by Bram Stoker
“Do ye ken, young sir, that even mortal een have power to see much, if there be behind them the thocht, an’ the knowledge and the experience to guide them aright. How, think ye, is it that some can see much, and learn much as they gang; while others go blind as the mowdiwart, at the end o’ the journey as before it?”
“Then perhaps you will tell me how much you saw, and how you saw it?”
“Ah! to them that have seen the Doom there needs but sma’ guidance to their thochts. Too lang, an’ too often hae I mysen seen the death-sark an’ the watch-candle an’ the dead-hole, not to know when they are seen tae ither een. Na, na! laddie, what I kent o’ yer seein’ was no by the Gift but only by the use o’ my proper een. I kent not the muckle o’ what ye saw. Not whether it was ane or ither o’ the garnishins o’ the dead; but weel I kent that it was o’ death.”
“Then,” I said interrogatively, “Second Sight is altogether a matter of chance?”
“Chance! chance!” she repeated with scorn. “Na! young sir; when the Voice has spoken there is no more chance than that the nicht will follow the day.”
“You mistake me,” I said, feeling somewhat superior now that I had caught her in an error, “I did not for a moment mean that the Doom-whatever it is-is not a true forerunner. What I meant was that it seems to be a matter of chance in whose ear the Voice-whatever it is-speaks; when once it has been ordained that it is to sound in the ear of some one.” Again she answered with scorn:
“Na, na! there is no chance o’ ocht about the Doom. Them that send forth the Voice and the Seein’ know well to whom it is sent and why. Can ye no comprehend that it is for no bairn-play that such goes forth. When the Voice speaks, it is mainly followed by tears an’ woe an’ lamentation! Nae! nor is it only one bit manifestation that stands by its lanes, remote and isolate from all ither. Truly ‘tis but a pairt o’ the great scheme o’ things; an’ be sure that who so is chosen to see or to hear is chosen weel, an’ must hae their pairt in what is to be, on to the verra end.”
“Am I to take it,” I asked, “that Second Sight is but a little bit of some great purpose which has to be wrought out by means of many kinds; and that who so sees the Vision or hears the Voice is but the blind unconscious instrument of Fate?”
“Aye! laddie. Weel eneuch the Fates know their wishes an’ their wark, no to need the help or the thocht of any human-blind or seein’, sane or silly, conscious or unconscious.”
All through her speaking I had been struck by the old woman’s use of the word “Fate,” and more especially when she used it in the plural. It was evident that, Christian though she might be-and in the West they are generally devout observants of the duties of their creed-her belief in this respect came from some of the old pagan mythologies. I should have liked to question her on this point; but I feared to shut her lips against me. Instead I asked her:
“Tell me, will you, if you don’t mind, of some case you have known yourself of Second Sight?”
“Tis no for them to brag or boast to whom has been given to see the wark o’ the hand o’ Fate. But sine ye are yerself a Seer an’ would learn, then I may speak. I hae seen the sea ruffle wi’oot cause in the verra spot where later a boat was to gang doon, I hae heard on a lone moor the hammerin’ o’ the coffin-wright when one passed me who was soon to dee. I hae seen the death-sarli fold round the speerit o’ a drowned one, in baith ma sleepin’ an’ ma wakin’ dreams. I hae heard the settin’ doom o’ the spaiks, an’ I hae seen the weepers on a’ the crood that walked. Aye, an’ in money anither way hae I seen an’ heard the Coming o’ the Doom.”
“But did all the seeings and hearings come true?” I asked. “Did it ever happen that you heard queer sounds or saw strange sights and that yet nothing came of them? I gather that you do not always know to whom something is going to happen; but only that death is coming to some one!” She was not displeased at my questioning but replied at once:
“Na doot! but there are times when what is seen or heard has no manifest following. But think ye, young sir, how mony a corp, still waited for, lies in the depths o’ the sea; how mony lie oot on the hillsides, or are fallen in deep places where their bones whiten unkent. Nay! more, to how many has Death come in a way that men think the wark o’ nature when his hastening has come frae the hand of man, untold.” This was a difficult matter to answer so I changed or rather varied the subject.
“How long must elapse before the warning comes true?”
