Complete Works of James Joyce

Home > Nonfiction > Complete Works of James Joyce > Page 232
Complete Works of James Joyce Page 232

by Unknown


  (Looks at her in silence.) Can you not guess one reason?

  BERTHA

  On account of me?

  ROBERT

  Yes. It is not pleasant for me to remain here just now.

  BERTHA

  (Sits down helplessly.) But this is cruel of you, Robert. Cruel to me and to him also.

  ROBERT

  Has he asked... what happened?

  BERTHA

  (Joining her hands in despair.) No. He refuses to ask me anything. He says he will never know.

  ROBERT

  (Nods gravely.) Richard is right there. He is always right.

  BERTHA

  But, Robert, you must speak to him.

  ROBERT

  What am I to say to him?

  BERTHA

  The truth! Everything!

  ROBERT

  (Reflects.) No, Bertha. I am a man speaking to a man. I cannot tell him everything.

  BERTHA

  He will believe that you are going away because you are afraid to face him after last night.

  ROBERT

  (After a pause.) Well, I am not a coward any more than he. I will see him.

  BERTHA

  (Rises.) I will call him.

  ROBERT

  (Catching her hands.) Bertha! What happened last night? What is the truth that I am to tell? (He gazes earnestly into her eyes.) Were you mine in that sacred night of love? Or have I dreamed it?

  620

  BERTHA

  (Smiles faintly.) Remember your dream of me. You dreamed that I was yours last night.

  ROBERT

  And that is the truth — a dream? That is what I am to tell?

  BERTHA

  Yes.

  ROBERT

  (Kisses both her hands.) Bertha! (In a softer voice.) In all my life only that dream is real. I forget the rest. (He kisses her hands again.) And now I can tell him the truth. Call him.

  (Bertha goes to the door of Richard’s study and knocks. There is no answer. She knocks again.)

  BERTHA

  Dick! (There is no answer.) Mr Hand is here. He wants to speak to you, to say goodbye. He is going away. (There is no answer. She beats her hand loudly on the panel of the door and calls in an alarmed voice.) Dick! Answer me!

  (Richard Rowan comes in from the study. He comes at once to Robert but does not hold out his hand.)

  RICHARD

  (Calmly.) I thank you for your kind article about me. Is it true that you have come to say goodbye?

  ROBERT

  There is nothing to thank me for, Richard. Now and always I am your friend. Now more than ever before. Do you believe me, Richard?

  (Richard sits down on a chair and buries his face in his hands. Bertha and Robert gaze at each other in silence. Then she turns away and goes out quietly on the right. Robert goes towards Richard and stands near him, resting his hands on the back of a chair, looking down at him. There is a long silence. A fishwoman is heard crying out as she passes along the road outside.)

  THE FISHWOMAN

  Fresh Dublin bay herrings! Fresh Dublin bay herrings! Dublin bay herrings!

  621

  ROBERT

  (Quietly.) I will tell you the truth, Richard. Are you listening?

  RICHARD

  (Raises his face and leans back to listen.) Yes.

  (Robert sits on the chair beside him. The fishwoman is heard calling out farther away.)

  THE FISHWOMAN

  Fresh herrings! Dublin bay herrings!

  ROBERT

  I failed, Richard. That is the truth. Do you believe me?

  RICHARD

  I am listening.

  ROBERT

  I failed. She is yours, as she was nine years ago, when you met her first.

  RICHARD

  When we met her first, you mean.

  ROBERT

  Yes. (He looks down for some moments.) Shall I go on?

  RICHARD

  Yes.

  ROBERT

  She went away. I was left alone — for the second time. I went to the vicechancellor’s house and dined. I said you were ill and would come another night. I made epigrams new and old — that one about the statues also. I drank claret cup. I went to my office and wrote my article. Then...

  RICHARD

  Then?

  ROBERT

  Then I went to a certain nightclub. There were men there — and also women. At least, they looked like women. I danced with one of them. She asked me to see her home. Shall I go on?

  RICHARD

  Yes.

  ROBERT

  I saw her home in a cab. She lives near Donnybrook. In the cab took place what the subtle Duns Scotus calls a death of the spirit. Shall I go on?

  RICHARD

  Yes.

  ROBERT

  She wept. She told me she was the divorced wife of a barrister. I offered her a sovereign as she told me she was short of money. She would not take it and wept very much. Then she drank some melissa water from a little bottle which she had in her satchel. I saw her enter her house. Then I walked home. In my room I found that my coat was all stained with the melissa water. I had no luck even with my coats yesterday: that was the second one. The idea came to me then to change my suit and go away by the morning boat. I packed my valise and went to bed. I am going away by the next train to my cousin, Jack Justice, in Surrey. Perhaps for a fortnight. Perhaps longer. Are you disgusted?

  622

  RICHARD

  Why did you not go by the boat?

  ROBERT

  I slept it out.

  RICHARD

  You intended to go without saying goodbye — without coming here?

  ROBERT

  Yes.

  RICHARD

  Why?

  ROBERT

  My story is not very nice, is it?

  RICHARD

  But you have come.

  ROBERT

  Bertha sent me a message to come.

