Irish Portraits

by Liam O'Flaherty

  “An’ he’s a strappin’ young fellah, too,” said Tiernev.

  “Hech, hech, hech,” gurgled Sutton.

  Laughing, the two old men forgot their irritation and their hurry. They launched forth into one of those interminable and senseless conversations in which mountaineers love to indulge on the most pressing occasions to the detriment of their work, and of everything else, about everything under the sun except the business in hand. Happily, with the eagerness of old women discussing a scandal, they discussed the drought, the change of government, the decline of Lord Marley’s fortunes, the fact that he had now only one riding horse, and only paid his coachman thirty shillings a week, although his wife paid two pound ten a week to the man that looked after her poodles (shockin’, shockin’). Their faces beamed and they were very happy.

  Then suddenly they were brought back to the realization of the smith’s continued absence by the arrival of Bridget Timmins with her donkey at a quarter-past ten o’clock. The donkey also had his two hind shoes off.

  “Murdher! Murdher!” said Bridget Timmins. “Isn’t he here yet?”

  ’No, then, he isn’t,” said Tierney. “Are you too afther his blood?”

  “I am, in troth,” said she. “Two hind shoes off an’ his poor old hoofs are as thin as a sheet o’ paper, trampin’ the roads for a month without ’em. But sure it’s like this every Monday mornin’. I bet it’s lying in bed he is yet; an’ sure it’s no wonder after last night.”

  “How’s that?” said Sutton excitedly.

  “I wasn’t there,” said Bridget, in a low, confiding tone, “but I heard Joe Gleeson, the carpenter, tell Mrs. Roddy that ye never saw such skin an’ hair flyin’ in all yer born life.”

  Bridget Timmins stopped for breath and the old men gathered themselves together to listen, with their mouths open.

  “It was how a charrybank full o’ navvies and their girls came on an excursion from Dublin an’ they all got drunk in Mahon’s an’ started to fight. Then Mahon called the Civic Guards, but sure ye might as well have brought five lame hens as them five policemen for a mob like that. It was nothin’ but screamin’ an’ bottles flyin’ an’ people fallin’ in all directions. Then out comes Keegan in his shirt an’ trousers.”

  “Aw! Lord! Oh, Lord!” said Tierney.

  “Boys! Oh, boys!” said Sutton, licking his lips.

  Mrs. Timmins bent down and, raising her two hands, palms outwards, to her face, she flung them out with a dramatic gesture, as she said with great violence:

  “He cleared the street in ten minutes with the handle of a spade.”

  “Bravo!” cried Tierney, slapping his thighs.

  “God be with him,” yelled Sutton.

  At that moment a young farmer’s son named Crow arrived with a broken plough on a cart. He had more definite news of the fight. Standing on his cart, with a hand on his hip, he began immediately to describe it with great vehemence. Another man came on a bicycle with a hoe that needed mending. A young woman stopped on her way to the village for groceries. The postman passed with the letters. He halted to listen. At eleven o’clock there was a crowd in front of the forge, all talking excitedly, boasting, swearing, laughing and cheering for Keegan.

  And then somebody shouted: “Here he comes. Here’s himself.”

  Everybody looked. He came around the corner, dressed in a blue sweater, with his coat thrown over his shoulder, his cap perched at the back of his curly, black head, swinging his arms, with his enormous chest expanded, his red face grinning humorously.

  “Hurrah!” they cried. “Hurrah for Keegan!”

  Blackmail

  Brunton was waiting in the select bar. There was nobody else there. It was early afternoon and the sun was streaming yellowishly through the muffed windows. Only the lower parts of the windows were muffed. But the upper parts were covered with half-lowered yellow blinds to keep out the glare of the sun. Still, it was very hot in the bar and there was a heavy odour of heat and of alcohol fumes.

  In spite of the heat Brunton was wearing a heavy Burberry coat that was buttoned closely about him. It was very soiled and it gave the impression that he wore it in order to hide the shabbiness of his other clothes. Only his cap, his collar and tie, the ends of his trousers and his boots could be seen. They were all shabby, though the boots were meticulously clean and polished. He was a thickset fellow and the coat seemed to be full of wind, on account of the manner in which his full rounded flesh bulged beneath it, even down along the spine, where a coat is usually hollow.

