A Very Irish Christmas

by James Joyce

  Boom—boom—boom. It was the great cathedral bell swinging out the midnight hour, and sending its welcome tones on the wings of the storm. Frank started up.

  Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong; and mingling their sweet silvery notes with the deep booming, the joybells pealed out rapturously the Christmas chimes. Frank heard the hall door open and shut, and he knew that mother was going through the storm to the Midnight Mass. He rubbed his eyes, and looked around. Heigho! What’s this? He rubbed his eyes again, then started up and leaned on his elbow. No doubt about it. There, in his own chair, opposite the fire, was a little old man, not a bit bigger than Frank himself. He held his hands before the fire, and Frank could see their dark shadows distinctly before the red embers. For a moment the boy was astonished, but presently the boyish daring and courage came back, and he shouted cheerily:

  “Hallo, old fellow, a happy Christmas!”

  The stranger rose slowly, then came to the bedside, his two hands folded behind his back, and bending over the boy, he exclaimed, half-seriously, half-jestingly:

  “Ah! You bad boy!”

  “I am not a bad boy,” said Frank, indignant at such an answer to his welcome, “and you have no right to say so.”

  “Where’s my mince pie?” said the old man, lifting up one finger, and shaking it warningly.

  “I am sure,” said Frank, “I don’t know where’s your mince pie; but I gave mine to a poor woman.”

  “Ah! You bad boy,” said the stranger again, as he slowly turned away and took up his seat by the fireplace.

  But Frank knew that the old man did not mean what he said. Presently, his hand dived deep, deep down into his pocket, and he placed on the table, near Frank’s collar and cuffs, the very identical mince pie that Frank had given the poor woman at the door. There it was, with its mitred edge, its brown crust, and the five currants which Frank had ordered the cook to place crosswise on the top. The old man lifted off the crust and placed it gently beside him.

  “He’s going to eat it, the old glutton,” thought Frank, “he surely stole it from the poor woman.” But no! He simply lighted a match on the coals, and swiftly passed it round the edge of the pie before him. A bright blue flame shot upwards, flickering and flashing in the darkness till it reached the ceiling. Then it assumed gradually the form of a house on fire. The windows were shown clearly against the dark walls by the terrible flames within, and Frank could see the little spurts of fire that broke from the slates on the roof. Now there was a rumbling and the confused murmur of many voices, and the tramping of many feet, and a noise like the roaring of the sea. Then there was a wild shout, and a tiny jet of water rose like a thread from the crowd and scattered its showers upon the fire. Another shout, and the boy’s heart sank within him as he saw at the window of the burning house a young lad like himself, clad only in his nightdress, terror and agony on his face, and his arms flung wildly hither and thither. A cheer went up, and a ladder was planted firmly against the window, and a sailor lad swiftly ascended, and in a moment the little fluttering figure was grasped in the strong arms, and carried safely where gentle hands and warm hearts would protect him. Frank’s heart was throbbing wildly, the perspiration stood out in beads on his forehead, when he heard the harsh voice of the old man:

  “Shut your eyes!”

  Frank shut them, but kept one little corner open, and he saw the old man quietly taking up the crust and place it in the pie, completely extinguishing this awful conflagration. And the Christmas bells were chiming.

  “Shut your eyes!” said the old man again, quite angrily. And Frank shut them and kept them closed for a long time, as he thought.

  “Look,” said the same voice.