  RICHARD

  But for that...?

  ROBERT

  But for that I should not have come.

  RICHARD

  Did it strike you that if you had gone without coming here I should have understood it — in my own way?

  ROBERT

  Yes, it did.

  RICHARD

  What, then, do you wish me to believe?

  ROBERT

  I wish you to believe that I failed. That Bertha is yours now as she was nine years ago, when you — when we — met her first.

  RICHARD

  Do you want to know what I did?

  ROBERT

  No.

  RICHARD

  I came home at once.

  ROBERT

  Did you hear Bertha return?

  RICHARD

  No. I wrote all the night. And thought. (Pointing to the study.) In there. Before dawn I went out and walked the strand from end to end.

  623

  ROBERT

  (Shaking his head.) Suffering. Torturing yourself.

  RICHARD

  Hearing voices about me. The voices of those who say they love me.

  ROBERT

  (Points to the door on the right.) One. And mine?

  RICHARD

  Another still.

  ROBERT

  (Smiles and touches his forehead with his right forefinger.) True. My interesting but somewhat melancholy cousin. And what did they tell you?

  RICHARD

  They told me to despair.

  ROBERT

  A queer way of showing their love, I must say! And will you despair?

  RICHARD

  (Rising.) No.

  (A noise is heard at the window. Archie’s face is seen flattened against one of the panes. He is heard calling.)

  ARCHIE

  Open the window! Open the window!

  ROBERT

  (Looks at Richard.) Did you hear his voice, too, Richard, with the others — out there on the strand? Your son’s voice. (Smiling.) Listen! How full it is of despair!


  ARCHIE

  Open the window, please, will you?

  ROBERT

  Perhaps, there, Richard, is the freedom we seek — you in one way, I in another. In him and not in us. Perhaps...

  RICHARD

  Perhaps...?

  ROBERT

  I said perhaps. I would say almost surely if...

  RICHARD

  If what?

  ROBERT

  (With a faint smile.) If he were mine.

  (He goes to the window and opens it. Archie scrambles in.)

  ROBERT

  Like yesterday — eh?

  624

  ARCHIE

  Good morning, Mr Hand. (He runs to Richard and kisses him:) Buon giorno, babbo.

  RICHARD

  Buon giorno, Archie.

  ROBERT

  And where were you, my young gentleman?

  ARCHIE

  Out with the milkman. I drove the horse. We went to Booterstown. (He takes off his cap and throws it on a chair.) I am very hungry.

  ROBERT

  (Takes his hat from the table.) Richard, goodbye. (Offering his hand.) To our next meeting!

  RICHARD

  (Rises, touches his hand.) Goodbye.

  (Bertha appears at the door on the right.)

  ROBERT

  (Catches sight of her: to Archie.) Get your cap. Come on with me. I’ll buy you a cake and I’ll tell you a story.

  ARCHIE

  (To Bertha.) May I, mamma?

  BERTHA

  Yes.

  ARCHIE

  (Takes his cap.) I am ready.

  ROBERT

  (To Richard and Bertha.) Goodbye to pappa and mamma. But not a big goodbye.

  ARCHIE

  Will you tell me a fairy story, Mr Hand?

  ROBERT

  A fairy story? Why not? I am your fairy godfather.

  (They go out together through the double doors and down the garden. When they have gone Bertha goes to Richard and puts her arm round his waist.)

  BERTHA

  Dick, dear, do you believe now that I have been true to you? Last night and always?

  RICHARD

  (Sadly.) Do not ask me, Bertha.

  BERTHA

  (Pressing him more closely.) I have been, dear. Surely you believe me. I gave you myself — all. I gave up all for you. You took me — and you left me.

  RICHARD

  When did I leave you?

  BERTHA

  You left me: and I waited for you to come back to me. Dick, dear, come here to me. Sit down. How tired you must be!

  625

  (She draws him towards the lounge. He sits down, almost reclining, resting on his arm. She sits on the mat before the lounge, holding his hand.)

  BERTHA

  Yes, dear. I waited for you. Heavens, what I suffered then — when we lived in Rome! Do you remember the terrace of our house?

  RICHARD

  Yes.

  BERTHA

  I used to sit there, waiting, with the poor child with his toys, waiting till he got sleepy. I could see all the roofs of the city and the river, the Tevere. What is its name?

  RICHARD

  The Tiber.

  BERTHA

  (Caressing her cheek with his hand.) It was lovely, Dick, only I was so sad. I was alone, Dick, forgotten by you and by all. I felt my life was ended.

  RICHARD

  It had not begun.

  BERTHA

  And I used to look at the sky, so beautiful, without a cloud and the city you said was so old: and then I used to think of Ireland and about ourselves.

  RICHARD

  Ourselves?

  BERTHA

  Yes. Ourselves. Not a day passes that I do not see ourselves, you and me, as we were when we met first. Every day of my life I see that. Was I not true to you all that time?

  RICHARD

  (Sighs deeply.) Yes, Bertha. You were my bride in exile.

  BERTHA

  Wherever you go, I will follow you. If you wish to go away now I will go with you.

  RICHARD

  I will remain. It is too soon yet to despair.