  He sat brooding, with his hands in his overcoat pockets, staring at the glass of whiskey which an attendant had placed in front of him five minutes before but which he had not yet touched. His round face was very blotched. There were red flakes on the cheeks, and between the flakes tiny red veins ran through the pallid, puffed flesh. He had thick white eyebrows. His eyes were round and soft, with an expression of mute suffering in them. There was no harm in his eyes. But it seemed that another will, any evil will other than his own weak, mute will, could make those eyes cruel and callous sentinels that would cunningly watch the performance of an evil deed. And they were aware that evil deeds had been performed under their gaze. They were so mournful and reproachful; staring, faded, blue, round, liquid eyes behind the upward-heaving flesh of his flabby cheeks. His nose was thick and ill-developed, like a bulbous root grown in rocky soil. And his hopeless mouth, with drooping, thick, purple lips, looked sad; an ill-used mouth.

  Three months before Brunton had been dismissed from the army. He had been a lieutenant. But he had been merely an officer out of consideration for his past services to the revolutionary movement that had put the present government in power. He was in no way fitted for the job of commanding men and doing the other silly chores that form the duties of an officer in peace-time. During the war against the British and during the Civil War he had been invaluable; a dour, silent, unthinking gunman. But now these people had no further use for him. Afterwards … governments and politicians become respectable, no matter what their origin and the methods by which they rose to power. They dropped him silently. They wanted smart young men. This Brunton knew too much. He was too fond of drink. He had become insolent and contemptuous of authority, under the influence of his old lawless pursuits. He would not parade. He would not salute his superiors. He got drunk often, and drunk he talked abusively of the “b - s that were robbing the country which he and the likes of him had won for them.”

  For three months he went around Dublin drinking the money they had given him and swearing to his boon companions that they would not get rid of him as easily as they thought. He knew too much about some of them. He wasn’t going to keep his mouth shut very long unless they came across with the money. They had ruined his life, but now he was up for auction and the highest bidder could have him. As there were many more like him going about the public-houses with the same story, nobody took any notice of his talk. But Brunton had become desperate and there was one politician who was really in his power. He was now waiting for that man. He had sent a message into his office that morning.

  At twenty minutes past three, Mr. Matthew Kenneally, the politician for whom Brunton was waiting, walked into the select bar. He hardly made any noise entering, pushing the swing door inwards gently, and then pausing, with his gloved hand on the door and half his figure within it. He looked around the room casually and saw Brunton, When he saw Brunton, he raised his eyelids and creased his forehead but showed no emotion, either of surprise or of fear, in his face. Then he nodded slightly, and entering fully, closed the door behind him.

  Brunton coughed and shuffled his body on his chair but did not speak. Mr. Kenneally advanced up the room slowly without speaking.

  Mr. Kenneally was a tall, slim man with a very long, sallow face and a narrow skull that tapered at the rear to a point. There was nothing extraordinary or remarkable about his face, except the fact that it aroused no interest whatsoever when one looked at it. It was impossible to fix on a
ny one feature, because all the features struck one at the same time, and the only impression that one received was an impression of sallowness and length. The face was more grey than sallow because the grey eyes diffused their own limpid light over all the features. His figure, however, and his clothes made a very acute impression, but an unpleasant one. His figure was so long and slim that he looked like an eel, but not like an eel after all, because an eel moves rapidly, whereas Mr. Kenneally was never in a hurry and all his movements were slow and measured, noiseless, as if his joints were greased. His hands were remarkably long and he was always biting his finger-nails, as if to draw attention to the length of his fingers, or perhaps because he was ashamed of their length and couldn’t help playing with them. His clothes, too, were always in tone with the colour of his face. Not grey, as one might expect, but a shade of brown, with greyish spots in it. And lastly, he had no shoulders to speak of, so that he always had his hands in his pockets in order to support their length, and he twisted himself along in a curious way, without any apparent assistance from his hands or shoulders, but simply propelling himself by a twisting movement of the hips.

