by James Joyce
-Ah, poor Joe is a decent skin, said Mr O’Connor.
-His father was a decent, respectable man, Mr Henchy admitted. Poor old Larry Hynes! Many a good turn he did in his day! But I’m greatly afraid our friend is not nineteen carat. Damn it, I can understand a fellow being hard up, but what I can’t understand is a fellow sponging.aai Couldn’t he have some spark of manhood about him?
-He doesn’t get a warm welcome from me when he comes, said the old man. Let him work for his own side and not come spying around here.
—I don’t know, said Mr O’Connor dubiously, as he took out cigarette-papers and tobacco. I think Joe Hynes is a straight man. He’s a clever chap, too, with the pen. Do you remember that thing he wrote ... ?
-Some of these hillsiders and fenians3 are a bit too clever if you ask me, said Mr Henchy. Do you know what my private and candid opinion is about some of those little jokers? I believe half of them are in the pay of the Castle.aaj
-There’s no knowing, said the old man.
—0, but I know it for a fact, said Mr Henchy. They’re Castle hacks.... I don’t say Hynes.... No, damn it, I think he’s a stroke above that.... But there’s a certain little nobleman with a cock-eye—you know the patriot I’m alluding to?
Mr O’Connor nodded.
-There’s a lineal descendant of Major Sirraak for you if you like! 0, the heart’s blood of a patriot! That’s a fellow now that’d sell his country for fourpence—ay—and go down on his bended knees and thank the Almighty Christ he had a country to sell.
There was a knock at the door.
-Come in! said Mr Henchy.
A person resembling a poor clergyman or a poor actor appeared in the doorway. His black clothes were tightly buttoned on his short body and it was impossible to say whether he wore a clergyman’s collar or a layman’s, because the collar of his shabby frock-coat, the uncovered buttons of which reflected the candlelight, was turned up about his neck. He wore a round hat of hard black felt. His face, shining with raindrops, had the appearance of damp yellow cheese save where two rosy spots indicated the cheekbones. He opened his very long mouth suddenly to express disappointment and at the same time opened wide his very bright blue eyes to express pleasure and surprise.
—0 Father Keon! said Mr Henchy, jumping up from his chair. Is that you? Come in!
—0, no, no, no! said Father Keon quickly, pursuing his lips as if he were addressing a child.
—Won’t you come in and sit down?
-No, no, no! said Father Keon, speaking in a discreet, indulgent, velvety voice. Don’t let me disturb you now! I’m just looking for Mr Fanning....
-He’s round at the Black Eagle,aal said Mr Henchy. But won’t you come in and sit down a minute?
-No, no, thank you. It was just a little business matter, said Father Keon. Thank you, indeed.
He retreated from the doorway and Mr Henchy, seizing one of the candlesticks, went to the door to light him downstairs.
—0, don’t trouble, I beg!
-No, but the stairs is so dark.
-No, no, I can see.... Thank you, indeed.
-Are you right now?
—All right, thanks.... Thanks.
Mr Henchy returned with the candlestick and put it on the table. He sat down again at the fire. There was silence for a few moments.
-Tell me, John, said Mr O’Connor, lighting his cigarette with another pasteboard card.
-Hm?
—What he is exactly?
-Ask me an easier one, said Mr Henchy.
-Fanning and himself seem to me very thick. They’re often in Kavanagh’s together. Is he a priest at all?
-Mmmyes, I believe so.... I think he’s what you call a black sheep. We haven’t many of them, thank God! but we have a few.... He’s an unfortunate man of some kind....
-And how does he knock it out? asked Mr O’Connor.
-That’s another mystery.
-Is he attached to any chapel or church or institution or—
-No, said Mr Henchy, I think he’s travelling on his own account.... God forgive me, he added, I thought he was the dozen of stout.
-Is there any chance of a drink itself? asked Mr O’Connor.
-I’m dry too, said the old man.
—I asked that little shoeboy three times, said Mr Henchy, would he send up a dozen of stout. I asked him again now, but he was leaning on the counter in his shirt-sleeves having a deep gosteraam with Alderman Cowley.
-Why didn’t you remind him? said Mr O’Connor.
