Land

by Liam O'Flaherty

  “From foreign parts?” said the sacristan.

  “From foreign parts,” Father Cornelius said.

  The malign expression of the scandalmonger came into the old man’s eyes.

  “Say no more, Father Cornelius,” he said. “Say no more.”

  The people formed a column behind McNamara and began to march towards the village, singing revolutionary songs. Bartly carried his hat high up in front of his chest, as he marched proudly in the van. It was the great moment of his life. At one glorious stride, by virtue of his rebellion, he had risen from contempt and obscurity to supreme command of his people. His heart overflowed with joy as he strutted along, bowing right and left to the astonished people that lined the road. It was a triumphal march for the little fellow.

  Alas! Such sudden triumphs are always shortlived. It was about half a mile to the village square from the church. It did not take the excited people very long to cover that distance. On debouching into the square, Bartly discovered to his horror that the whole police garrison was drawn up in battle array before the barracks. On receipt of an ominous report from the constable on duty at the church, Sergeant Geraghty made all of his six constables stand to arms. They were now drawn up in line, wearing their service helmets, while they loaded their carbines with ball ammunition in full view of the frightened shopkeeper.

  This depressing sight made the little man realize that rebellion, like alcohol, produces a painful reaction to the ecstasy of its intoxication. The metallic sounds made by the opening and closing of the carbine bolts made him wish that he had remained content with being humiliated and downtrodden. He wanted terribly to run away and hide somewhere.

  “Oh! God!” he said to himself. “I’ve done it again. I’ve certainly made a proper fool of myself this time.”

  The people behind the shopkeeper were equally intimidated by the sight of the armed police. The singing came to an abrupt stop. The column halted in silence and confusion before the Father Matthew Hall. This was a one-storied building of no great size. Only a fraction of the throng managed to gain entrance. Those left out in the square, being now without even the semblance of leadership, felt completely at the mercy of the police. They began to whisper among themselves, saying they should have waited to hear from O’Dwyer before acting as they had done. In a word, they were on the verge of panic and dispersal.

  The small party that had entered the Hall soon got into a similar state, owing to McNamara’s behaviour.

  “You are welcome to this Hall now,” Bartly said to them, after having mounted the little platform. “The Committee that you elect won’t have to pay me a red penny for its use.”

  He tried to leave the platform after making this statement. The people immediately got angry with him and told him to stay where he was or “it would be worse for him.”

  “Take charge now that you’ve started the ball rolling,” a man said to him. “You’ll have to finish what you began, or we’ll flatten your ears for you.”

  “I never acted as chairman in my life,” said McNamara. “Sure I wouldn’t know the first thing to do. I’m giving ye the Hall. In God’s name, isn’t that enough?”

  This infuriated the people. They began to abuse him exactly as they had done when he mounted the gate-post to address them. It appeared likely, in fact, that he would be rudely handled by the more violent of them when a retired pig-jobber named Joseph Cleary came to his rescue.

  “Stand back there,” Cleary shouted as he forced his way into the Hall from the doorway. “I have a suggestion to make and I think it’s a good one.”

  He was an elderly man, of large and bony frame, with a bald head and drooping white moustaches. He was a highly respected parishioner, so the people made way for him.

  “Here is what I propose,” he said, after having reached the platform. “O’Dwyer can’t be found. McNamara doesn’t want the job of chairman. He’s not fitted for it, in any case, no more than I am myself. Yet we must find a chairman at once, or we’ll have no Committee, and Father Costigan will have a good laugh at our expense. So will every parish in the county. We’ll be a proper laughing-stock if we go home now without electing a Committee. Do we want to be a laughing-stock and a show-board?”

  “No,” the people cried. “We want to elect a Committee, same as every other parish.”

  “Then, I think I have found our man,” Cleary said, “the only man that could do the trick, an educated man and a true friend of the people, judging by recent events. I refer to Mr. Raoul Henry St. George.”