  Frank opened his eyes, fearing and wondering what new strange vision was going to burst on him. It was nothing terrible, but somehow the mince pie had expanded and grown into a deep and broad valley, with rugged rocks and strange dark places, and black mountains huddled together, and tossed about as if by an earthquake. And from their midst rose a mighty peak, the base of which was clothed with fir trees, and farther up were black frowning rocks, and the top was crowned by a pinnacle of snow that shot up high into the air, and was lost beyond the ceiling of the little bedroom. At the base of the mountain was a village, and there was a bustle in the village, and the noise of many tongues. In the street many mules were standing, laden with provisions, and three guides, tall and strong, and brown, strolled up and down, their alpenstocks in their hands, and huge coils of rope strung across their shoulders. Three young gentlemen stood apart, talking earnestly. They were young, scarcely more than boys, but there was vigour and courage in their looks, and gait and manner. They had not heard of the word “Danger!” At last one separated from the rest, and walked away quite dejected and angry. The word was given, and the two gentlemen and their guides set out to scale the mountain. They were watched until they turned the spur of the hill. Then one ringing cheer, and they disappeared in the shadows of the mountains. The day wore on, and evening came. But before the twilight descended, Frank saw that people came from their houses with long telescopes, and levelled them at the snowy summit. Nothing was visible there, as Frank could see, but the cold, hard, glittering snow, shining pink and ruby from the reflections of the fire. Suddenly there was a shout: “There they are!” Frank looked, and thought he saw five tiny black specks in the snow, linked together by a thread. Slowly these specks moved up the slippery surface until they were lost in the clouds. A few minutes later those same black specks reappeared, toiling down the steep side of the mountain of ice. Frank held his breath. They had already travelled down half the mountain, when the lowest figure on the rope fell, and one after another the brave climbers were tossed from cliff to cliff, from precipice to precipice, until they were lost in the black valleys beneath. A cry of horror had gone up from the village. Frank shut his eyes, and put his fingers in his ears. After a few moments he looked again, and saw lights flashing in the village, and dark figures hurrying to and fro, and he felt they were going out to seek for the dead bodies of the guides and the two gentlemen. Presently a bell began to toll, and Frank thought it too cheerful for a funeral; for now down the slope of the hill, in amongst the trees, out across the valley, he saw the lights shining, and slowly the procession entered the village. Mountaineers, with their heads bent down, carried on their shoulders a bier, and on the bier was something covered with a black cloth. Behind them came a young man, whom Frank recognised as the companion, who was left behind in the morning. He was weeping silently, now and again passing his handkerchief across his face.

  For one moment he raised his head, and the red light of the torches fell upon him, and Frank saw that it was himself, and he felt himself choking at the thought of his narrow escape from a terrible death. He lay for a while thinking and thinking, when once more he saw the old man by the fire with the mince pie on the table, but the vision of the valley was gone. But the Christmas chimes were ringing.

  After a little while, once more the voice of the old man, now very gently and lovingly, said, “Shut your eyes!” Frank closed his eyes sorrowfully, for he felt very sad and frightened, and he dreaded another terrible picture.

  “Now,” said the old man, “you may look!”

  II

  Timidly enough, Frank peered forth; but how his heart bounded with joy when he saw his own beautiful harbour painted in its richest colourings of blue and gold, the sunshine streaming over its surface, and the little waves dancing and leaping and flashing. He looked for a long time out over the waters, but he heard the noise of laughter and talking quite close at hand, and he saw just beneath him a large, beautiful boat, and somehow he thought that this boat was but his mince pie lengthened out and decorated. It was heaving and rocking on the water, and it had the straightest mast and the whitest sail in the world. And in the stern Frank saw quite a crowd of “fair women and brave men,” and he knew them all as the friends of his boyhood, though they were changed. Stout watermen in blue jerseys were liftin
g hampers over the gunwale, and over all there was a something Frank never saw before. It was a joy and a peace and a glory as if reflected from some light brighter than the sunshine. But he himself was very sad. And they pitied him, and said, “Another time, Frank; don’t grieve too much.” And then the oars were planted firmly on the gravel, and the boat was pushed away, and after a few strokes the sail was lifted, and the breeze caught it and carried the gay barque like a bird over the bright waters. Frank turned away sick and disappointed, but lo! as he came along from the Admiralty Pier, he saw facing him the poor woman whom he had relieved and her children. But she was changed. She had on that strange look which passed across her face when the angel touched her, and her child was bright and ruddy, and held forth his hands to Frank, and the little girl, dressed ever so beautifully, caught Frank and bent him down towards her, and whispered something that Frank could not hear. But a strange peace stole over his heart, and all the sorrow and disappointment were gone.

