Land

by Liam O'Flaherty

  He looked out the window with his head a little to one side. There was a brooding look in his eyes for a few moments. Then he laughed suddenly, showing a perfect set of little white teeth. His face looked boyish and irresponsible when he laughed.

  “Why must you always be so frivolous, Raoul?” said Elizabeth irritably.

  “I don’t feel in the least frivolous, Lizzie,” Raoul said as he began to pace the floor with his hands behind his back. “It’s just that the sound of certain words intensely affects me. Revolt, for instance, strikes me as being comic. It has a peculiarly frustrated sound, and frustration, of course, is the basis of all clowning.”

  “You have a very peculiar sense of humour,” Elizabeth said, “but it’s not going to be very amusing if there is a revolt of the peasants.”

  “You think not?” said Raoul. “I grant you that it’s not going to be very amusing for the landlords. For us, though, it might be quite amusing. It would certainly be very amusing to see how our loathsome neighbour dealt with the situation.”

  “You don’t seem to realize,” Elizabeth said, “that the people hate us just as violently as they hate Captain Butcher, Lord Mongoole, Miss Piggott and the rest.”

  “Nonsense,” said Raoul.

  “I assure you that it’s not,” Elizabeth said heatedly. “A few minutes ago, the servant turned on me savagely when I asked her a simple question. I could see in her eyes that she hated me bitterly at that moment. It was nothing personal; of that I feel sure. However, it was something far worse than a personal hatred. One can deal with that, but not with a blind and stupid resentment of one’s class and of one’s breeding.”

  “I repeat that it’s nonsense,” Raoul said imperturbably. “We are déclassés, my dear Lizzie. The people may despise us, as they probably do, but they don’t hate us. Only the strong are ever hated. Our people came here at the end of the twelfth century. They were Norman adventurers that settled in the country by force, appropriated the land and assumed the privileges of feudal lords. In those days there was nothing criminal about being a feudal lord. It was the best means that the human species had, in this part of the world at least, for maintaining order. Our ancestors, on the whole, were good feudal lords. They owned a barony of land. They built Killuragh Castle. They built the town of Clash and developed a very important commerce with the Spanish Empire. They were the first people in Ireland, according to the records, to introduce the wearing of silk underwear and the waxing of the moustaches …”

  “Stop it, Raoul,” Elizabeth interrupted, just as Lettice entered the room on tip-toe. “Your daughter is present. She is now old enough to be misguided by a frivolous attitude towards life on your part.”

  Raoul halted and put his hands to his ears. He twisted his features into an expression of acute pain.

  “Again you use that ridiculous word,” he said. “It grates on my ears.”

  “Is there something the matter, Lettice?” Elizabeth said.

  Lettice appeared to have been frightened. She had closed the door after her so gently that it made no sound at all. She was moving over to the window when her aunt addressed her. She turned towards Elizabeth and smiled with an effort. Her face did not now look radiant when she smiled. There were vertical lines between her eyes.

  “There is nothing the matter, Aunt,” she said in a tone of forced gaiety.

  “Are you sure you didn’t catch cold gathering those flowers?” said Elizabeth.

  “Not in the least,” Lettice said.

  She went over to the vase of flowers and began to rearrange them, with her back to her aunt.

  “On the whole,” Raoul said, with one hand under his armpit and the other hand caressing his beard, “I feel rather pleased with my ancestors, come to think of it.”

  He had stood motionless for a little while, staring at the floor. Now he shrugged his shoulders, put his hands behind his back and walked the length of the floor, back and forth, rapidly.

  “They were remarkably clever,” he said. “Otherwise, they could not have maintained their property intact until the eighteenth century. It was quite a feat, you know, subtly changing their religious and political beliefs with every shift of history. Then, of course, the process of decay that is the fate of all ruling classes caught up with them. They had to make way for their successors, the English merchants and manufacturers. Lord Mongoole took possession of Killuragh Castle and the township of Clash. Grandfather was left with Manister House and three thousand acres of mountain land, inhabited by miserable cottiers whom he was forced to bleed mercilessly in order to survive. That was, of course, feudalism gone to seed. The institution had become criminal and was ready for its overthrow. Why blame our ancestors for being human? Father was the most exacting of them all, until the famine came and made it impossible for his tenants to pay anything at all. Then the bank foreclosed on the mortgage. Manister House became the property of Captain Butcher. The St. George family, after six hundred and fifty years of power, ceased to be Irish landlords. Their cycle was completed. They returned to the bosom of the earth.”

