by Colin Wilson
Later in the day, Doggett told Glenney that he had heard a rumour that the girl was pregnant—she had spells of sickness during her work. Glenney scented a new approach. He told Doggett to try to get into her confidence, and find out how much money her lover would need to set up his own shop. ‘I would have given a thousand guineas for the pleasure of leaving one lot of life-fluid in that virtuous little womb.’ But it turned out that her lover could set up in business on a far smaller sum than this, a hundred and seventy-five thalers, the equivalent of about twenty-five guineas. Doggett told her that his master had a kind heart and might be worth approaching—these English milords were extravagant and rash. Accordingly, the girl knocked timidly on Glenney’s door in the late afternoon, and was told to come in. She made her speech about her lover’s need for money, about how he would repay it, and so on. Glenney opened his purse and shook out a pile of gold pieces. Then, as the girl’s eyes were riveted on these, he took her round the waist, and whispered that she could earn the money for her lover very easily. She tried to break away and leave the room, and he told her that he knew she was pregnant. This upset her; she hesitated; Glenney pointed to the money, and whispered that no one would ever know. It would only take five minutes. And she would live happily ever after. . . . She allowed him to kiss her, and caress her breast. She closed her eyes, and had evidently decided that it was worth it, when they heard someone calling her. She broke away; Glenney took the money and pressed it into her hand, then kissed her again. She hurried away.
That evening, she waited at table. He caught her eye twice, and she blushed. She owed him her body. Glenney knew there was no danger of her returning his money; Doggett found out she had been to see her lover early in the evening; she had undoubtedly taken him the money.
That night, Glenney waited until he heard her cross the yard and go into the washhouse. This time, she only undressed to her chemise. Glenney opened the door and slipped in. She looked terrified, and begged him to leave. She explained in a whisper that ‘he’ was waiting in her room. Glenney whispered that this would not take a moment. He spent a few minutes pacifying her, persuading her to be quiet. Then he unbuttoned his trousers, pressed her back against the copper, and possessed her there and then. After this, he whispered that if she wanted another twenty-five guineas to set up house, she should come to his room the next day. Then he dressed and left her.
He was furious when she did not avail herself of his invitation. He met her once in a corridor and looked at her questioningly; she shook her head and hurried away. Doggett had no success in persuading her either. She had kept her part of the bargain, but to Glenney it seemed the height of unreasonableness that she had given herself to him once, and now withheld herself. ‘I would have spent every guinea I possessed for a night in bed with the virtuous little devil.’ He told Doggett to try blackmailing her by threatening to tell her lover, and then, when this didn’t work, contemplated kidnapping her and carrying her off in a coach. But the girl had had enough; that night, she vanished. Presumably she joined her lover, who was now independent of his master. In a very bad temper, Glenney took coach for Amsterdam, and consoled himself with the thought that ‘that five minutes against the copper was worth twenty-five guineas of anybody’s money’. The whole episode has a rather nasty flavour. He had seen her undressed and he wanted to have her; the discovery that she was in trouble only added to his determination. He could have waited, and got her to come to his room the next day; she was obviously prepared to keep her side of the bargain. But it would be more piquant to possess her in the circumstances in which he had first decided to have her—particularly as her lover was waiting in her room. It is interesting to note his use of the word ‘virtuous’. The girl was not virtuous, for she was pregnant. But it was this vision of her that made him want her: respectable, virtuous, in love with someone else. How appropriate to hoist up her chemise and fuck her against the copper, with his trousers around his ankles! But having done it, he wants to occupy the conquered territory, repeat the whole pleasurable business. He would not normally try blackmailing a girl into bed, or think of abducting her in a carriage; but this ‘virtuous’ girl produces a desire to conquer, to degrade; even when he is finally frustrated, he dwells on the thought that she has been had by him; if she remains faithful for the rest of her life, nothing can take that away. It is the coarsest kind of masculine sadism that informs the whole episode. But Glenney describes it in his letter to Donelly as if certain of his approval. My own feeling was that if Donelly did not find the whole business as unpleasant as I had, then he was as bad as Glenney. They were just a pair of dirty-minded rakes. But since I had none of Donelly’s letters, I had no way of knowing his reaction to Horace Glenney’s revelations.
