Part 4
But that instant he stepped round the end o’ the turf-stack fornint the boreen, Wid a scarlet to aquil the poppies ablaze on his bit o’ coateen, And his belts and his straps and his buckles as white an’ as bright as could shine-- Whin a dragon-fly sits on the slant o’ the sun he looks somethin’ as fine-- Till he seemed to be lightin’ a dazzle an’ glitter each step that he stirred; And his little red cap set a-top wid a cock, like the crest of a bird, And his spurs glancin’ out at his heels, an’ the stripes o’ gold lace down his sleeve; And himself was just Felix Magrath comin’ home to his father’s on leave.
VI
The red-coats--I’d seen thim at Christmas, when ’victions was down at Drumloe, Standin’ watchin’ the ould folk an’ childher put out in the flurries o’ snow, And it’s thin they looked bitther an’ black as their powdher an’ steel, man for man, But--I’ll say that for Felix Magrath--find a pleasanter lad if ye can. For he seemed somehow heartenin’ things up, whin he stepped along sthraight as a dart, Maybe twirlin’ his bit of a stick to a tune like, that dacint an’ smart That ye’d feel, clumpin’ on be his side, like a quare sort o’ raggety gawk. Thin to hear him discoorse; ye might listen from mornin’ till night to his talk, He’d such stories of all he’d beheld in thim lands where they fight wid the blacks, Where the curiousest things ye could think do be plenty as turf-sods in stacks. And he’d medals that set him rememb’rin’ wan day whin the guns let a roar From the ridge o’ the sandhills close by, where they’d come since the evenin’ before; An’ it’s mountin’ they all were next minute, an’ waitin’ the word o’ command, Wid his baste in a quiver to start, sthrainin’ hard on the reins in his hand, An’ thim other lads passin’ thim on to the front till their hearts were nigh broke, Thramp an’ thramp, wid the bands playin’ march-tunes ahead thro’ the booms in the smoke; Thin the bugle rang out--Och, I’ve ne’er heard the like, yet wan aisy can tell They’d ha’ lep’ all the locked gates of Heaven to ride wid that music to Hell.
VII
So if Nell tuk a pleasure in listenin’, the same as the rest o’ thim, why ’Twas small blame to her; that’s what I said to meself; but it seemed like a lie. An’ whine’er I come home from me work, an’ seen never a sowl be the hedge, Where there’d most whiles be Nelly to meet me, but, happen, away on the edge O’ the hill-slope a pair standin’ dark ’ginst the clear o’ the sunset, och thin All the fire that was dead in the sky seemed flared up to a burnin’ agin In the core o’ me heart; an’ the first thing I knew I’d be rippin’ an oath, Wid me fingers clenched hard in a rage, like as if they were grippin’ his throath; An’ I’d swear to meself that whin wanst he was parted from Nelly that night, I’d slip afther him back to his place, an’ pervoke him some way to a fight, As I ready might do if I plased, an’ no throuble about it at all, For it’s aisier risin’ a quarrel than sthrikin’ a match on a wall. An’ bedad, if it come to that work, it’s meself might be havin’ the pull, For I stood a head taller than he, and I’d always the strenth of a bull; An’ ’twas likely enough, if I masthered him thin, he’d take off out o’ this, An’ leave Nelly an’ me to ourselves as if naught had befallen amiss; An’ thin Nelly’d percaive there was more in the world than a gay bit o’ red-- So thinks I to meself; but, sure, musha, wan’s thoughts is like beads off a thread, Slippin’ each after each in a hurry: an’ so I kep’ considherin’ on, Till the next thought I had was if Nelly’d be fretted whin Felix was gone. For I knew that the comfort was crep’ from me life like the light from the day Since she’d tuk up wid him; an’ belike now if aught chanced that dhruv him away, She’d be heart-broke. An’ what call had I to go vex her wid comin’ between, Whin she’d liefer have him than meself in me shows of ould brogues an’ caubeen? ‘Divil take me,’ sez I, ‘thin it’s schemin’ I am to have Nelly to wake Wid her heart every mornin’ like lead, if there’s lead that can thrimble and ache, Wid no pleasure in aught, feelin’ lonesome an’ lost in the world dhrear an’ wild, I might betther ha’ left her to dhrown, an’ she on’y an imp of a child.’
