by George Moore
Carmody shot and fished over what land and what rivers he pleased. My friend’s grouse, woodcock, snipe, wild duck, teal, widgeon, hares, and rabbits, went to Dunamon, and during the composition of A Mummer’s Wife, when my palate longed for some change from beef and mutton, I had to invite Carmody to shoot with me or eat my dinner at Dunamon. He knew where ducks went by in the evening, and Carmody never fired without bringing down his bird — a real poaching shot and a genial companion, full of stories of the country. It is regrettable that I did not put them into my pocket-book at the time, for if I had I should be able now to write a book original in every line.
The old woodranger looked at me askance when I brought Carmody from Dunamon to shoot over my friend’s lands. The worst man that ever saw daylight, he would say. I pressed him to tell me of Carmody’s misdeeds, and he told me many ... but at this distance of time it is difficult to recall the tales I heard of Carmody’s life among the mountains, trapping rabbits, and setting springes for woodcocks, going down to the village at night, battering in doors, saying he must have a sheaf of straw to lie on.
We used to row out to the islands and lie waiting for the ducks until they came in from the marshes; and those cold hours Carmody would while away with stories of the wrongs that had been done him, and the hardships he had endured before he found a protector in Dan. The account he gave of himself differed a good deal from the one which I heard from the woodranger, and looking into his pale eyes, I often wondered if it were true that he used to entice boys into the woods, and when he had led them far enough, turn upon them savagely, beating them, leaving them for dead. Why should he commit such devilry? I often asked myself without discovering any reason, except that finding the world against him he thought he might as well have a blow at the world when he got the chance.
Many a poor girl was sorry she ever met with him, the woodranger would say, and I asked him how, if he were such a wild man, girls would follow him into the woods? Them tramps always have a following; and he told me a story he had heard from a boy in the village. A knocking at the door had waked the boy, and he lay quaking, listening to his young sister telling Carmody it was too late to let him in, but Carmody caught a hold of her and dragged her out through the door, so the boy told me, and he heard them going down the road, Carmody crying: Begob, I’ve seen that much of you that you’ll be no use to anybody else.
And what became of the girl? Did he marry her?
Sorra marry; he sold her to a tinker, it is said to the one who used to play the pipes. I thought you said he was a tinker. So he was; but he used to play the pipes in the dancing-houses on a Sunday night, till one night Father O’Farrell got out of his bed and walked across the bog and pushed open the door without a By your leave or With your leave, and making straight for the old tinker in the corner, snatched the pipes from him and threw them on the floor, and began dancing upon them himself, and them squeaking all the time, and he saying every time he jumped on them: Ah, the divil is in them still. Do you hear him roarin’?
I closed my eyes a little and licked my lips as I walked, thinking of the pleasure it would be to tell this story ... and to tell it in its place. The priest would have to be a friend of the family that lived in the Big House; he would perhaps come up to teach the children Latin, or they might go to him. Dan and his lass were typical of Catholic Ireland, tainted through and through with peasantry. True that every family begins with the peasant; it rises, when it rises, through its own genius. The cross is the worst stock of all, the pure decadent. But he must come into the book. Never was there such a subject, I said, as the one I am dreaming. Dan, Bridget, Carmody and his friends the tinkers — with these it should be possible to write something that would be read as long as —
And while thinking of a simile wherewith to express the durability of the book, I remembered that Ireland had not been seen by me for many years, and to put the smack of immortality upon it, it would be necessary to live in Ireland, in a cabin in the West; only in that way could I learn the people, become intimate with them again. The present is an English-speaking generation, or very nearly, so Edward told me; mine was an Irish-speaking. The workmen that came up from the village to the Big House spoke it always, and the boatmen on the lake whispered it over their oars to my annoyance, until at last the temptation came along to learn it; and the memory of that day floated up like a wraith from the lake: the two boatmen and myself, they anxious to teach me the language — a decisive day for Ireland, for if I had learned the language from the boatmen (it would have been easy to do so then) a book would have been written about Carmody and the tinker that would have set all Europe talking; and the novel dreamed in the Temple by me, written in a new language, or in a language revived, would have been a great literary event, and the Irish language would now be a flourishing concern. Now it is too late. That day on Lough Carra its fate was decided, unless, indeed, genius awakens in one of the islanders off the coast where Edward tells me only Irish is spoken. If such a one were to write a book about his island he would rank above all living writers, and he would be known for evermore as the Irish Dante. But the possibility of genius, completely equipped, arising in the Arran Islands seemed a little remote. To quote that very trite, mutton-chop-whiskered gentleman, Matthew Arnold, not only the man is required, but the moment.