—Well, I couldn’t go over while he was talking to Alderman Cowley. I just waited till I caught his eye, and said: About that little matter I was speaking to you about.... That’ll be all right, Mr H., he said. Yerra, sure the little hop-o’-my-thumbaan has forgotten all about it.
—There’s some deal on in that quarter, said Mr O’Connor thoughtfully. I saw the three of them hard at it yesterday at Suffolk Street corner.
—I think I know the little game they’re at, said Mr Henchy. You must owe the City Fathers money nowadays if you want to be made Lord Mayor. Then they’ll make you Lord Mayor. By God! I’m thinking seriously of becoming a City Father myself. What do you think? Would I do for the job?
Mr O’Connor laughed.
-So far as owing money goes....
-Driving out of the Mansion House,aao said Mr Henchy, in all my vermin,aap with Jack here standing up behind me in a powdered wig—eh?
-And make me your private secretary, John.
—Yes. And I’ll make Father Keon my private chaplain. We’ll have a family party.
-Faith, Mr Henchy, said the old man, you’d keep up better style than some of them. I was talking one day to old Keegan, the porter. And how do you like your new master, Pat? says I to him. You haven’t much entertaining now, says I. Entertaining! says he. He’d live on the smell of an oil-rag. And do you know what he told me? Now, I declare to God, I didn’t believe him.
—What? said Mr Henchy and Mr O’Connor.
-He told me: What do you think of a Lord Mayor of Dublin sending out for a pound of chops for his dinner? How’s that for high living? says he. Wisha! wisha, says I. A pound of chops, says he, coming into the Mansion House. Wisha! says I, what kind of people is going at all now?
At this point there was a knock at the door, and a boy put in his head.
—What is it? said the old man.
-From the Black Eagle, said the boy, walking in sideways and depositing a basket on the floor with a noise of shaken bottles.
The old man helped the boy to transfer the bottles from the basket to the table and counted the full tally. After the transfer the boy put his basket on his arm and asked:
-Any bottles?
-What bottles? said the old man.
—Won’t you let us drink them first? said Mr Henchy.
—I was told to ask for bottles.
-Come back to-morrow, said the old man.
-Here, boy! said Mr Henchy, will you run over to O’Farrell’s and ask him to lend us a corkscrew—for Mr Henchy, say. Tell him we won’t keep it a minute. Leave the basket there.
The boy went out and Mr Henchy began to rub his hands cheerfully, saying:
-Ah, well, he’s not so bad after all. He’s as good as his word, anyhow.
-There’s no tumblers, said the old man.
—0, don’t let that trouble you, Jack, said Mr Henchy. Many’s the good man before now drank out of the bottle.
-Anyway, it’s better than nothing, said Mr O’Connor.
-He’s not a bad sort, said Mr Henchy, only Fanning has such a loan of him. He means well, you know, in his own tinpot way.
The boy came back with the corkscrew. The old man opened three bottles and was handing back the corkscrew when Mr Henchy said to the boy,
—Would you like a drink, boy?
-If you please, sir, said the boy.
The old man opened another bottle grudgingly, and handed it to the boy.
-What age are you? he asked.
&
nbsp; -Seventeen, said the boy.
As the old man said nothing further, the boy took the bottle, said:—Here’s my best respects, sir, to Mr Henchy, drank the contents, put the bottle back on the table and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Then he took up the corkscrew and went out of the door sideways, muttering some form of salutation.
-That’s the way it begins, said the old man.
-The thin edge of the wedge, said Mr Henchy.
The old man distributed the three bottles which he had opened and the men drank from them simultaneously. After having drunk each placed his bottle on the mantelpiece within hand’s reach and drew in a long breath of satisfaction
—Well, I did a good day’s work to-day, said Mr Henchy, after a pause.
-That so, John?
—Yes. I got him one or two sure things in Dawson Street, Crofton and myself. Between ourselves, you know, Crofton (he’s a decent chap, of course), but he’s not worth a damn as a canvasser. He hasn’t a word to throw to a dog. He stands and looks at the people while I do the talking.