For the next ten days, my ‘quest’ for Donelly marked time. I must confess to an appalling laziness, or, rather, to a perverse disinclination to occupy my energies upon any task for which I am being paid. I felt as if reading the various letters and documents borrowed from the Misses Donelly was a kind of homework, and I resented it. Instead, I filled page after page of my journals, on topics relating to phenomenology, and studied Wittgenstein, whose Zettel had just arrived from Blackwells.
Then several things happened at once. The Irish Times published my letter appealing for material about Donelly; two days later, The Times Literary Supplement printed the letter I had written from London. Klaus Dunkelman finally wrote me an apologetic letter from Hampstead, explaining that my letter to him had not been forwarded, but had been left lying on the hall table at his old address, where it was accidentally noticed by a friend. A Mr W.S.K. Aldrich of Cork wrote to say that he had been a friend of the late Jane Aston, who died in 1949, and had various letters in Donelly’s handwriting. He was not sure what had become of them. Finally, Clive M. Bates, the grandson of Isaac Jenkinson Bates, wrote to me from Dublin to say that his grandfather had been ill, but that if I happened to be in Dublin, he would be happy to see me. He added that his grandfather was delighted that I concurred with his views on the Ireland’s Eye murder, and would like to discuss it in person. A postscript added: ‘I have seen your letter in today’s Irish Times. I may be able to offer a few suggestions.’ The cautious wording of this last sentence excited me. He could not even bring himself to mention Donelly. It seemed to indicate that he almost certainly knew something: too much even to trust himself to hint at it.
Klaus Dunkelman’s letter was very long, and discussed my books at length. But its references to Donelly were brief. He said that he had heard the name mentioned by Otto Körner, the disciple of Wilhelm Reich, who spoke of Donelly as being one of the first writers to note the importance of the orgasm for psychological health. However, said Dunkelman, he was unfortunately unable to offer me more details, since he had now severed connection with Körner. As far as he knew, Körner was now back in Germany.
My inclination was to hurry to Dublin to see Clive Bates; but there was too much else to be done, and besides, haste might spoil everything. So I wrote him a non-committal letter, talking about my project of a biographical introduction to a book of Donelly’s journals, and adding that I hoped to see him some time soon. Then I turned to the matter of tracking down the Donelly letters that had belonged to Jane Aston—although without much enthusiasm. No doubt they would be Donelly’s letters on the subject of Jortin, Tillotson and other sleep-inducing sermonisers. I drove to Cork and interviewed Mr Aldrich, who was able to tell me that Jane Aston had relatives at Belgooly, near Kinsale. I drove there and discovered that they had gone to Cork for a day’s shopping. So I went to Kinsale and booked a room in a hotel, then called back on Mr Philip Aston—a retired coastguard—at seven in the evening. It proved to be a wasted trip: he knew nothing of Donelly letters; but he gave me the address of Fr Bernard Aston of Limerick. I called on him the next day, on my way back to Galway. He had heard of the Donelly papers, but had no idea what had happened to them. He suggested that I contact Jane Aston’s doc
tor, George O’Hefernan, of Cork, who knew her well. (A slight droop of the eyelids hinted that the relationship was closer than he could approve.)
I was beginning to get a Kafka-ish sensation of being directed from one office to another and never getting any nearer the objective; I was tempted to give up. I wanted to quote half a page of Donelly on the subject of sin and redemption; but it began to seem more trouble than it was worth. When I got home, fortified by a good-size glass of claret, I rang directory enquiries in Cork and asked for the number of Dr O’Hefernan. They said there was only one listed, but he was ex-directory. With a sinking feeling, I asked if I could be put on to the superintendent. Then I took another long drink. A man came on the line, explained the superintendent was away at the moment, and asked if he could help. I knew it would be impossible to persuade them to give me the number, but hoped it might be possible to get the superintendent to ring Dr O’Hefernan and ask if he would speak to me. Ireland is an easygoing, obliging sort of country. So I explained my business—that I was a writer, that I wanted to trace certain documents, and that I thought Dr O’Hefernan might be able to help me. The gentleman on the other end asked me to hang on; ten minutes later, he returned, and told me that the O’Hefernan in question was not listed as a doctor. I thanked him and hung up; that seemed to be the end of the trail.