  Mr. Kenneally was now forty-five years of age. Recently he had become a “made man”; but everybody still remembers the time when he was “a Sunday man,” a curious type of person that is unknown outside Dublin, a man who never pays his debts and goes abroad only on Sundays, when writs cannot be served. In those days he had an office on the quays, a lawyer’s office, with a name written on a nameplate in a dark hallway and a small room up three flights of stairs, where there was only a roll-top desk and a chair and where no business was done, as far as anybody could see. How he had wriggled himself into respectability and affluence nobody knows, but in times of social upheaval these characters seem to be best fitted by nature to come to the surface and lead better types. They blossom forth for a time and then wither away, leaving no trace whatever. They are neither representative of their race nor of their time; but rather an indication of the obscene instruments which humanity uses now and again to propel itself forward.

  Mr. Kenneally advanced along the room to the little square hole in the wall, through which the attendant served drinks. As he advanced he kept his eyes on Brunton’s face and Brunton returned the look. The two of them looked casually at one another, both hiding their thoughts, making their faces masks, lest either might give an advantage to the other for the coming struggle, by the slightest indication of emotion. Mr. Kenneally rung the bell, still looking at Brunton. Presently the wooden slide went up, somebody put his hand on the sill and Mr. Kenneally said: “Scotch.” And the attendant said: “Scotch, Mr. Kenneally.” Then there was a pause until the attendant returned with the drink. And during this time the two men still stared at one another. Then Mr. Kenneally took his drink, paid for it, the slide slipped down and Mr. Kenneally slipped along the floor to the table where Brunton was sitting. He still stared, coldly, with lowered eyelids.

  “Ye needn’t keep yer eye on me, Matt,” said Brunton suddenly. “I ain’t goin’ to shoot ye. It’s not my game an’ I sold me gun. If I wanted to plug ye it’s not here I’d do it. Ye needn’t bother lookin’ at me.”

  Brunton’s voice was soft and thick. The words just rolled out from his lips without any effort and almost without any movement of the mouth. He seemed to have no interest in what he was saying, so that one expected him to stop speaking at any moment, after the second word or in the middle of a sentence. There was absolutely no emotion in his voice, just like the voice of a man whose job it is to deliver verbal messages, in which he has no interest whatever.

  Mr. Kenneally sat down, and then, drawing his mouth together, he rubbed the two forefingers of his right hand along his face, from the temple to the jaw, still looking at Brunton, dispassionately. When he finished rubbing his face, he sniffed three times and then shrugged himself. Then he uttered a little dry laugh and put his whiskey to his lips.

  “Here’s luck, Mick,” he said very sarcastically.

  Brunton watched him drink. He drank very little and rolled it around his palate before swallowing it, sucking his cheeks inwards as he did so. Then he slowly took a cigarette-case from his pocket, extracted a cigarette, lit it and flicked away the match, still looking at Brunton between the eyes. Then he blew out a cloud of cigarette smoke, and leaning his chin on his doubled fists, he twisted around his lips.

  “Well,” he said at last. He seemed to talk through his nose, with a sniffing sound. “I got your message. What’s the important business we’re going to discuss?”

  “Ye know very well what it is,” Brunton said.

  “I’m not God,” said Mr. Kenneally. “How should I know unless I’m told.”

  “No, yer not God,” said Brunton with sudden ferocity.

  Then he frowned, and seizing his glass of whiskey suddenly, he emptied it. Then he leaned forward, with an expression of fear in his face.

  “Yer not God,” he said, “but I think yer the devil.”

  “Wish I were,” said Mr. Kenneally, biting his fingernails.

  “Well, I’m going to tell ye what I want,” said Brunton. “I want money.”

  “Everybody does nowadays,” sighed Mr. Kenneally. “But most people have to work for it.”

  “Now none o’ yer coddin’,” said Brunton. “Matt, I want five hundred quid down or I’m goin’ to the Minister for Justice with this.”

  He pulled out a large envelope from his breast-pocket, tapped it and then put it back again hurriedly.

  “What’s that?” sniffed Mr. Kenneally.

  “There’s more than enough in that to get you hung,” said Brunton fiercely. “That’s an account of a job I done for ye.”

  “What job is that?” said Mr. Kenneally in a whisper, glancing towards the aperture in the wall as he spoke.