“Ye know yersel’, for but yestreen ye hae seen, how the Death can follow hard upon the Doom; but there be times, nay mostly are they so, when days or weeks pass away ere the Doom is fulfilled.”
“Is this so?” I asked, “when you know the person regarding whom the Doom is spoken.” She answered with an air of certainty which somehow carried conviction, secretly, with it.
“Even so! I know one who walks the airth now in all the pride o’ his strength. But the Doom has been spoken of him. I saw him with these verra een lie prone on rocks, wi’ the water runnin’ down from his hair. An’ again I heard the minute bells as he went by me on a road where is no bell for a score o’ miles. Aye, an’ yet again I saw him in the kirk itsel’ wi’ corbies flyin’ round him, an’ mair gatherin’ from afar!”
Here was indeed a case where Second Sight might be tested; so I asked her at once, though to do so I had to overcome a strange sort of repugnance:
“Could this be proved? Would it not be a splendid case to make known; so that if the death happened it would prove beyond all doubt the existence of such a thing as Second Sight. “My suggestion was not well received. She answered with slow scorn:
“Beyon’ all doot! Doot! Wha is there that doots the bein’ o’ the Doom? Learn ye too, young sir, that the Doom an’ all thereby is no for traffickin’ wi’ them that only cares for curiosity and publeecity. The Voice and the Vision o’ the Seer is no for fine madams and idle gentles to while away their time in play-toy make-believe!” I climbed down at once.
“Pardon me!” I said, “I spoke without thinking. I should not have said so-to you at any rate.” She accepted my apology with a sort of regal inclination; but the moment after she showed by her words she was after all but a woman!
“I will tell ye; that so in the full time ye may hae no doot yersel’. For ye are a Seer and as Them that has the power hae gien ye the Gift it is no for the like o’ me to cumber the road o’ their doin’. Know ye then, and remember weel, how it was told ye by Gormala MacNiel that Lauchlane Macleod o’ the Outer Isles hae been Called; tho’ as yet the Voice has no sounded in his ears but only in mine. But ye will see the time-”
She stopped suddenly as though some thought had struck her, and then went on impressively:
“When I saw him lie prone on the rocks there was ane that bent ower him that I kent not in the nicht wha it was, though the licht o’ the moon was around him. We shall see! We shall see!”
Without a word more she turned and left me. She would not listen to my calling after her; but with long strides passed up the beach and was lost among the sandhills.
THE WAY OF PEACE
I knew both Michael Hennessey and his wife Katty, though under the local pronunciation of the surname- Hi nnessey. I had often gone into the little farmhouse to smoke a pipe with the old man, and to have, before I came away, a glass of milk from the old woman’s clean, cool dairy. I had always understood that they were looked upon as a model couple; and it was within my knowledge that a little more than a year ago they had celebrated their golden wedding. But when old Lord Killendell - “The Lard” as they called him locally - suggested that I should ask old Michael how it was that they had lived such a happy life, there was something in his tone and the quiet laugh which followed it, which made me take the advice to heart. More especially when Lady Killendell, who had always been most kind to me, added with an approving smile -
“Do! You are a young man and a bachelor; you will learn something which may be of some service to you later on in your life.”
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br /> The next time I was near Hennessey’s farm the advice occurred to me, and I went in. The two old folk were alone in the house. Their work for the day - the strenuous work - was done, and they were beginning the long evening of rest, which is the farmer’s reward for patient toil. We three sat round the hearth enjoying the glowing fire, and the aromatic smell of the burning turf, which is the only fuel used in that part of Ireland.
I gradually led conversation round to the point of happy marriages by way of the Golden Wedding, which was not yet so far off as to have lost interest to the old folk.
“They tell me,” I said presently, “that you two are the happiest couple in the Country. I hope that is so? You look it anyway; and every time I have seen you the idea has been with me.”
“That’s true, God be thanked!” said Michael, after a pause.
“Amin!” joined in Katty, as she crossed herself.
“I wish you’d tell me how you do it?” I asked. Michael smiled this time, and his wife laughed.
“Why do ye want to know, acushla?” she said in reply. This put me in a little personal difficulty. As a matter of fact, I was engaged to be married, but I had been enjoined not to say anything about it - as yet. So I had to put my request on general grounds, which is never so appealing as when such information is asked for personal reasons.
