhaps I shouldn’t have spoken like that. Oh, don’t talk to me about Lisdoonvarna, Helen answered. I’m not going to Lisdoonvarna with you. But what is to become of the hat I have ordered for you? Albert asked; the hat with the big feather in it”; and I’ve bought stockings and shoes for you. Tell me, what shall I do with these, and with the gloves? Oh, the waste of money and the heart-breaking! What shall I do with the hat? Albert repeated. Helen didn’t answer at once. Presently she said: You can leave the hat with me. And the stockings? Albert asked. Yes, you can leave the stockings. And the shoes? Yes, you can leave the shoes too. Yet you won’t go to Lisdoonvarna with me? No, she said, I’ll not go to Lisdoonvarna with you. But you’ll take the presents? It was to please you I said I would take them, because I thought it would be some satisfaction to you to know that they wouldn’t be wasted. Not wasted? Albert repeated. You’ll wear them when you go out with Joe Mackins. Oh, well, keep your presents. And then the dispute took a different turn, and was continued until they stepped out of the tram at the top of Dawson Street. Albert continued to plead all the way down Dawson Street, and when they were within twenty yards of the hotel, and she saw Helen passing away from her for ever into the arms of Joe Mackins, she begged Helen not to leave her. We cannot part like this, she cried; let us walk up and down the street from Nassau Street to Clare Street, so that we may talk things over and do nothing foolish. You see, Albert began, I had set my heart on driving on an outside car to the Broad stone with you, and catching a train, and the train going into lovely country, arriving at a place we had never seen, with cliffs, and the sunset behind the cliffs. You’ve told all that before, Helen said, and, she rapped out, I’m not going to Lisdoonvarna with you. And if that is all you had to say to me we might have gone into the hotel. But there’s much more, Helen. I haven’t told you about the shop yet. Yes, you have told me all there is to tell about the shop; you’ve been talking about that shop for the last three months. But, Helen, it was only yesterday that I got a letter saying that they had had another offer for the shop, and that they could give me only till Monday morning to close with them; if the lease isn’t signed by then we’ve lost the shop. But do you think, Helen asked, that the shop will be a success? Many shops promise well in the beginning and fade away till they don’t get a customer a day. Our shop won’t be like that, I know it won’t; and Albert began an appraisement of the shop’s situation and the custom it commanded in the neighbourhood and the possibility of developing that custom. We shall be able to make a great success of that shop, and people will be coming to see us, and they will be having tea with us in the parlour, and they’ll envy us, saying that never have two people had such luck as we have had.
And our wedding will be — Will be what? Helen asked. Will be a great wonder. A great wonder indeed, she replied, but I’m not going to wed you, Albert Nobbs, and now I see it’s beginning to rain. I can’t remain out any longer. You’re thinking of your hat; I’ll buy another. We may as well say good-bye, she answered, and Albert saw her going towards the doorway. She’ll see Joe Mackins before she goes to her bed, and lie dreaming of him; and I shall lie awake in my bed, my thoughts flying to and fro the livelong night, zigzagging up and down like bats. And then remembering that if she went into the hotel she might meet Helen and Joe Mackins, she rushed on with a hope in her mind that after a long walk round Dublin she might sleep.
At the corner of Clare Street she met two women strolling after a fare — ten shillings or a sovereign, which? she asked herself — and terrified by the shipwreck of all her hopes, she wished she were one of them. For they at least are women, whereas I am but a perhapser — In the midst of her grief a wish to speak to them took hold of her. But if I speak to them they’ll expect me to — All the same her steps quickened, and as she passed the two street-walkers she looked round, and one woman, wishing to attract her attention, said: It was almost a love dream. Almost a love dream? Albert repeated. What are you two women talking about? and the woman next to Albert said: My friend here was telling me of a dream she had last night. A dream, and what was her dream about? Albert asked. Kitty was telling me that she was better than a love dream; now do you think she is, sir? I’ll ask Kitty herself, Albert replied, and Kitty answered him: — A shade. Only a shade, Albert returned, and as they crossed the street a gallant attached himself to Kitty’s companion. Albert and Kitty were left together, and Albert asked her companion to tell her name. My name is Kitty MacCan, the girl replied. It’s odd we’ve never met before, Albert replied, hardly knowing what she was saying.
We’re not often this way, was the answer. And where do you walk usually — of an evening? Albert asked. In Grafton Street or down by College Green; sometimes we cross the river. To walk in Sackville Street, Albert interjected; and she tried to lead the woman into a story of her life. But you’re not one of them, she said, that think that we should wash clothes in a nunnery for nothing? I’m a waiter in Morrison’s Hotel. As soon as the name of Morrison’s Hotel passed Albert’s lips she began to regret having spoken about herself. But what did it matter now? and the woman didn’t seem to have taken heed of the name of the hotel. Is the money good in your hotel? Kitty asked; I’ve heard that you get as much as half-a-crown for carrying up a cup of tea; and her story dribbled out in remarks, a simple story that Albert tried to listen to, but her attention wandered, and Kitty, who was not unintelligent, began to guess Albert to be in the middle of some great grief. It doesn’t matter about me, Albert answered her, and Kitty being a kind girl said to herself: If I can get him to come home with me I’ll help him out of his sorrow, if only for a little while. So she continued to try to interest him in herself till they came to Fitzwilliam Place; and it was not till then that Kitty remembered she had only three an
d sixpence left out of the last money she had received, and that her rent would be due on the morrow. She daren’t return home without a gentleman; her landlady would be at her; and the best time of the night was going by talking to a man who seemed like one who would bid her a curt good-night at the door of his hotel. Where did he say his hotel was? she asked herself; and then, aloud, she said: You’re a waiter, aren’t you? I’ve forgotten which hotel you said. Albert didn’t answer, and, troubled by her companion’s silence, Kitty continued: I’m afraid I’m taking you out of your way. No, you aren’t; all ways are the same to me. Well, they aren’t to me, she replied. I must get some money to-night. I’ll give you some money, Albert said. But won’t you come home with me? the girl asked. Albert hesitated, tempted by her company. But if they were to go home together her sex would be discovered. But what did it matter if it were discovered? Albert asked herself, and the temptation came again to go home with this woman, to lie in her arms and tell the story that had been locked up so many years. They could both have a good cry together, and what matter would it be to the woman as long as she got the money she desired. She didn’t want a man; it was money she was after, money that meant bread and board to her. She seems a kind, nice girl, Albert said, and she was about to risk the adventure when a man came by whom Kitty knew. Excuse me, he said, and Albert saw them walk away together. I’m sorry, said the woman, returning, but I’ve just met an old friend; another evening, perhaps. Albert would have liked to put her hand in her pocket and pay the woman with some silver for her company, but she was already half-way back to her friend, who stood waiting for her by the lamppost. The street-walkers have friends, and when they meet them their troubles are over for the night; but my chances have gone by me; and, checking herself in the midst of the irrelevant question, whether it were better to be casual, as they were, or to have a husband that you could not get rid of, she plunged into her own grief, and walked sobbing through street after street, taking no heed of where she was going.