  This statement was received in silence. At first the people looked surprised. Then they looked suspicious. As Lettice had remarked to Elizabeth, they had recently come to like Raoul for the help he had given O’Dwyer. That liking was a far cry, however, from wanting to make him their leader. Hatred of the St. George family had become part of their nature through centuries of oppression. One man’s change of heart was not sufficient to suddenly eradicate that hatred.

  McNamara overcame their repugnance by his enthusiasm. The shopkeeper was not a party, at least for this moment, to the common hatred. Just now he was so anxious to escape once more, into obscurity and contempt, that he would gladly advocate making the Devil himself leader.

  “Three cheers for Mr. St. George,” he screamed with savage energy, as he swung his hat above his head. “Hip! Hip!”

  The people hesitated for a minute fraction of a second. Then they succumbed to the little man’s frenzy and broke into a cheer. Learning what had been decided, those out in the square also cheered wildly. The popular enthusiasm for Raoul was all the more abandoned because of the original revulsion caused by his name.

  McNamara, Cleary and a fisherman called Hernon were chosen as a deputation. The whole throng formed into a column for the march to Manister Lodge behind these three men. Again there was singing of revolutionary songs. Indeed, the choice of an aristocrat as their leader gave some men such courage that they cursed the police out loud and brandished their sticks at the barracks.

  The throng had crossed the square and was approaching the little bridge leading to the gate of Manister Lodge when Raoul and his daughter came into sight. The column halted at once. After a short whispered consultation, the deputation was allowed to proceed alone. The three men came up with Raoul and Lettice at the very centre of the little wooden bridge.

  “Good day, gentlemen,” Raoul said, raising his hat.

  He looked worried and surprised. Annie Fitzpatrick had brought him news of the disturbance during Mass. Furious because O’Dyer’s mysterious absence had upset his carefully laid plans, he set out for the village at once with Lettice, in order to discover what exactly had happened.

  “Mr. St. George,” McNamara said, “we have a favour to ask of you.”

  “A favour?” Raoul said.

  “We want to elect a Committee, sir,” McNamara continued. “There are Committees being set up all over the county, to deal with the terrible emergency that faces the people. We have to fight the landlords or starve, so we must organise. Father Costigan refuses to lead us. The Archbishop has turned the clergy against us. Michael O’Dwyer was leading us until to-day. Now he has disappeared, without hair or hide of him to be seen anywhere. So we are left staggering about, like a hen without a head. In the heel of the hunt, Mr. St. George …”

  “We came to you,” Cleary interrupted, “as it’s only fit and proper that we should.”

  “Take command,” the whole throng shouted, beginning to move closer to the bridge. “We want you as our leader.”

  “You see how it is, sir,” said McNamara. “It would be a noble act of charity, if a fine gentleman like yourself, a true friend of the people, stepped into the empty breach and defended the parish of Manister against another famine. Your father, Lord have mercy on his soul, did his best when we were stricken before …”

  “He did, ’faith,” an old woman shouted, “and more power to his memory. He went from door to door, giving bite and sup to the needy, while his own empty
belly was screeching with the hunger.”

  There was tense silence after the old woman had spoken. Raoul stared at the crumbling planks of the old bridge. His upper lip trembled. Then Lettice touched him on the sleeve. He looked at his daughter. She was smiling and nodding her head eagerly.

  “You really think I should?” Raoul whispered to her.

  “Please, Father,” she said, gripping his arm tensely.

  Her face was radiant. Raoul had to swallow a lump in his throat, as her joy forced itself upon him.

  “I accept the honour with the greatest of pleasure,” he said, bowing low to the deputation.

  The whole throng rushed on to the little bridge with frenzied shouts. Cleary threw himself in front of them and stretched out his arms.

  “Keep back,” he cried. “This old bridge is falling to pieces. It will break under the strain.”

  Ignoring his appeals, the crowd kept pressing forward. Then the railing snapped. There was a cry of fright. A young man was hurtling down into the stream beneath when a neighbour grabbed him. Frightened by this incident, the people allowed themselves to be driven back on to the road. Raoul and Lettice then advanced, amid a scene of extraordinary enthusiasm.