  But when the evening came and the lamp was lighted, and the books were opened, the same sadness stole into his heart. Suddenly there was a sharp ring, and a succession of knocks, and hurried whisperings at the door, and he heard his mother’s voice saying, “My God!” and then the door of his room opened, and his mother glided in, and her face was wet with tears, and Frank knew that the gay barque of the morning was drifting out a sad wreck into the high seas, and he knew also that his dear friends from whom he had parted so sadly in the morning were now lying cold and still on the sand and shingle down deep beneath the cold blue waters. But mother came near him, and flung her arms round him, and he heard her say:

  “Why, Frank, you lazy boy, still in bed at eight o’clock Christmas morning. You promised to be first in the sacristy to bid Father Ambrose a happy Christmas; and now you must wait for High Mass, and there’s a pile of Christmas Cards waiting for you.”

  Frank lay still a moment, collecting his thoughts, doubting all things, thinking all things a dream. But there was the white light of the Christmas snow shining in his room, and there was the bell ringing for Mass, and drawing a long sigh, he exclaimed:

  “Oh mother, I had such a dream.”

  “Never mind, my boy,” said his mother; “you can tell it by and by!”

  And by and by, when the tables were cleared and they were sitting round the fire, and there was not a shadow of gloom on the gay little circle, Frank told his dream, his hand softly clasped by his mother. And when he had done, she smoothed away his fair locks from his forehead, and kissed him gently, and said:

  “It was not a dream, Frank, but a vision of dangers from which the good God will preserve my boy for his kindness to the little ones of Christ.”

  Whimsical Beasts

  AISLING MAGUIRE

  HE KEPT HER ON THE outskirts of the city in a flat fifteen floors up from the ground. Here he had given rein to every whim of his fantasy, masking the blind concrete walls with swags of red crepe so that it was impossible at night to tell where the doors and windows stood. He was terrified of losing her. He had happened upon her and, indeed, could even believe that he had created her.

  She was nervous, shrinking always just a little from his kiss. That charmed him, her fretful reluctance to be possessed opening at length to a languorous unfolding of herself. She regarded him with implacable eyes and never spoke until he had spoken. She would take his coat, shake out the rain and hang it behind the door, and, once he was seated, she would remove his shoes and socks to chafe his cold, tired feet between her hands and lay her cheeks first on one, then on the other.

  Still, he could not believe that she was there for him, no matter what time of the evening or the day he called. At the start, in his anxiety, he kept irregular hours, returning in the middle of the morning or at lunchtime. Sometimes he would leave the flat, go downstairs, wait half an hour, and go back up; yet he found her always there, seated by the window, maybe, staring out across the gaseous yellow sky of the city. If not there, she might be lying on the black platform bed that rose on a single strut in the comer of the room like an outlandish fungus sprung from nowhere in the dead of night, or like an aerial sensitive to the atmosphere of the room and the fluctuation of their moods. Satisfied that she had composed herself to wait for him alone, he would leave again, the fast beat of his heart slackening down to an empty pace.

  What she did while she was there during the day was a matter of indifference to him. He sensed, however, that her mind was not one which required great stimulation. The few newspapers that he brought home she would remove from his coat pocket, spread on the floor and, sitting cross-legged, with her elbows on her knees, and her jowls pressed into the palms of her hands, she would gaze unmoving at the pages. For a few evenings he watched her do this and, occasionally, with one finger trace the contour of the faces in the photographs, until it occurred to him that, perhaps, she could not read. She looked at him, half-smiling when he asked her and shook her head.

  The letters on those pages, he thought, must appear as alien to her as the characters of Cyrillic or Arabic script to me. He was pleased that she could not read for it set a further obstacle in the path of her potential escape.

  “What does it look like to you, all that writing?” he asked.