  BERTHA

  (Again caressing his hand.) It is not true that I want to drive everyone from you. I wanted to bring you close together — you and him. Speak to me. Speak out all your heart to me. What you feel and what you suffer.

  RICHARD

  I am wounded, Bertha.

  626

  BERTHA

  How wounded, dear? Explain to me what you mean. I will try to understand everything you say. In what way are you wounded?

  RICHARD

  (Releases his hand and, taking her head between his hands, bends it back and gazes long into her eyes.) I have a deep, deep wound of doubt in my soul.

  BERTHA

  (Motionless.) Doubt of me?

  RICHARD

  Yes.

  BERTHA

  I am yours. (In a whisper.) If I died this moment, I am yours.

  RICHARD

  (Still gazing at her and speaking as if to an absent person.) I have wounded my soul for you — a deep wound of doubt which can never be healed. I can never know, never in this world. I do not wish to know or to believe. I do not care. It is not in the darkness of belief that I desire you. But in restless living wounding doubt. To hold you by no bonds, even of love, to be united with you in body and soul in utter nakedness — for this I longed. And now I am tired for a while, Bertha. My wound tires me.

  (He stretches himself out wearily along the lounge. Bertha holds his hand, still speaking very softly.)

  BERTHA

  Forget me, Dick. Forget me and love me again as you did the first time. I want my lover. To meet him, to go to him, to give myself to him. You, Dick. O, my strange wild lover, come back to me again!

  (She closes her eyes.)

  The Poetry Collections

  Joyce in Sussex, 1923

  EARLY POETRY

  CONTENTS

  Et Tu, Healy

  O fons Bandusiae

  Are you not weary of ardent ways

  I only ask you to give me your fair hands

  La scintille de l’allumette

  A voice that sings

  Scalding tears shall not avail

  Yea, for this love of mine

  We will leave the village behind

  Gladly above

  After the tribulation of dark strife

  Told sublimely in the language

  Love that I can give you, lady

  Wind thine arms round me

  Where none murmureth

  Lord, thou knowest my misery

  Thunders and sweeps along

  Though there is no resurrection from the past

  And I have sat amid the turbulent crowd

  Gorse-flower makes but sorry dining

  That I am feeble, that my feet

  The grieving soul. But no grief is thine

  Let us fling to the winds all moping and madness

  Hands that soothe my burning eyes

  Now a whisper... now a gale

  O, queen, do on thy cloak

  Requiem eternam dona ei, Domine

  Of thy dark life, without a love, without a friend

  I intone the high anthem

  Some are comely and some are sour

  Flower to flower knits

  In the soft nightfall

  Discarded, broken in two

  The Holy Office

  Gas from a Burner

  Alas, how sad the lover’s lot

  O, it is cold and still - alas!

  She is at peace where she is sleeping

  I said: I will go down to where

  Though we are leaving youth behind

  Come out to where youth is met

  Et Tu, Healy

  My cot alas that dear old shady home

  Where oft in youthful sport I played

  Upon thy verdant grassy fields all day

  Or lingered for a moment in thy bosom shade.

  His quaint
-perched aerie on the crags of Time

  Where the rude din of this . . . century

  Can trouble him no more.

  O fons Bandusiae

  A translation of Horace’ Odes, III 13

  Brighter than glass Bandusian spring

  For mellow wine and flowers meet,

  The morrow thee a kid shall bring

  Boding of rivalry and sweet

  Love in his swelling horns. In vain

  He, wanton offspring, deep shall stain

  Thy clear cold streams with crimson rain.

  The raging dog star’s season thou,

  Still safe from in the heat of day,

  When oxen weary of the plough

  Yieldst thankful cool for herds that stray.

  Be of the noble founts! I sing

  The oak tree o’er thine echoing

  Crags, thy waters murmuring.

  Are you not weary of ardent ways

  Are you not weary of ardent ways,

  Lure of the fallen seraphim?

  Tell no more of enchanted days.

  Your eyes have set man’s heart ablaze

  And you have had your will of him.

  Are you not weary of ardent ways?

  Above the flame the smoke of praise

  Goes up from ocean rim to rim.

  Tell no more of enchanted days.

  Our broken cries and mournful lays

  Rise in one eucharistic hymn.

  Are you not weary of ardent ways?

  While sacrificing hands upraise

  The chalice flowing to the brim,

  Tell no more of enchanted days.

  And still you hold our longing gaze

  With languorous look and lavish limb!

  Are you not weary of ardent ways?

  Tell no more of enchanted days.

  I only ask you to give me your fair hands

  I only ask you to give me your fair hands.

  Ah, dearest, this one grace, it will be the last.

  How fast are they fled, halcyon days, how fast.

  Nor you nor I can arrest time’s running sands.

  Enough that we have known the pleasure of love

  Albeit pleasure, fraught with an heartfelt grief.

  Though our love season hath been marvellous

  Yet we have loved and told our passion — (ending.])Then fade the uncertain day and come the night.

  La scintille de l’allumette

  La scintille de l’allumette

  Qui se cachait entre vos mains

  A ensorcelé ma cigarette —

 

‹ Prev