VIII
But there’s whiles whin the throubles ye’re dhreadin’ seem comin’ be conthrary ways, An’ ye’ll wondher what road ye should turn from the worst till your mind’s in a maze, Like me own, whin I heard what the neighbours were sayin’ o’ Nelly. Bedad, It’s the lasses were jealous I know--but they all would go bail Magrath’s lad Was just foolin’ the girl for the sake o’ divarsion as certin as fate, Wid his slootherin’ talk, and his thrapesin’ afther her early an’ late, Till she’d come to no good. Ay, mayhap, it was nothin’ but envy an’ spite, Yet it seemed to meself whin the neighbours called Felix a rogue, they said right; An’ thin Nell’d got no mother to mind her. I couldn’t tell what to be at, For if all that they talked was the truth, I’d ha’ choked him as soon as a rat; But the truth was as hard to piece out as a page whin the half of it’s torn; An’ I’d think ’twixt us both Nell might fare like a little white rose on the thorn, That two childher’ll be scufflin’ an’ tusslin’ to grab, ’cause it’s purty an’ sweet, Till its laves is shook off in a shower, an’ throd down in the dust at their feet.
IX
An’ thim evenin’s I felt to be hatin’ whatever I seen or I heard, So I’d slinge away into the house, where I’d nowan to give me a word, An’ the corners is black at noonday. But I couldn’t shut out o’ me sight How the west where the sun had gone by would be swimmin’ brimful wid clear light, An’ as fast as it dhrained off the stars ’ud be slippin’ this side o’ the sky, Like the rain-dhrops that rowl down and hang from the blade-points; it’s Nelly and I ’Ud be watchin’ thim many a time; an’ sure now she was watchin’ wid _him_, An’ what differ to her? But a wolf whin he’s tearin’ a man limb from limb Might ha’ frindlier feelin’s than me, whin I fancied the two o’ thim there, Sthrollin’ aisy, while Felix’d be stickin’ red poppies in Nelly’s black hair, As I seen him wan evenin’, or pullin’ her kingcups along be the pool, An’ they both talkin’ low, an’ it’s like enough laughin’ at me for a fool That had tuk off to sulk be himself. I’d ha’ sworn I was hearin’ him laugh; An’ I wanst grabbed me blackthorn that laned be the wall, an’ I snapped it in half Like a withy, ere I knew what I done, and it thick as your wristbone. An’ thin There ’d be Granny, that sat on the step wid her knittin’, would keep peerin’ in, Thinkin’ maybe I’d speak to her pleasant some while; for the crathur was scared, An’ she dursn’t so much as be askin’ what ailed me; but little I cared, Or it’s plased in a manner I was wid the notion I’d somebody vexed; An’ I’d often scarce open me lips, good or bad, from wan light till the next. Och, but slow wint the time, an’ I crouched in the dark like a baste in his lair, Ragin’ crueler than bastes, barrin’ divils. Sure mad ye’d go, mad wid despair, If ye hadn’t the thought that the end o’ the end, whatsoe’er may befall, Is nought else save a paice and a quiet, where ye’ll disremember it all.
X
Well, wan night, comin’ home agin sundown, I met wid some girls at the gate Beyant Reilly’s, an’ Biddy O’Loughlin: ‘Och Jimmy,’ sez she, ‘man, ye’re late; For we seen thim just now, passin’ by near the pool at the fut o’ the hill, Your sweetheart an’ _her_ sweetheart, thick as two thieves. Ye might find thim there still, If ye stirred yourself,’ sez she. Sez I: ‘Find a sweetheart, me lass, o’ your own, And it’s thin ye’ll be maybe contint to let other folks’ sweethearts alone.’ So sez I; but I thought to meself I’d turn back be the way that I came, An’ keep out o’ the sight o’ the hole. But it’s there I wint sthraight all the same.
XI
There were showers about on the bog, an’ the blast risin’ up wid a keen Dhruv the wet in me eyes as I come towards the hole till the slope falls between; And I tuk a look round, sharp an’ quick, as ye’d touch a red coal wid your hand-- Ne’er a sign of him--nowan but Nell--sure a light seemed to slip o’er the land. But it’s kneelin’ she was on the edge, stoopin’ low o’er the blackness widin, And I called to her: ‘Mind yourself, Nell!’ for to see her ran could thro’ me skin. But wid that she lept up to her feet, an’ just ready she stood for a spring, Never liftin’ her eyes from the wather. So sthraight as a stone from a sling I was down the hill-side, an’ I dhragged her away, tho’ it’s past what ye’d think How she sthrove in me arms; I was hard set to hold her off safe from the brink. Thin she tuk to stan’ still of a suddint, an’ sez to me soft like an’ low: ‘For the love o’ the Mother o’ Mercy, don’t be keepin’ me, lad, let me go.’ An’ sez I to her: ‘Nelly, me darlint, I’ve made up me mind in the nights That I’d give ye to Felix Magrath; for, sure, how should I grudge you by rights, If it’s him your heart’s set on? I’ll keep meself quite; there’s no more to be said. But yon ugly black hole--och, it’s often I’ve promised your mother that’s dead I’d ne’er let that git hold o’ ye. Time and agin I’ll ha’ hauled ye along Up this bank, an’ ye fightin’ as fierce as a kitten, an’ nearly as sthrong, And abusin’ me all ye could think, in the rage o’ ye. Now, be me sowl, I’d not keep ye from wan that was pleasant an’ kind, but I’ll chate the black hole.’ So sez I; but sez she wid a cry that was like a wild bird’s on the air: ‘’Tis to Felix I’m goin’, to Felix, that’s lyin’ an’ dhrownin’ down there.’