The novel dreamed that night in the Temple could not be written by an Arran islander, so it will never be written, for alas! the impulse in me to redeem Ireland from obscurity was not strong enough to propel me from London to Holyhead, and then into a steamboat, and across Ireland to Galway, whence I should take a hooker whose destination was some fishing harbour in the Atlantic. No, it was not strong enough, and nothing is more depressing than the conviction that one is not a hero. And, feeling that I was not the predestined hero whom Cathleen ni Houlihan had been waiting for through the centuries, I fell to sighing, not for Cathleen ni Houlihan’s sake, but my own, till my senses stiffening a little with sleep, thoughts began to repeat themselves.
Other men are sad because their wives and mistresses are ill, or because they die, or because there has been a fall in Consols, because their names have not appeared in the list of newly created peers, baronets, and knights; but the man of letters ... my energy for that evening was exhausted, and I was too weary to try to remember what Dujardin had said on the subject.
A chill came into the air, corresponding exactly with the chill that had fallen upon my spirit; the silence grew more intense and grey, and all the buildings stood stark and ominous.
Out of such stuff as Ireland dreams are made.... I haven’t thought of Ireland for ten years, and tonight in an hour’s space I have dreamed Ireland from end to end. When shall I think of her again? In another ten years; that will be time enough to think of her again. And on these words I climbed the long stone stairs leading to my garret.
I
ONE OF IRELAND’S many tricks is to fade away to a little speck down on the horizon of our lives, and then to return suddenly in tremendous bulk, frightening us. My words were: In another ten years it will be time enough to think of Ireland again. But Ireland rarely stays away so long. As well as I can reckon, it was about five years after my meditation in the Temple that W. B. Yeats, the Irish poet, came to see me in my flat in Victoria Street, followed by Edward. My surprise was great at seeing them arrive together, not knowing that they even knew each other; and while staring at them I remembered they had met in my rooms in the King’s Bench Walk. But how often had Edward met my friends and liked them, in a way, yet not enough to compel him to hook himself on to them by a letter or a visit? He is one of those self-sufficing men who drift easily into the solitude of a pipe or a book; yet he is cheerful, talkative, and forthcoming when one goes to see him. Our fellowship began in boyhood, and there is affection on his side as well as mine, I am sure of that; all the same he has contributed few visits to the maintenance of our friendship. It is I that go to him, and it was this knowledge of the indolence of his character that cau
sed me to wonder at seeing him arrive with Yeats. Perhaps seeing them together stirred some fugitive jealousy in me, which passed away when the servant brought in the lamp, for, with the light behind them, my visitors appeared a twain as fantastic as anything ever seen in Japanese prints — Edward great in girth as an owl (he is nearly as neckless), blinking behind his glasses, and Yeats lank as a rook, a-dream in black silhouette on the flowered wallpaper.
But rooks and owls do not roost together, nor have they a habit or an instinct in common. A mere doorstep casualty, I said, and began to prepare a conversation suitable to both, which was, however checked by the fateful appearance they presented, sitting side by side, anxious to speak, yet afraid. They had clearly come to me on some great business! But about what, about what? I waited for the servant to leave the room, and as soon as the door was closed they broke forth, telling together that they had decided to found a Literary Theatre in Dublin; so I sat like one confounded, saying to myself: Of course they know nothing of Independent Theatres, and, in view of my own difficulties in gathering sufficient audience for two or three performances, pity began to stir in me for their forlorn project. A forlorn thing it was surely to bring literary plays to Dublin!... Dublin of all cities in the world!