  He halted, put his left hand under his armpit and caressed the tip of his head.

  “It’s rather beautiful,” he said dreamily, looking towards the ceiling. “If there is really such a thing as the poetry of history, this must be an example of it. Here we are, the three of us, in this little house. We still bear a name that was hated and feared in this district for many centuries. Now we are despised and ignored. Our importance is no more than that of this decaying house in which we live. When we die, our name …”

  He was interrupted by a wild tumult from out of doors. There was angry shouting, the clatter of horses in movement and the savage yelping of a bloodhound, which somebody was trying to restrain in a shrill voice.

  “Confound it!” cried Raoul angrily. “This is becoming unbearable.”

  The tumult increased. Finally, there was a violent knocking at the hall door. Then a man cleared his throat and shouted arrogantly.

  “Is there anybody at home?” the man said.

  “Thank God!” said Elizabeth. “At least he is not dead. That’s Captain Butcher, Raoul. You had better deal with him.”

  “I certainly shall,” said Raoul as he moved to the door.

  “Father, you mustn’t let him come into the house,” Lettice cried nervously.

  Raoul paused with his hand on the door knob and glanced at his daughter over his shoulder.

  “For what reason, pray?” he said.

  Lettice took a pace forward and put her fingers to a medallion that was suspended from her neck by a silver chain.

  “Please, don’t allow him to enter,” she said in a lower tone.

  “Stop being hysterical, Lettice,” Raoul said.

  He passed out into the hall, closing the door after him violently. He was now very angry with everybody. He got still more angry on catching sight of Annie Fitzpatrick as he moved along the hall. The kitchen door stood ajar and she was peeping at him from around its corner. Her mouth was wide open and the finger-tips of her left hand were pressed down against the teeth of her lower jaw.

  “Get back into your kitchen,” Raoul ordered her.

  Then he threw open the hall door and stared into the face of Captain Butcher.

  “What do you mean by making such an infernal noise?” he cried.

  Captain Butcher took off his hat and said rudely:

  “The compliments of Captain Butcher.”

  “Compliments!” said Raoul. “Indeed! Most extraordinary way to present them. Well?”

  Captain Butcher shifted his left foot a little to the rear of his right, as if he were going to bow. Instead of bowing, however, he threw out his chest and raised his chin in a hostile manner.

  “Mr. St. George, I presume?” he cried arrogantly.

  He was a man of fifty-five, powerfully built and well over six feet in height. His hands and feet were uncommonly large. His jaws protruded and their shape gave the impression that the centre of his fac
e was abnormally hollow. Otherwise, he was well-proportioned and handsome in a brutal sort of way. He appeared to be still in his prime. His small grey eyes, deeply set in his skull like those of a boxer, looked straight ahead with a fixed stare. Hatless, he showed a broad forehead on which there were beads of perspiration. His forehead looked very white in contrast with the dark red colour of his cheeks. His crown was practically bald, except for long strands of hair that were combed across it. He was dressed in brown top boots, cord breeches and a heavy tweed jacket that came halfway down his thighs. The jacket was unbuttoned, showing a vest of chain mail beneath. His hat was also composed of metal, over which dark cloth had been stretched. He carried a revolver in a belt at his waist. He had another revolver in his right hand.

  “I am St. George,” Raoul said. “May I know why you called?”

  He was now smiling broadly, his sense of humour having been intrigued by Butcher’s odd costume.

  “There has been an attempt on my life,” Butcher answered. “The culprit made his escape on to your property. In fact, he must be in your house.”

  “What makes you think so?” said Raoul.