XII
Och, the world gave a reel; och, the words meant no more than the thunderclaps mane, Thro’ the roar in me ears, till I saw thim black sods that were soft wid the rain All fresh thrampled, an’ scrawmed on the edge were the prints left where somewan had gript For dear life wid his fingers--God help him whin heavy he grew, an’ they slipt, And he dug his nails hard--an’ they slipt. An’ in Nelly’s own bit of a hand, That I’d caught, was a scrap o’ gold lace; an’ his cap wid its bright-shinin’ band Hung there waved on a brier; but the wather lay smooth. An’ sez I: ‘In God’s name, What was that ye said, Nelly?’ An’ sez she: ‘’Twas but now; he was here whin I came. An’ sez he, whin the rain-dhrops began: “Now the fine weather’s broke, I’ll be sworn, But it’s lasted as long as me leave, for I’m off to the Curragh the morn.” So sez I: “Is it that soon ye’ll be goin’?” An’ sez he: “Sure, if longer I’d stay, What at all would the wife there be doin’? She’d think that I’d scooted away; Och, it’s ragin’ she’d be like the mischief. But, Nelly,” sez he, “wife or no, Ye’re the purtiest girl I e’er seen, an’ ye’ll give me a kiss ere I go.” But I pushed him away, and I sez: “Ne’er a kiss ye’ll be gittin’ from me.” An’ I turned to run home, an’ the sky’d grown so dark that I scarcely could see. Thin he tuk a step back--sure belike he forgot he stood close to the bank-- An’ he fell, an’ he held to the edge, but he dhropped in the wather an’ sank. An’ he’s dhrownin’--leave go o’ me, Jimmy--ye stookawn--I’d aisy jump down-- It’s your fau’t if ye hinder me savin’ him--your doin’ for lettin’ him dhrown, That’s me sweetheart. Och, Felix,’ sez she, ‘I’d give body an’ sowl for your life, Felix darlint.’ I knew it afore, yet to hear her seemed twistin’ a knife That was stuck in me heart. But I held her the closer. I’ve learnt since I’ve thried How a man can hold Heaven an’ Hell in wan grip. Thin most piteous she cried, An’ she snatched her two hands out o’ mine to her throat, an’ seemed gaspin’ for breath, An’ her head dhrooped aside, an’ she lay in me arms like the image o’ death.
XIII
But ’tis all in a mist afther thin. First the neighbours come plutherin’ round, Callin’ wan to the other that Nelly was dead, an’ that Felix was dhrowned. An’ the pólis thramped black thro’ the glames of a moon that was takin’ to rise, An’ thin somebody said: ‘Sure he’s murthered her sweetheart before the girl’s eyes.’ Was it that set the win’ howlin’ ‘Murther!’ all over the land in the dark? An’ they axed me a power o’ questions, an’ fitted me fut in a mark On the bank. But it’s little I heeded whatever they’d do or they’d say, For thin Nelly was come to her sinses, an’ ravin’ an’ moanin’ away, An’ kep’ biddin’ thim hinder me dhrownin’ the lad in the hole be the hill. So sez I to meself whin I heard her: ‘I’ll let thim believe what they will. I’ll say naught, an’ the kinder they’ll thrate her belike.’ So I just held me tongue. An’ some chaps began booin’ an’ shoutin’ the villin’d a right to be hung. An’ his mother wint callin’ him soft, lettin’ on he was hid for a joke; But th’ ould father I’d seen shake his fist at me over the heads o’ the folk: Troth, as long as the life’s in me body he’ll ne’er git a minute o’ paice. And I seen Granny mopin’ about wid the fright puckered up in her face. Och, she’ll starve, now, the crathur, she’ll starve; that’s the throuble I’m lavin’ behind. Did I see? I’m scarce certin, but since, I’ll be seein’ it oft in me mind, What they dhrew up all dhrippin’, up out o’ the wather that shivered an’ spun In black rings, hauled up slow like a log, stiff an’ stark, an’ laid down where the sun Was just rachin’ to twinkle the dew on the grass. Whin ye looked where that lay, All the world seemed no more than a drift o’ deep night round a hand’s-breadth o’ day. But it’s clearer I see him come stepped thro’ the sunset in glimmers o’ gould, Than that wanst, sthretched his lenth there, stone-still, wid thim black snaky weeds, wet an’ could, Thrailin’ round him. Her darlint, her darlint--I hear that asleep and awake; I’d a right to quit hearin’ it now, whin he’ll listen no more than she’ll spake.