  Brunton did not reply for a few moments. They stared at one another. In spite of himself, Mr. Kenneally’s face had become an ashen colour, but his eyes did not shrink from Brunton’s stare.

  “Ha!” said Brunton. “I see in yer rotten face that ye remember it. That man is dead and the curse o’ God on ye for it. Look here, Matt.”

  Brunton suddenly got excited and his eyes had a fearful look in them. They got big and fixed.

  “I never did another dirty job but that,” he whispered. “ ’Twas you made me do it. See? Anything else I done was for me country. I’m not sorry and I’m not ashamed of it. But I can see that man yet. I gave him one in the head an’ he lyin’ on the ground, with -”

  “Shut up,” snapped Mr. Kenneally, suddenly seizing Brunton by the wrist.

  “Let go me wrist,” said Brunton, again speaking calmly.

  Mr. Kenneally dropped the wrist and leaned back. Brunton also leaned back. Both their bodies relaxed and they both sighed, like two men who have been suddenly startled and are recovering from their fright. They both glanced around the room and did not look at one another again for several moments. When their eyes met again they both looked afraid, as if they had looked at a spectre. But almost as soon as their eyes had met, anger took the place of fear in both their faces.

  “You’re trying your hand at blackmail now,” said Mr. Kenneally.

  “I don’t give a damn what I try my hand at,” said Brunton. “I’m desperate. I’m fit for nothing. My life is ruined. I don’t give a damn what I do. I know I’ll swing for this job as well as you if I make my statement. But you’ll swing with me, you b -.”

  “What about your oath?” whispered Mr. Kenneally.

  “Damn my oath,” said Brunton. “What about your oath? You promised to get me a job and a pension but you never lifted a hand.”

  “I did my very best,” said Mr. Kenneally.

  “Well, ye got to do more,” said Brunton with a hoarse laugh. “I want money or I’m marchin’ off with this. Look here. I’m not goin’ to waste time talkin’ to ye. I want five hundred quid now. Out with the money.”

  “And supposing I don’t give it?” whispered Mr. Kenneally.


  “The evidence is here,” murmured Brunton, tapping his breast.

  “Go to the devil,” hissed Mr. Kenneally, with trembling lips.

  Brunton started up and his hand went to his left breastpocket in a flash. Mr. Kenneally also darted his hand towards his breast-pocket, but Brunton’s hand came away before it reached his pocket. “God!” he said. His gun was not there, of course. Their bodies again relaxed. Brunton laughed dryly.

  “Hech!” he said, half rising to his feet. He rested his palms on the corner of the table and leaned on them, half standing. He looked at Mr. Kenneally with a curious gleam of pleasure in his eyes. “What good is the money to me, anyway? Eh? What could I do with it - only drink it? What good is it to me to go on living like this? Where is my home - only in the streets and the pubs and the dosshouses, an’ you livin’ in the lap o’ luxury? Sure it’s no vengeance for me to take yer money, a few mangy pounds that won’t make a woodpecker’s hole in yer bank account. Yah! It’s not money I’ll take, but vengeance. Man, man, I’ll make ye swing with me. The two of us will swing together, Matt, and we’ll both go to hell together, for it’s not money I’ll take but vengeance.”

  He stood erect and his face lit up with a mad light. Mr. Kenneally began to tremble. He fumbled in his breastpocket and he muttered: “Sit down, Mick. Sit down. Listen to me a moment.”

  “No,” said Brunton. “I’m a man yet an’ you’re only a rat. Isn’t it better for me to -”

  “Here, here,” cried Mr. Kenneally, spreading a chequebook on the table. “Listen. Sit down and listen.”

  Brunton had stopped, seeing the cheque-book. The light faded from his face and his lips fell loose, with an expression of greed in them. His face worked, as if he were fighting this expression of greed in his lips. Then he fell on to his chair and stared at the cheque-book. Mr. Kenneally watched him closely with his under-lip protruding. Then he winked his right eye slowly and took his pen from his pocket. He rapidly wrote out a cheque, tore it off, and passed it along the table to Brunton. Brunton’s hand went out to it and seized it rapidly.