Here two men entered the room. One of them was a very fat man, whose blue serge clothes seemed to be in danger of falling from his sloping figure. He had a big face which resembled a young ox’s face in expression, staring blue eyes and a grizzled moustache. The other man, who was much younger and frailer, had a thin, clean-shaven face. He wore a very high double collar and a wide-brimmed bowler hat.
—Hello, Crofton! said Mr Henchy to the fat man. Talk of the devil ...
—Where did the boose come from? asked the young man. Did the cow calve?
—0, of course, Lyons spots the drink first thing! said Mr O’Con-nor, laughing.
-Is that the way you chaps canvass, said Mr Lyons, and Crofton and I out in the cold and rain looking for votes?
—Why, blast your soul, said Mr Henchy, I’d get more votes in five minutes than you two’d get in a week.
-Open two bottles of stout, Jack, said Mr O’Connor.
-How can I? said the old man, when there’s no corkscrew?
—Wait now, wait now! said Mr Henchy, getting up quickly. Did you ever see this little trick?
He took two bottles from the table and, carrying them to the fire, put them on the hob.aaq Then he sat down again by the fire and took another drink from his bottle. Mr Lyons sat on the edge of the table, pushed his hat towards the nape of his neck and began to swing his legs.
-Which is my bottle? he asked.
-This, lad, said Mr Henchy.
Mr Crofton sat down on a box and looked fixedly at the other bottle on the hob. He was silent for two reasons. The first reason, sufficient in itself, was that he had nothing to say; the second reason was that he considered his companions beneath him. He had been a canvasser for Wilkins, the Conservative, but when the Conservatives had withdrawn their man and, choosing the lesser of two evils, given their support to the Nationalist candidate, he had been engaged to work for Mr Tierney.
In a few minutes an apologetic Pok! was heard as the cork flew out of Mr Lyons’ bottle. Mr Lyons jumped off the table, went to the fire, took his bottle and carried it back to the table.
—I was just telling them, Crofton, said Mr Henchy, that we got a good few votes to-day
-Who did you get? asked Mr Lyons.
—Well, I got Parkes for one, and I got Atkinson for two, and I got Ward of Dawson Street. Fine old chap he is, too—regular old toff,aar old Conservative! But isn’t your candidate a Nationalist ? said he. He’s a respectable man, said I. He’s in favour of whatever will benefit this country. He’s a big ratepayer,aas I said. He has extensive house property in the city and three places of business and isn’t it to his own advantage to keep down the rates? He’s a prominent and respected citizen, said I, and a Poor Law Guardian, and he doesn’t belong to any party, good, bad, or indifferent. That’s the way to talk to ’em.
—And what about the address to the King? said Mr Lyons, after drinking and smacking his lips.
-Listen to me, said Mr Henchy. What we want in this country, as I said to old Ward, is capital. The King’s coming here will mean an influx of money into this country. The citizens of Dublin will benefit by it. Look at all the factories down by the quays there, idle! Look at all the money there is in the country if we only worked the old industries, the mills, the shipbuilding yards and factories. It’s capital we want.
-But look here, John, said Mr O’Connor. Why should we welcome the King of England? Didn’t Parnell himself ...aat
-Parnell, said Mr Henchy, is dead. Now, here’s the way I look at it. Here’s this chap come to the throne after his old mother keeping him out of it till the man was grey. He’s a man of the world, and he means well by us. He’s a jolly fine decent fellow, if you ask me, and no damn nonsense about him. He just says to himself: The old one never went to see these wild Irish. By Christ, I’ll go myself and see what they’re like. And are we going to insult the man when he comes over here on a friendly visit? Eh? Isn’t that right, Crofton?
Mr Crofton nodded his head.
-But after all now, said Mr Lyons argumentatively, King Edward’s life, you know, is not the very ...aau
-Let bygones be bygones, said Mr Henchy. I admire the man personally. He’s just an ordinary knockabout like you and me. He’s fond of his glass of grogaav and he’s a bit of a rake,aaw perhaps, and he’s a good sportsman. Damn it, can’t we Irish play fair?
-That’s all very fine, said Mr Lyons. But look at the case of Parnell now.
-In the name of God, said Mr Henchy, where’s the analogy between the two cases?