XIV
For they tould me this day little Nelly had died o’ the fever last night, An’ the frettin’; so nothin’ that matthers a thraneen’s left under the light. What’s the differ if people believe ’twas meself shoved him into the pool? They can’t help her or harm her. But, faith, sir, ye’ll think me a powerful fool, Or ye’d scarce have the face to be biddin’ me spake out the truth now, afore ’Tis too late; an’ yourself sittin’ there tellin’ lies this last half-hour an’ more, Wid your little black book full o’ blatheremskyte as its leaves is o’ print; Sure, I’d heard all your stories; an’ sorra a wan ye’ve the wit to invint That ’ill show folk the sinse o’ the life where they’ve come, an’ the death where they’ll go, If there’s sinse in’t at all; wan thing’s certin: it isn’t the likes o’ yez know-- Wid your chapels an’ churches, Heaven walled up in each, an’ Hell’s blazes all round. Och, the Divil _I_ keep is contint plaguin’ crathurs that bide above ground, Widout blatherin’ afther thim into the dark; that’s the Divil for me; Tho’ he wouldn’t suit you, sir: the folk’s aisier frighted wid things they can’t see. But just leave me in paice wid your glory an’ joy--they’re as bad as the rest. If there’s anythin’ manes me a good turn at all, let it give me what’s best-- The great sleep, that’s all sleep, ne’er a fear wan could wake, ne’er a thought to creep in; Ne’er a dhrame--or I’d maybe hear Nelly call Felix her darlint agin.
PAST PRAYING FOR
OR, THE SOUPER’S WIDOW
‘_Horribili super aspectu mortalibus instans._’
PAST PRAYING FOR
OR, THE SOUPER’S[2] WIDOW
[2] _Souper_ is a term applied to the few Irish Catholic peasants who, during famine years, professed Protestantism in order to obtain the relief, often intrusted for distribution to the clergy of the then Established Church, who occasionally made a grant conditional upon attendance at their services, etc., though as a rule acting impartially and humanely.
(A.D. 184-)
I
Sure he’d never ha’ done it, not he, if I’d on’y but held o’ me tongue; Och, the fool that I was, the black fool--for the same I’d deserve to be hung; But, bedad thin, the tongue o’ ye’s harder than aught in the world else to hould, An’ that mornin’ we all was disthracted an’ perished wid hunger an’ could.
II
It was right in the worst o’ the famine, the first years the praties wint black-- Tho’ ye’re scarce of an age, Sisther Frances, to remember o’ things so far back; But in coorse ye’ve heard tell o’ thim times, whin the people was dyin’ be the score, Ay, be hundrids an’ thousinds, the like was ne’er seen in the counthry before. An’ what else should the crathurs ha’ done, wid the food o’ thim rotted to dirt? Och, to see thim--ye’d meet ne’er a man but his face was as white as his shirt. And ourselves had been starved all the winther, the childher, an’ Micky, an’ me, An’ poor Micky’s ould mother, till, comin’ on spring, not a chance could we see; For there wasn’t a house far or near where they’d give ye the black o’ your eye, And our Praste he was down wid the fever, an’ clane ruinated forby.