But a couple of hours later, as I was dozing and listening to The Pirates of Penzance, the telephone rang. Diana took the call, and told me the Cork superintendent wanted to speak to me. It was the same man. He had looked through old listings and found Dr O’Hefernan, and then somehow managed to trace him for me. The address was in Killarney. I thanked him effusively, and took his name and address so that I could send him a copy of one of my books. Then, although it was now after ten, I got through to Dr O’Hefernan’s number. I told him my name, and explained I was a writer. He immediately became very friendly, and told me he had published a few books himself. He had never heard of me; but when I brought up the subject of Esmond Donelly, he recalled that he had seen my letter in the Irish Times, and had been meaning to write to me. Yes indeed, he had a large number of Donelly’s letters, as well as some other papers, and I would be most welcome to examine them at any time that would be convenient to me. I fixed on the next day.
There is no space here to describe the twenty-four hours I spent with George O’Hefernan, although it certainly deserves description. A short, stockily built man with rosy cheeks, white hair and a white moustache, he was one of those people who seem to have been born happy and full of interest in everything that happens. He presented me with copies of his books, Clonmacnoise and Other Poems, Mangan and his Circle and Memoirs of an Irish Rebel, as well as his volume of translations from the Gaelic. He had known Yeats well, spent many evenings with Joyce in Paris, and been a drinking companion of Gogarty; I made a note of his stories in my journal, for the versions in Memoirs of an Irish Rebel are a great deal tamer and less Rabelaisian than the versions he told me. The doctor was the soul of hospitality; he invited a dozen friends in for dinner, and we consumed several gallons of home-made ale as well as a great deal of Jameson’s. In the early hours of the morning, when the last of his guests had wandered unsteadily towards his car, he told me the story of his association with Mrs Aston during the last twenty years of her life—she died at forty-eight of pneumonia. Finally, he took me to a great floor-to-ceiling cupboard in the spare bedroom—where I was to sleep—and showed me piles of rolled manuscripts, letters tied in bundles and heavy black folders. ‘You’ll find plenty of Donelly’s stuff among that lot’, he said, and left me to look through it. It was 4 a.m., and the room was chilly in spite of a single-bar electric fire. I had drunk too much, and had a slight headache. But I started pulling papers out of the cupboard on the off chance of seeing Esmond’s handwriting. After disturbing a few spiders and a quantity of dust, I found a bundle of letters addressed to William Aston. I had now cleared out most of the bottom shelf of the cupboard. In the corner, at the back, there were two black-bound volumes. I pulled these out and glanced into one of them; the handwriting was Esmond’s. I glanced at the front page; it started halfway through a paragraph. I opened the other volume. It consisted of octavo-sized pages that had been bound together; the opening page read: ‘October 11, 1764. I have often determined that I should keep a journal in which I would record my everyday doings, but have so far failed to hold to the intention. I have lost recollection of so many interesting events that I have at last determined to carry this resolution into effect, whatever the cost in labour or candles. . . .’
I undressed, pulled on my pyjamas, and clambered into bed, no longer interested in sleep. In 1764, Esmond was just sixteen years of age. This journal was therefore the earliest of his writings that I had seen so far. The handwriting was neater and easier to read than in the later journal. My feeling of triumph was so strong that I was tempted to rush along to Dr O’Hefernan’s bedroom and show him. It was only my suspicion that he shared it with the plump young woman who kept house for him that made me restrain myself. What surprised me was that O’Hefernan had not mentioned these journals. He told me that he knew there were letters from Donelly, but that was all. The inference was that he did not know of their existence. And when I asked him the next morning, he confirmed this. The journals of an Anglicised Protestant Irishman of the eighteenth century held no interest for him, for he was a Catholic and a patriot, and his feelings about Cromwell were more violent than most Englishmen’s about Hitler.