  An elderly man knelt before Raoul bareheaded.

  “Lord!” he said, pressing Raoul’s hand to his forehead. “May God give you noble addition.”

  Women crowded round Lettice and kissed her hand.

  “May God give you noble addition,” they said to her, bowing low.

  Lettice received these marks of homage with solemn dignity, as if she had been accustomed to them all her life. Raoul, on the contrary, seemed to be overcome. He was trembling and there were tears in his eyes.

  The people marched back to the Hall behind Raoul and Lettice. Now they marched solemnly and in silence, as if conscious of a new dignity. Order had once more been restored in their lives, after a brief moment of frightening anarchy.

  Chapter XIV

  A light breeze swept up from the sea through the garden, breaking the warm stillness of the afternoon. There was a violent fluttering of leaves. Blossoms came adrift.

  Elizabeth straightened her back and took a deep breath, to enjoy the delicious fragrance that had been set in motion by the wind. She had been working steadily among the fruit trees for the past two hours. Now she felt pleasantly tired and content.

  She looked out over the sea. Tiny islands dotted the surface of the water for about a mile from shore. Farther out there were larger islands, some of them inhabited. A little while ago, the smoke from the houses out there stood against the misty blue wall of the horizon like slender trees. Now the wind had begun to play with the columns of smoke, twisting them into fantastic shapes.

  She was about to resume her work when she caught sight of Tim Ahearn coming along the rough wagon road that ran between the brick wall of the garden and the pebbled shore.

  “Could I have a word with you, miss?” he shouted to her, while still some distance away.

  Elizabeth waited until he had reached the little wooden gate set in the wall before making a reply.

  “Come along, Tim,” she then said.

  He entered the garden and approached her at a leisurely pace, swinging his battered hat back and forth, as his heavy boots crunched irregularly against the gravelled path. He was the “labouring man” in whose settle-bed O’Dwyer had hidden. He was fifty-two years old, short and strongly built, with massive thighs, a thick neck, a long upper lip and a wide-based nose. His gentle and intelligent eyes saved his face from looking uncouth.

  “It’s about the bullocks, miss,” he said, halting at a distance.

  “What about them, Tim?” Elizabeth said.

  “Should I drive them to the fair next Wednesday?” he said.

  “I’ve told you several times,” Elizabeth said severely, “that you must go to my brother about all such things. He is now master here.”

  “I went to him,” Ahearn said. “He only told me to do what I thought best. I don’t know what’s best, so I came to you for advice.”

  “That’s different,” Elizabeth said.

  “Prices are terrible,” Ahearn said, “since the English threw open their ports to Canadian and American meat. But would they get any better by September? Would it pay to keep the bullocks until the September fair, on the chance that the English might change their laws in the meantime? That’s what is troubling me.”

  “I advise you to sell them on Wednesday,” Elizabeth said. “Prices are sure to drop further on account of the political unrest.”

  “God spare your health, miss,” Ahearn said. “You’ve taken a load off my mind. I wish it was orders instead of advice you were giving me. A poor working man doesn’t want the responsibility of doing what he thinks best. He likes to get orders and obey them. Ah! For twenty-one years I was a happy man, coming to you for orders. There’s something else I want to talk about, if you can spare the time.”

  “I always have time for your problems, Tim,” Elizabeth said.