“Well, you see, Mrs. Hennessey,” I said, stumbling along as well as I could, “a man would always like to know a secret like that. It is one which might - at some time in his life - be - be useful to him. He -”
“Begob it might, yer ‘ann’r,” broke in Michael. “Divil recave me if a young man beginnin’ life wid a knowledge like that mightn’t have all the young women iv a township follyin’ round afther him like a flock iv geese afther a ghander.” He was interrupted in turn by Katty -
“Ay, or th’ ould wans too!” Then she turned to me -
“An’ so ye’re goin’ to be married, yer ‘ann’r. More power to ye; an’ as many childher as there’s days in the month.”
“Hold hard there, ma’am!” I retorted. “That would be anembarras de richesse.” She winced at the foreign phrase, so I translated it - “too much of a good thing - as the French say. But why do you think I’m going to be married?”
“Ah, go on out iv that wid ye! For what would a young man like yer ‘ann’r want to know how marrid people does get on wid wan another, unless he’s ceasin’ to be a bhoy himself!” (In Ireland a man is a “bhoy” so long as he remains a bachelor. I have myself known a “bhoy” over ninety.) Her inductive ratiocination was too much for me; I remained silent.
“Begob, surr, Katty was wan too many for ye there!” chuckled the old man.
“Quite right, Michael, so she was!” I said. “But now that she has found me out, mayn’t I have the price of the discovery? Won’t you tell me how you have lived together so happilyforso many years?”
“Ay, surr, there hasn’t been a harrd wurrd betune us since the day aftherwe was married.”
“The day after you were married?” I commented. “I wonder you didn’t begin on the wedding-day itself!”
“Now that’s all right, surr, an’ mayhap so we would if we was beginnin’ life out iv a book. Mayhap it was that we found out the way for ourselves, bekase we wasn’t lookin’ for it on any particular road. I’m thinkin’ that that’s the usual way for threasures bein’ found ‘Tisn’t always - aye or mostly - the people that goes about shtickin’ rods into places or knockin’ chunks wid hammers from off iv other people’s property that finds hidden money. Sure ‘tis thim that goes about mindin’ their own business that comes across it whin they’re laste expectin’ it.” This was a long speech for Michael; and Katty, with her instinctive wish to please, expressed herself in subtle flattery given in an overt aside -
“Mind ye, the wisdom iv him. It does come bubblin’ up, like a spring out iva big book full ivwritin’ what no man can undhershtand!” Then Ijoined in myself -
“That is a good idea, Michael. The knowledge that can make two people happy is indeed a treasure. Won’t you tell me how to find it? The finding, of course, a man must do for himself. But where there is a road, it is wise to know something about it before you start on a journey.”
“Thrue for ye, surr. But I’m misdoubtin’ meself if there’s a road at all - a high-road iv coorse, I mane. But mind ye, ‘tisn’t on the high-roads that happiness walks. ‘Tis the boreens in a man’s own houldin’ - nigh to his own home - an’ his own heart!” This time Kattys comment was made directly to her husband -
“Begob, Mike, but it’s a pote ye’re becomin’ in yer ould age. Boreens in yer heart! indade! An’ here have I been thrampin’ for half a century up an’ down our own boreen; an’ sorra wance have I seen happiness walkin’ there more than on the mail-road itself.”
This new philosophy was taking us away from the subject, so I led them back to it — ”
“Well, even if there isn’t a high-road - a road for all - won’t you tell me what road you and Katty took? Then I may be able - some day - to find a road like it.” The old man winked at me and chuckled; taking the pipe from his lips he jerked the mouth-piece backward over his shoulder.
“Ask her, surr. ‘Tis she that can tell you - av she plases.”
“Won’t you tell me, Katty?” I asked.
“Wid all the plisure in life, yer ‘ann’r. ‘Tis not much to tell for sure - an’ mayhap not worth the tellin’; but av ye wish ye shall hear.