It is Yeats, I said, who has persuaded dear Edward, and looking from one to the other, I thought how the cunning rook had enticed the profound owl from his belfry — an owl that has stayed out too late, and is nervous lest he should not be able to find his way back; perplexed, too, by other considerations, lest the Dean and Chapter, having heard of the strange company he is keeping, may have, during his absence, bricked up the entrance to his roost.
As I was thinking these things, Yeats tilted his chair in such dangerous fashion that I had to ask him to desist, and I was sorry to have to do that, so much like a rook did he seem when the chair was on its hind legs. But if ever there was a moment for seriousness, this was one, so I treated them to a full account of the Independent Theatre, begging them not to waste their plays upon Dublin. It would give me no pleasure whatever to produce my plays in London, Edward said. I have done with London. Martyn would prefer the applause of our own people, murmured Yeats, and he began to speak of the by-streets, and the lanes, and the alleys, and how one feels at home when one is among one’s own people.
Ninety-nine is the beginning of the Celtic Renaissance, said Edward.
I am glad to hear it, I answered; the Celt wants a Renaissance, and badly; he has been going down in the world for the last two thousand years. We are thinking, said Yeats, of putting a dialogue in Irish before our play ... Usheen and Patrick. Irish spoken on the stage in Dublin! You are not — Interrupting me, Edward began to blurt out that a change had come, that Dublin was no longer a city of barristers, judges, and officials pursuing a round of mean interests and trivial amusements, but the capital of the Celtic Renaissance.
With all the arts for crown — a new Florence, I said, looking at Edward incredulously, scornfully perhaps, for to give a Literary Theatre to Dublin seemed to me like giving a mule a holiday, and when he pressed me to say if I were with them, I answered with reluctance that I was not; whereupon, and without further entreaty, the twain took up their hats and staves, and they were by the open door before I could beg them not to march away like that, but to give me time to digest what they had been saying to me, and for a moment I walked to and forth, troubled by the temptation, for I am naturally propense to thrust my finger into every literary pie-dish. Something was going on in Ireland for sure, and remembering the literary tone that had crept into a certain Dublin newspaper — somebody sent me the Express on Saturdays — I said, I’m with you, but only platonically. You must promise not to ask me to rehearse your plays. I spoke again about the Independent Theatre, and of the misery I had escaped from when I cut the painter.
But you’ll come to Ireland to see our plays, said Edward. Come to Ireland! and I looked at Edward suspiciously; a still more suspicious glance fell upon Yeats. Come to Ireland! Ireland and I have ever been strangers, without an idea in common. It never does an Irishman any good to return to Ireland ... and we know it.
One of the oldest of our stories, Yeats began. Whenever he spoke these words a thrill came over me; I knew they would lead me through accounts of strange rites and prophecies, and at that time I believed that Yeats, by some power of divination, or of ancestral memory, understood the hidden meaning of the legends, and whenever he began to tell them I became impatient of interruption. But it was now myself that interrupted, for, however great the legend he was about to tell, and however subtle his interpretation, it would be impossible for me to give him my attention until I had been told how he had met Edward, and all the circumstances of the meeting, and how they had arrived at an agreement to found an Irish Literary Theatre. The story was disappointingly short and simple. When Yeats had said that he had spent the summer at Coole with Lady Gregory I saw it all; Coole is but three miles from Tillyra: Edward is often at Coole; Lady Gregory and Yeats are often at Tillyra; Yeats and Edward had written plays — the drama brings strange fowls to roost.
So an owl and a rook have agreed to build in Dublin. A strange nest indeed they will put together, one bringing sticks, and the other — with what materials does the owl build? My thoughts hurried on, impatient to speculate on what would happen when the shells began to chip. Would the young owls cast out the young rooks, or would the young rooks cast out the young owls, and what view would the beholders take of this wondrous hatching? And what view would the Church?