  “It’s about the settle-bed,” cried Ahearn. “I want to go back to it. I’m an unhappy man since the master made Annie Fitzpatrick clean out the attic and put a bed there for me. It’s a fine bed, the one I have now, with linen sheets, a bolster, the best of woollen blankets and even a quilt. Yet I’m suffering up there, miss. Don’t be talking, but every night is a torture for me. I do be hearing queer noises. The fairies keep moving about. They whisper to one another the whole time. Now and again they whistle at me. I’ll die of fright, surely, if I have to stay there much longer. The master thought he was doing me a great favour, when he evicted me from the settle-bed, He wouldn’t believe me when I said that I didn’t want to move. ‘During all these years,’ he said, ‘you’ve been treated like a dog, made to sleep in a filthy box and turned into a drunkard and a slovenly character and a liar through lack of self-respect. You’ve been living in a manner unfit for a human being.’ ‘I’m very comfortable in that old settle-bed, Mr. Raoul,’ I said to him. ‘Dignity,’ said he, ‘is more important than comfort.’ Dignity! Who ever heard the like? There was no use arguing with him. He had an answer for everything, like an attorney in a court of law. I told him the kitchen was a handy place for me to sleep, on account of the way I get hungry at all hours of the night. So it’s a Godsend for me to have the cupboard and the kettle and the fireplace handy. Even a cup of tea, without milk or sugar, together with the heel of a loaf, is a rare treat for a man like me at three o’clock in the morning. ‘You’ve become a glutton as well as a drunkard,’ said he when I mentioned the old appetite. He did, indeed, call me a glutton. May God forgive him for it. ‘Gluttony,’ says he, ‘has always been the mark of the slave.’ Glory be to God, Miss Elizabeth, but sure it’s flying in the face of Divine Providence to call a man a glutton for putting a few stray crumbs of bread between himself and an angry stomach. The master brought back queer notions with him from France. Dignity! We were happy in this house before we heard of dignity and the rights of man.”

  “It must be a trial for you, Tim,” Elizabeth said, “being moved in this harsh way from a place that you had made your home and where you had learned to be content. That is no excuse, though, for criticising your master. I’m afraid that God is going to be angry with you on that account.”

  “Arrah! God has more sense than that,” Ahearn said. “Sure, I’m only complaining of the fairies. It’s well-known that the fairies are in league with the Devil.”

  “Shame on you, Tim,” Elizabeth said, “a grown-up man, believing in something that is contrary to Catholic teaching. Fairies don’t exist. It’s the wind you hear.”

  “That’s exactly what the master said,” cried Ahearn with a deep sigh. “He nearly ate the face off me for mentioning the good people. It seems that he’s a deadly enemy of the fairies. He called me a reactionary old fossil, whatever that might mean, for talking about them. Learned people like the master and yourself may be right about most things, but not about the fairies. Poor people
know more about things that come out of the dark places. For the love of God, miss, whisper a word to him some evening after supper, when he’s in a good humour, asking him to let me back into the settle-bed again.”

  “I’m afraid it would be of no use,” Elizabeth said. “He is very obstinate where his political ideas are concerned.”

  “What have politics got to do with me sleeping in the settle-bed?” said Ahearn in astonishment. “Even if they had, sure the best rule in politics is to let well enough alone.”

  “I agree with you,” said Elizabeth, “but this is a strange world. The best thing is to submit to God’s will.”

  Ahearn sighed deeply and shrugged his shoulders.

  “The master says I must learn the value of human dignity or die in the attempt,” he muttered. “Ah! Woe! It’s a terrible prospect.”

  He suddenly put both hands over his heart and leaned towards her on tip-toe, with his body rigid and his face glowing with passion. In this pose he resembled a lover, laying siege to his lady’s heart.

  “There is no use hiding your head like an ostrich,” he cried with great vehemence. “You must try to make him put an end to his foolishness. I don’t mind him ruining this sixty-five acres of land that are left to him. God knows it’s a little to have left out of a whole barony. It doesn’t matter what happens to this miserable hansel. Let him have his fun with it. He has no right, though, to tamper with the immortal souls of those depending on him. He has no right to make himself the ringleader of paganism in the parish.”

  Elizabeth got angry. She herself disapproved of Raoul’s political activities, especially since he had become chairman of the Committee. It was quite another matter, though, to hear him criticised on this account by a servant.

  “You should be whipped for such impertinence,” she cried.

  Ahearn threw himself on his knees at her feet and stretched out his hands in humble appeal.