I read until dawn, slept for about three hours, until the housekeeper woke me with tea, then pulled on my overcoat over my pyjamas and went back to the cupboard. Within half an hour, I had sorted out three more bundles of letters and two more bound journals, as well as the manuscript of his Travel Diary. When Dr O’Hefernan came in to tell me breakfast was on the table, he found me surrounded by papers and covered with dust, sitting opposite an empty cupboard. When I showed him the journals, he smiled and said: ‘Good. I’m glad you didn’t have the trip for nothing.’ I took the opportunity to ask the question that had been on my mind all night. ‘Do you mean I can make use of all this material?’ ‘Sure. Why shouldn’t you?’ ‘Would you prefer me to work here, or could I borrow it?’ ‘Oh, whichever you like. Come on down now and eat something.’ And he padded off in his slippers and dressing-gown, while I sat there chortling like a madman.
And I must confess that as I studied the journal, I began to regret that I had accepted Fleisher’s contract. Fifteen thousand dollars had seemed a magnificent sum at the time; but with all this material at my disposal, I felt I deserved a great deal more. For the new journal removed the last of my doubts about Donelly’s intellectual stature. It showed me why Horace Glenney admired him so much. He was a man who was obsessed by the elusive nature of human experience. But let him speak for himself:
My cousin Frances tells me I have too good a conceit of myself, but I call heaven to witness that this is untrue. I am often the most wretched and self-derogatory creature under the sun, and my dissatisfaction often reaches a pitch where it would be a temptation to blow out my brains. I am writing this journal that I might attempt to introduce some kind of order and continuity into my life, for I am heartily sick of my own disapprobation. Women do often complain that men lack constancy; but why should we have constancy in love when we have none in any other form of thought, feeling or desire? Yesterday, the famous Doctor Gillis preached at our church, and I was greatly moved, and swore that I would in future alter my life according to his recommendations, and live only by the approval of my conscience and sense of virtue. But today it is too windy and cold to venture outdoors, and this morning I read the fables of Gellert in the German for an hour before my usual distemper overcame me, and I became sunk in a monstrous lassitude. Since then, I can see no way in which my conscience or sense of virtue can operate upon this life-consuming weariness. My conscience may tell me how to avoid doing wrong, but it cannot tell me how to escape tediu
m. And is there anything deadlier for a creature made in God’s likeness than this same tedium? For God is God because he can create; so a man crushed by tedium is most un-Godlike.
Dr Gillis made a most ingenious comparison between the body and the mind, saying that the body has its own system for disposing of injurious or pestilent humours, whether natural or the product of sickness, whereas the mind has none. If I have a boil, it will discharge of itself; if I am costive, a green apple will loosen the obstruction; but if I am full of bile or envy, no purgative will serve; either I must give expression to my animus, or withdraw it by an act of contrition. There is no natural channel; it must be, like Macduff, ‘from its mother’s womb untimely ripped’. And is this not even more true of this toedium vitae that stifles me? It is a constipation of the soul, a boil that refuses to discharge.
I know that I cannot be happy without a feeling that my activity is directed to some purpose, but I know not how to imbue my soul with purpose. Half an hour ago I took up Thomson’s Winter and read:
Thro’ the hush’d air the whitening shower descends,
At first thin wavering; till at last the flakes
Fall broad and wide, and fast, dimming the day
With a continual flow. The cherish’d fields
Put on their winter robes of purest white.
’Tis brightness all, save where the new snow melts
Along the mazy current . . .
Why do these words cause a peace like falling snow to descend upon my senses? Is there not within me some appetite for sublimity that is now choked by weariness, as my belly’s hunger is blunted and made sickly if I eat too many sweet cakes? And is this appetite not arous’d from its slumber by the memory of winter fields? And also by the sound of the clash of swords in Ossian? And also by the bouncing of a soft bosom when a girl runs upstairs? Why do we not possess a rod to strike the rock of the soul, and make a spring gush forth?