So it was in Galway the nest was builded, and Lady Gregory elected to the secretaryship, I said. The introduction of Lady Gregory’s name gave me pause.... And you have come over to find actors, and rehearse your plays. Wonderful, Edward, wonderful! I admire you both, and am with you, but on my conditions. You will remember them? And now tell me, do you think you’ll find an audience in Dublin capable of appreciating The Heather Field?
Ideas are only appreciated in Ireland, Edward answered, somewhat defiantly.
I begged them to stay to dinner, for I wanted to hear about Ireland, but they went away, speaking of an appointment with Miss Vernon — that name or some other name — a lady who was helping them to collect a cast.
As soon as they had news they could come to me again. And on this I returned to my room deliciously excited, thrilling all over at the thought of an Irish Literary Theatre, and my own participation in the Celtic Renaissance brought about by Yeats. So the drama, I muttered, was not dead but sleeping, and while the hour before dinner was going by, I recalled an evening I had spent about two years ago in the Avenue Theatre, and it amused me to remember the amazement with which I watched Yeats marching round the dress circle after the performance of his little one-act play, The Land of Heart’s Desire. His play neither pleased nor displeased; it struck me as an inoffensive trifle, but himself had provoked a violent antipathy as he strode to and forth at the back of the dress circle, a long black cloak drooping from his shoulders, a soft black sombrero on his head, a voluminous black silk tie flowing from his collar, loose black trousers dragging untidily over his long, heavy feet — a man of such excessive appearance that I could not do otherwise — could I? — than to mistake him for an Irish parody of the poetry that I had seen all my life strutting its rhythmic way in the alleys of the Luxembourg Gardens, preening its rhymes by the fountains, excessive in habit and gait.
As far back as the days when I was a Frenchman, I had begun to notice that whosoever adorns himself will soon begin to adorn his verses, so robbing them of that intimate sense of life which we admire in Verlaine: his verses proclaim him to have been a man of modest appearance. Never did Hugo or Banville affect any eccentricity of dress — and there are others. But let us be content with the theory, and refrain from collecting facts to support it, for in doing so we shall come upon exceptions, and these will have to be explained away. Suffice it to say, therefore, that Yeats’s appearance at the Avenue Theatre confirmed me in the belief that his art co
uld not be anything more than a pretty externality, if it were as much, and I declined to allow Nettleship to introduce me to him. No, my good friend, I don’t want to know him; he wouldn’t interest me, not any more than the Book of Kells — not so much; Kells has at all events the merit of being archaic, whereas — No, no; to speak to him would make me ‘eave — if I may quote a girl whom I heard speaking in the street yesterday.
It was months after, when I had forgotten all about Yeats, that my fingers distractedly picked up a small volume of verse out of the litter in Nettleship’s room. Yeats! And after turning over a few pages, I called to Nettleship, who, taking advantage of my liking for the verses, begged again that he might be allowed to arrange a meeting, and, seduced by the strain of genuine music that seemed to whisper through the volume, I consented.
The Cheshire Cheese was chosen as a tryst, and we started for that tavern one summer afternoon, talking of poetry and painting by turns, stopping at the corner of the street to finish an argument or an anecdote. Oxford Street was all aglow in the sunset, and Nettleship told, as we edged our way through the crowds, how Yeats’s great poem was woven out of the legends of the Fianna, and stopped to recite verses from it so often that when we arrived at the Cheshire Cheese we found the poet sitting in front of a large steak, eating abstractedly, I thought, as if he did not know what he was eating, hearing, if he heard at all, with only half an ear, the remonstrance that Nettleship addressed to him for having failed to choose Friday to dine at the Cheshire Cheese, it being the day when steak-and-kidney pudding was on at that tavern. He moved up the bench to make room for me as for a stranger: somebody overheard the unkind things I said at the Avenue Theatre and repeated them to him, I said to myself. However this may be, we shall have to get through the dinner as best we can.