  “My dog tracked him across the river on to your land,” Butcher said. “Then he …”

  He was interrupted by the appearance of a small man with bowed legs and a weazened face, obviously a retired jockey. The little fellow came round the gable of the house from the direction of the kitchen. He was dragging the bloodhound after him on a heavy chain.

  “Where the devil are you going, Fleming?” Butcher shouted at the little fellow.

  “The kitchen door is locked,” Fleming said, trying to hold the dog and tip his hat to his employer at the same time. “They won’t answer us.”

  A tall man carrying a fowling piece also appeared.

  “It’s locked, sir,” the tall man said. “We can’t get a word out of them.”

  “Damnation!” Butcher shouted. “Get back to the kitchen door, both of you. Stay there. Fire if he attempts to break, Hopkins. I’m entering by the front, now that the proprietor is here to open the door.”

  “Very good, sir,” Hopkins replied.

  He hurried round the gable at a brisk trot, followed by Fleming and the dog.

  “Now, sir,” Butcher continued, turning once more to Raoul, “kindly allow me to search your premises.”

  Raoul had ceased to be amused. He was annoyed by the appearance of the servants and the freedom they were taking with his property. He had noticed a third servant some way down the drive. This third man was sitting a chestnut horse, while he held a grey horse by the head. What annoyed Raoul most of all was the use of the word “premises” to describe his house.

  “Tell your servants to get off my grounds at once, Captain Butcher,” he said quietly.

  “Are you insane, sir?” Butcher cried in a loud voice.

  “I find their presence and your insolence intolerable,” Raoul said with great deliberation. “I insist on their leaving at once, with the horses and that brute of a dog.”

  “Have I made it clear that there has been an attempt on my life?” Butcher shouted.

  “What of it?” said Raoul. “You look large enough and sufficiently well armed to deal with any attack on your life, which I feel to be of somewhat doubtful value, judging by your manners.”

  “I warn you, sir …” Butcher began.

  “Ah! I see,” Raoul interrupted. “You are now issuing threats, armed with a drawn pistol and accompanied by a dangerous animal. Really, my dear Captain …”

  “I know when I am within my rights,” Butcher shouted. “I am a justice of the peace.”

  “I happen to be a barrister-at-law,” Raoul retorted. “I venture to suggest that your knowledge of what the law allows is very rudimentary.”

  “Do you refuse to let me search your premises?” cried Butcher.

  “Get your servants off my grounds and put away that weapon,” Raoul said, “and stop behaving like a boor.”

  Butcher stared at Raoul in silence for several moments. There was deep hatred in his little grey eyes. Then he bit his lower lip and called to his servants.

  “Murphy, take the horses off these grounds,” he cried. “You, Fleming, take the dog away. You, too, Hopkins. Look sharp, all of you.”

  The bloodhound made a great commotion when Fleming was taking him away from the house. A mass of froth trickled from his jaws to the ground while he howled and strained at the leash.

  “Do you make a practice of calling on your neighbours with this savage animal, Captain Butcher?” Raoul said.

  Butcher thrust his revolver into the pocket of his jacket and cried:

  “Damn it, sir, do you see this?”

  He drew the left side of his jacket across his metal vest. There was a small hole in the brown cloth, above the region of the heart.

  “You see?” he continued in an injured tone. “I would have been shot through the heart, were it not for my vest. As it was, I was thrown from my horse and knocked unconscious for a few minutes. Otherwise I would have caught the ruffian. My servants waited to give me aid instead of pursuing him at once. Damn fools! They lost their heads. I had given them express orders, in case such a situation arose, to pursue the assassin, irrespective of my condition. Too many gentlemen show cowardice, in my opinion, by failing to order their body-servants to pursue the assassin, when a bullet finds its mark on their person. My idea is …”

  “I’m not interested in your ideas particularly, Captain Butcher,” Raoul interrupted. “If you insist on searching my house, I implore you to hurry. It’s coming near my meal-time and my cook is easily upset. I’m afraid she is already somewhat upset by the howling of your dog and by all the noise you have made.”