  For a moment she deliberated, pulling at a twist of hair that fell to the nape of her neck, then grinned. “Like millions of tiny insects marching up and down in rows,” she replied, and imitated the walk of a spider with her fingers on the page.

  It was when he took up smoking again that he discovered her one peculiar habit or talent, he was not sure which it should be called, for her fingers worked with such alacrity that their movement seemed completely unwilled like the reflexive spasms of palsy. An accumulation of small gold animals proceeded from this incessant fidgeting. As soon as a packet of cigarettes had been discarded she would pounce and, with her finger and thumb slide the gold foil from the box. He thought at first that she was going to make a mock goblet plugged at the base with moistened whitepaper so that by a quick upswing of the wrist it could adhere to the ceiling, like those that stud the stained plaster of countless pubs. Had she done that he would have been disgusted and enraged, the sight of an object so useless and vulgar, repulsive to his taste. Contrary to this, he was enchanted by her creative knack, as she presented him with a golden peacock in full display.

  Each evening a new specimen was added to the collection until she was pushed at last to invent new subspecies, with the features of various animals assembled in comical or grotesque shapes that recalled ancient hieroglyphs. As the dark nights of winter descended he found himself to be more and more beguiled by the glow that shone, in the reflected light of the gas stove, from this fanciful troop. She could spend hours stretched on the floor shifting the tiny creatures in an intricate choreography and her narrow greenish eyes as she stared into the pattern of movements gave back greenish flecks of golden light. Only when he might stroke her hair or touch her cheeks would she advert again to his presence and then she would reach up, take his hand, open it, and place one creature from her fragile menagerie on his palm. He accepted them as tokens of her feeling for him and when night had finally come and the lights were turned out he felt her in his arms become a miraculous exotic beast.

  That she should have an artistic flair gratified him, for it seemed to redound to his credit that he should have isolated her out of the drift of vagabonds that ranged the streets. He was even moved to think that he would like to take her out, and parade her on his arm down the avenues as a man of property might do, but was brought up short by the fear that she might then expect this promenade to become a regular part of their affair. He was unwilling to disrupt the singular calm they had achieved in their fifteenth floor rooms. Besides, there was the problem of clothes; he would have to dress her in the costume of the rich and, for himself, would have to find a tailor-made suit with knife edge creases, and replace his inelegant grey coat with one of camelhair or vicuña.

  No, it was bett
er to remain aloft, balanced above the city in their crow’s nest, and improvise the forests and boulevards of the world in the interlocked shafts and hollows of their limbs. Instead of taking her out he brought her a gift. The parcel contained four miniature oriental screens he had spied one morning in the corner of an antique shop window. Each one was made of a piece of outstretched silk held in a black wooden frame standing on scroll-shaped feet. The brilliance of their primary colours attracted him, the red, the blue, the yellow and the green, as bright as jewels that flashed under the passage of light. She laughed when she saw them, and placed them in a line on the windowsill just to watch the tints leap and change like the shudder of colour on a bird’s feathers.

  Soon the screens were incorporated into the manoeuvres of the golden menagerie, and comprised a backdrop of flats as in theatrical scenery. The movements of the animals now took on a narrative form as their comings and goings in front of and around the screens followed the routines of coincidence and conflict intrinsic to the oldest plots of all.

  He wondered how far her range would extend and, in consequence, smoked more than he craved and certainly more than was healthy but there was no limit to the procession of creatures that issued from her hands. Birds and beasts of unimaginable aspect, crowned with horns, or flowering with layered wings, her multiple variations on the order of nature baffled him. Unmindful of it himself, he was becoming physically derelict in the service of her art. He was aware of bouts of coughing that shook his lungs till warm phlegm curdled at the back of his mouth. His pallor, he knew, had waned from a moderate ruddiness to a feeble grey. This much the people at the garment factory where he worked had told him, remarking with meaningless concern on the decline in his complexion; but he was dismissive, attributing any alteration in his person to the onset of winter. The deposit of nicotine in his lungs consumed his energy and the new slowness of his movements interposed a veil of hesitancy between himself and his mistress.