“As that ould man there says, it began the mornin’ afther he was married on to me. Mind ye, at the beginnin’ -1 don’t want ye to decave yerself about that bekase that’s part iv the shtory - we was mighty fond of aich other. My! but he was the fine bhoy! Tall an’ big an’ shtrong an’ mastherful; an’ ‘tis the proud girrl I was whin he ixprissed himself to me. I was that proud that I kem home leppin’ so that me mother noticed it an’ said: ‘Katty, has that impident villin Mike Hinnessey been tellin’ ye that ye’re a good-lookin’ girleen?’ - for mind ye I wasn’t thin grown up but only a shtep afther a skeuneuch. ‘H’m’!’ sez I.’ ‘Tis more than that; he has asked me no less than to be married on to me.’ That fetched her up, I can tell ye. ‘Glory be,’ sez she. ‘What is the childher comin’ to at all at all? You to be marrid that has no more to yer feet nor yer back than a flapper duck on the bog; an’ him that can’t bring a thing to the fair that he can’t carry. Him that has but only yistherday left his father’s cabin an’ got one for himself; widout a shtick in it but the thruckle he lies on, an’ the creel he ates aff.’”
Instinctively I looked round the fine farm-kitchen in which we sat, with its good, solid, oak furniture, its plentitude of glass and crockeryall daintily clean and bright. Michael noticed my look and said, gravely nodding his head as he spoke -
“That’s all herdoin’, surr. That’s Katty’s!”
“Don’t mind him, surr! ‘Tis the kind good heart iv him that says it. But it’s not mydoin’. That’s Michael’s own work. Surely I only was careful wid the money that he arn’d!” Here I harked back to the main subject with a hint -
“And you said to your mother - ?”
“Well, yer ‘ann’r, I shtood right up to her - wasn’t Michael worth it? - an’ sez I: ‘Michael is the bist man nor iver I see; an’ I’m for him an’ for no one else. He’s poor I know, an’ so am I. But plaze God he’ll not be poor always; an’ I’ll wait for him if ‘tis all me life!’ Well, me mother was a good woman, an’ she seen the tears in me eyes an’ knew I was in arnest. She kem an’ put her arms round me an’ sez she: ‘That’s right, me child. That’s the way to love; an’ it’s worth all the rist iv the wurrld. He’s a good bhoy is Michael; an’ ‘tis right sure I am that he loves ye. An’ whin the both iv ye think the time has come ‘tis not me nor yer poor dead father that’ll shtand betune ye.’ I knew - faix only too well - what a harrd time me poor mother had, for the times was bad. That was the year of the potato-rot, an’ throughout the counthry min an’ weemin - an’ worse still, the
poor childhers - was dyin’ be shcores. An’ Michael knew too; an’ ere long he sez to me: ‘Katty, come wid me soon. Sure, acushla, if ‘tis nothin’ else ‘twill be wan mouth less for yer poor mother to feed.’ When Michael shpoke like that I wasn’t the wan to say him nay.”
Both were silent and I waited a while, till, seeing that they considered the tale as told, I ventured to recall them once again -
“But you haven’t told me about the road yet.”
“Oh, that, surr,” said Katty with a laugh - “that was simple enough - may I tell him, Michael?”
“Go an, woman! Go an!” he answered with a growl.
“As Michael tould ye, surr, it began the day afther our weddin’. Ye know, surr, people like us didn’t go off on honeymoons in thim days - not like they do now, poor or rich. Whin a woman kem into her husband’s home she took life as ‘twas to be foreninst her. I cooked Michael’s supper an’ me own on our weddin’ night, just as I’ve done iver since. I knew that the fair at Killen was on the nixt day an’ that Michael was lookin’ to goin’ to it; an’ I made up me mind that he’d not go that day. So in the mornin’ whin I done me hair - for a coorse I got up first to get the breakfast - I hid the rack....”
“The rack? Pardon my interrupting, but I don’t understand.” She was not offended but proceeded to explain -
“The rack-comb, surr. The thing ye brush yer hair wid. Wid poor folk it’s all the brush-an’-comb they have. It was not thin like it is now whin ivery wan in a house has their own. Why, me son from Ameriky when he kem to shtay wid us had what he called a ‘dressin’-bag’ wid brushes an’ combs enough to clane the heads iv all the parish. But in thim times if the house had wan that was all that was needed. When I looked back Michael was up an’ was shavin’ himself.
“ ‘Gettin’ ready for the fair?’ sez I to him.
“ ‘Yiz!’ sez he, not sayin’ much for the lip iv him was that twitched up to get smooth for the razor.