  Captain Butcher suddenly lost the exuberant energy of his rage. He now looked like a man struggling to retain control of himself in spite of acute pain.

  “I just want to look around your kitchen,” he muttered, “and ask your servant a few questions. The fellow undoubtedly crossed the river on to your property. He’s not in any of the out-houses and there is nowhere else …”

  “I must ask you to lower your voice,” Raoul said as they went along the hall towards the kitchen. “My sister is in the living-room and she has been very much upset by your dog.”

  Butcher’s cheeks had paled owing to the severe pain he was enduring. They reddened once more in anger at Raoul’s contemptuous tone. He doubled his fists.

  “You swine!” he muttered under his breath. “You are going to pay for every word in due course.”

  The kitchen was full of smoke. It was difficult to breathe there, or to see anything clearly. The chimney was not drawing properly, a usual occurrence when there was a heavy mist. The smoke kept billowing out at irregular intervals from the enormous turf fire. Several pots and kettles of water were boiling on the hobs at either side of the grate. They added clouds of steam to the acrid-smelling peat smoke. A still further cloud of smoke came from a large cauldron that was suspended by iron hooks from the chimney frame.

  Annie Fitzpatrick stood at one side of a long table with a knife in her hand. She had been peeling potatoes. She began to tremble as Butcher walked over to her. His heavy field boots made a hollow sound on the flagstones of the floor.

  “Did anybody come in here just now?” he said.

  Instead of making a reply, Annie dropped the knife on to the table hurriedly, wiped her hands on her apron and ran to a corner of the room. She sat down abruptly on the settle-bed. This was a long deal chest, with a raised back and arms like a sofa. It was an article of furniture common at that time in country houses, being used as a bed during the night and a settle during the day. There was a rude curtain folded at one end.

  “Why don’t you answer the gentleman?” said Raoul. “You mustn’t make a bad impression on a visitor.”

  “I’m terrified of the dog, sir,” Annie said. “He has the life frightened out of me. I’m not worth a red farthing after the fright he gave me.”

 
; Raoul noticed that she was wearing a man’s cloth cap. Never having seen her wear such an article of dress during his month’s stay in the house, even though he made daily visits to the kitchen in an effort to improve her cooking, he felt sure that she was concealing something important from Captain Butcher. He felt gay as a result.

  “Come now,” he said in a bantering tone, “you have no reason to feel alarmed. I have had the dog sent away. You mustn’t lose control of yourself, Annie, simply because a gentleman with so much charm as Captain Butcher condescends to pay us a visit. Answer his questions. Otherwise he may suspect that I’m in the habit of beating you.”

  Encouraged by his bantering tone and by a furtive wink, Annie got to her feet and curtsied to Captain Butcher.

  “Your honour,” she said, “I’d answer your question and welcome, only I’ve clean forgotten what it was in the first place. I’m all moidhered on account of the way you were shouting and the terrible barking of that heathen dog.”

  “Did anybody come into the kitchen just now?” Butcher said.

  “Miss Lettice came in with a jug,” Annie replied.

  “Anybody else?” said Butcher.

  “Who else would come in, sir?” she said quickly. “The labouring man is gone to Clash with the cart, to buy meal for the pigs. Miss Elizabeth never comes into the kitchen. Saving your presence, sir, the smell of cooking disagrees with her. I had the place to myself until Mr. Raoul came back from France with Miss Lettice. He does be coming nearly every day to show me the French way of doing things. He didn’t come in to-day, and there is a reason for that. There’s a lamb stew to-day and his honour told me himself that I make it better than any French person.”

  “Quite true,” Raoul said to Captain Butcher. “She makes a really delicious stew. Are you interested in cooking, Captain? Alas! It’s a lost art in our country nowadays.”

  Butcher glared at Raoul and walked over to the settle bed. He touched it with his boot.

  “What’s in here?” he said.

  “That’s the labouring man’s bed, sir,” Annie said eagerly. “There’s his mattress and his blankets and his bundle inside in it. Would your honour care to have a look?”