III
So it’s rale delighted we were on that evenin’ Pat Murphy brought word How the people o’ Lunnon had sint some relief to our townland he heard; Relief--that was oatmale, an’ loaves, an’ a grand sup o’ broth in a bowl, An’ to git it ye’d stip down to Parson, who’d tuk to disthribit the whole. So full early we started next day, sin’ the road’s a long sthretch to his place, An’ we hadn’t a scrap in the house but a crust for the childher. And in case We got out the big bag for the male, Mick an’ I, while the rest, lookin’ on, Did be wishin’ we’d bring it back full, an’ a-wondhrin’ how long we’d be gone. Sure, the laste o’ thim all, little Larry, that scarce was a size to run sthraight, Tuk a notion to come wid us too, whin he heard ’twas for somethin’ to ait. I remember the look of it yit, skytin’ afther us the lenth o’ the lane. Thin I mind, comin’ into the town, meetin’ cart-loads and cart-loads o’ grain, That Lord Athmore was sindin’ in sthrings to be shipped off from Westport by say; An’ the people stood watchin’ thim pass like as if ’twas a corpse on its way. An’ sez Mick, whin we met thim: ‘Look, Norah,’ sez he, ‘that’s not aisy to stand: It’s the lives of our childher th’ ould naygur’s a-cartin’ off out o’ the land.’ An’ sez I, just to pacify Mick: ‘Thin good luck to the folks as ha’ sint What ’ill keep o’ the sowls in their bodies; if we can but do that I’m contint.’
IV
But, och, Sisther darlin’, at Parson’s we got sorra a bit afther all; Not a taste in the world save the smell o’ the soup that was sthrong in the hall. For whin Parson come out from his breakfast, he said the relief that he’d got Was for thim who wint reg’lar to church--where he’d ne’er seen a wan of our lot; An’ he’d liefer throw bread to the dogs than to childher o’ papists, whose thricks Were no better than haythins’, brought up to be worshippin’ ould bits o’ sticks. Howsome’er, if we ’d give him our word we ’d attind the next Sunday, why thin He’d considher. But who could ha’ promised the like? Such a shame and a sin: Turn a souper in sight o’ thim all, an’ throop off to the place where they curse The ould Pope, an’ the Virgin, an’ jeer at the Mass--why, what haythin’d do worse? Yet that hape o’ big loaves. Sisther Frances, thim folk’s in a manner to blame Who know whin ye’re starvin’ an’ tempt ye. So we wint back the way that we came. But, ochone, it seemed double the lenth, an’ it’s never a word Micky said, An’ the ould empty bag on me arm was that light it felt heavy as lead; An’ the childher, that ran out to meet us as far as the top o’ the hill, Whin they found we’d brought nothin’ at all--I could cry now to think o’ thim still.
V
An’ twyst afther that Mick wint down there to thry if a bit could be had, But onless that we promised to turn, not a scrapeen we ’d git good or bad. Och, the long hungry days. So wan mornin’ we’d ate all the breakfast o’er night, And I hoped we ’d be late wakin’ up, but it seemed cruel soon gittin’ light. An’ the March win’ was ice, an’ the sun on’y shinin to show it its road, An’ the fire was gone out on us black, an’ no turf till wan thramped for a load. Thin the childher, an’ Mick’s mother herself, were that starvin’, the crathurs, an’ could, That they all fell to keenin’ together most woeful, the young an’ the ould; Until Mick, that was lyin’ in bed for the hunger, an’ half the week long Had scarce tasted a bit, he laned up on his elbow to ax what was wrong. An’ sez I--God forgive me, ’twas just the first thing that come into me head-- ‘Sure it’s cryin’ they are, man,’ sez I, ‘for the want of a mouthful o’ bread, And it’s dyin’ they may be next thing, for what help I can see. Och, it’s quare, But if Parson had knowed how we ’re kilt, an’ ye’d on’y ha’ spoken him fair, He’d allow us a thrifle at laste.’ An’ sez he: ‘Woman, whisht! what’s the use? I might spake him as fair as ye plase, or might give him the heighth of abuse, All as wan, he’s that bitther agin us. But throth will I stand it no more; I’ll turn souper this day for the male.’ And he ups wid himself off the floor; For ’twas Sunday that mornin’, worse luck: ‘It’s a sin, sure,’ sez he, ‘I know well, ’Siver, sooner than watch thim disthroyed, I’d say prayers to the Divil in Hell,’ Sez he, goodness forgive him--but, mind you, meself’s every ha’porth as bad, For thin, watchin’ him off down the lane, I dunno was I sorry or glad.
VI
And he wint, sure enough, to the church. Widdy Mahon she tould me next day How she ’d gone there herself for the victuals, an’ met wid him comin’ away; And how afther the service they stepped up to Parson’s to thry what they ’d git, An’ they got a half loaf, an’ the full o’ the male-bag; an’ never a bit Would he touch, but made off wid him sthraight, tho’ she said he seemed hard-set to crawl-- Och, ye see ’twas for us that he turned, for himself he ’d ne’er do it at all. An’ it’s wishful he was to slip home in a hurry, poor lad, wid his pack, An’ to bring us the best that he had. But och, Sisther, he never got back.
VII