—What I mean, said Mr Lyons, is we have our ideals. Why, now, would we welcome a man like that? Do you think now after what he did Parnell was a fit man to lead us? And why, then, would we do it for Edward the Seventh?
—This is Parnell’s anniversary, said Mr O’Connor, and don’t let us stir up any bad blood. We all respect him now that he’s dead and gone—even the Conservatives, he added, turning to Mr Crofton.
Pok! The tardy cork flew out of Mr Crofton’s bottle. Mr Crofton got up from his box and went to the fire. As he returned with his capture he said in a deep voice:
-Our side of the house respects him, because he was a gentleman.
-Right you are, Crofton! said Mr Henchy fiercely. He was the only man that could keep that bag of cats in order. Down, ye dogs! Lie down, ye curs! That’s the way he treated them. Come in Joe! Come in! he called out, catching sight of Mr Hynes in the doorway.
Mr Hynes came in slowly.
-Open another bottle of stout, Jack, said Mr Henchy. O, I forgot there’s no corkscrew! Here, show me one here and I’ll put it at the fire.
The old man handed him another bottle and he placed it on the hob.
-Sit down, Joe, said Mr O’Connor, we’re just talking about the Chief.aax
-Ay, ay! said Mr Henchy.
Mr Hynes sat on the side of the table near Mr Lyons but said nothing.
—There’s one of them, anyhow, said Mr Henchy, that didn’t renege him. By God, I’ll say for you, Joe! No, by God, you stuck to him like a man!
—0, Joe, said Mr O’Connor suddenly. Give us that thing you wrote—do you remember? Have you got it on you?
—0, ay! said Mr Henchy. Give us that. Did you ever hear that, Crofton? Listen to this now: splendid thing.
-Go on, said Mr O’Connor. Fire away, Joe.
Mr Hynes did not seem to remember at once the piece to which they were alluding, but, after reflecting a while, he said:
—0, that thing is it.... Sure, that’s old now.
-Out with it, man! said Mr O’Connor.
—‘Sh, ’sh, said Mr Henchy. Now, Joe!
Mr Hynes hesitated a little longer. Then amid the silence he took off his hat, laid it on the table and stood up. He seemed to be rehearsing the piece in his mind. After a rather long pause he announced:THE DEATH OF PARNELL
6th October, 1891
He cleared his throat once or twice and then began to recite:
He is dead. Our Uncrowned King is dead.
0, Erin, mourn with grief and woe
For he lies dead whom the fell gang
Of modern hypocrites laid low.
He lies slain by the coward hounds
He raised to glory from the mire;
And Erin’s hopes and Erin’s dreams
Perisb upon her monarch’s pyre.
In palace, cabin or in cot
The Irish heart wbere’er it be
Is bowed with woe—for he is gone
Who would have wrought her destiny.
He would have had his Erin famed,
The green flag gloriously unfurled,
Her statesmen, bards and warriors raised
Before the nations of the World.
He dreamed (alas, ’twas but a dream!)
Of Liberty: but as he strove
To clutch that idol, treachery
Sundered him from the thing he loved.
Shame on the coward, caitiffaay hands
That smote their Lord or with a kiss
Betrayed him to the rabble-rout
Of fawning priests-mo friends of his.
May everlasting shame consume
The memory of those who tried
To befoul and smear the exalted name
Of one who spurned them in his pride.
He fell as fall the mighty ones,
Nobly undaunted to the last,
And death has now united him
With Erin’s heroes of the past.
No sound of strife disturb his sleep!
Calmly he rests: no human pain
Or high ambition spurs him now
The peaks ofglory to attain.
They had their way: they laid him low.
But Erin, list, his spirit may
Rise, like the Phoenix from the flames,
When breaks the dawning of the day,
The day that brings us Freedom’s reign.
And on that day may Erin well
Pledge in the cup she lifts to Joy
One grief—the memory of Parnell.
Mr Hynes sat down again on the table. When he had finished his recitation there was a silence and then a burst of clapping: even Mr Lyons clapped. The applause continued for a little time. When it had ceased all the auditors drank from their bottles in silence.
