I don’t doubt it, said Shanahan.
Yes. Well Bagenal is the first off, sailing through the air like a bird and down in a shower of sand. What was the score?
Eighteen feet, said Furriskey.
Not at all man, twenty-two. Twenty-two feet was the jump of Bagenal there and then and by God the shout the people gave was enough to make the sergeant puke what was inside him and plenty more that he never swallowed.
Twenty-two feet is a good jump any day, said Shanahan.
After the cheering had died down, said Lamont, my man Bagenal strolls around and turns his back on the sergeant and asks for a cigarette and starts to blather out of him to his friends. What does my sergeant do, do you think, Mr Shanahan.
I’m saying nothing, said knowing Shanahan.
By God you’re a wise man. Sergeant Craddock keeps his mouth shut, takes a little run and jumps twenty-four feet six.
Do you tell me that! cried Furriskey.
Twenty-four feet six.
I’m not surprised, said Shanahan in his amazement, I’m not surprised. Go where you like in the wide world, you will always find that the Irishman is looked up to for his jumping.
Right enough, said Furriskey, the name of Ireland is honoured for that.
Go to Russia, said Shanahan, go to China, go to France. Everywhere and all the time it is hats off and a gra-ma-cree to the Jumping Irishman. Ask who you like they’ll all tell you that. The Jumping Irishman.
It’s a thing, said Furriskey, that will always stand to us – jumping.
When everything’s said, said Lamont, the Irishman has his points. He’s not the last man that was made now.
He is not, said Furriskey.
When everything had been said by Sweeny, said droning dark-voiced Finn, a glimmering of reason assailed the madman till it turned his steps in the direction of his people that he might dwell with them and trust them. But holy Ronan in his cell was acquainted by angels of the intention of Sweeny and prayed God that he should not be loosed from his frenzy until his soul had been first loosed from his body and here is a summary of the result. When the madman reached the middle of Slieve Fuaid, there were strange apparitions before him there, red headless trunks and trunkless heads and five stubbly rough grey heads without trunk or body between them, screaming and squealing and bounding hither and thither about the dark road beleaguering and besetting him and shouting their mad abuse, until he soared in his fright aloft in front of them. Piteous was the terror and the wailing cries, and the din and the harsh-screaming tumult of the heads and the dogsheads and the goatsheads in his pursuit, thudding on his thighs and his calves and on the nape of his neck and knocking against trees and the butts of rocks – a wild torrent of villainy from the breast of a high mountain, not enough resting for a drink of water for mad Sweeny till he finally achieved his peace in the tree on the summit of Slieve Eichneach. Here he devoted his time to the composition and recital of melodious staves on the subject of his evil plight.
After that he went on his career of wild folly from Luachair Dheaghaidh to Fiodh Gaibhle of the clean streams and the elegant branches, remaining there for one year on the sustenance of saffron heart-red holly-berries and black-brown oak-acorns, with draughts of water from the Gabhal, concluding there with the fashioning of this lay.
Ululation, I am Sweeny,
my body is a corpse;
sleeping or music nevermore –
only the soughing of the storm-wind.
I have journeyed from Luachair Dheaghaidh
to the edge of Fiodh Gaibhle,
this is my fare – I conceal it not –
ivy-berries, oak-mast
After that Sweeny in his restlessness came to All Fharannain, a wondrous glen it is with green-streamed water, containing multitudes of righteous people and a synod of saints, heavy-headed apple-trees bending to the ground, well-sheltered ivies, ponderous fruit-loaded branches, wild deer and hares and heavy swine, and fat seals sleeping in the sun, seals from the sea beyant. And Sweeny said this.
All Fharannain, resort of saints,
fulness of hazels, fine nuts,
swift water without heat
coursing its flank.
Plenteous are its green ivies,
its mast is coveted;
the fair heavy apple-trees
they stoop their arms.
At length Sweeny penetrated to the place the head-saint Moling was, that is, to speak precisely, House-Moling. The psalter of Kevin was in Moling’s presence and he reciting it to his students. Sweeny came to the edge of the well and nibbled at the cresses until Moling said:
Oh madman, that is early eating.
The two of them madman and saint then embarked on a lengthy dialogue to the tune of twenty-nine elegant verses; and then Moling spoke again.
Your arrival here is surely welcome, Sweeny, he said, for it is destined that you should end your life here, and leave the story of your history here and be buried in the churchyard there beyant. And I now bind you that, however much of Erin that you over-wander, you will come to me each evening the way I can write your story.
And so it was, Sweeny returning from his wandering to and from the celebrated trees of Erin at vespers each evening, Moling ordering a collation for the mad one at that hour and commanding his cook to give Sweeny a share of the day’s milking. One night a dispute arose among the serving-women over the head of Sweeny, the madman being accused of an act of adultery in the hedge by the herd’s sister as she went with her measure of milk in the evening to place it in a hole in the cowdung for Sweeny, the herd’s sister putting the dishonourable lie in the ear of her brother. He immediately took a spear from the spear-rack in the house and Sweeny’s flank being towards him as he lay in the cowdung at his vesper-milk, he was wounded by a spear-cast in the left nipple so that the point went through him and made two halves of his back. An acolyte at the door of the church witnessed the black deed and acquainted Moling, who hastened with a concourse of honourable clerics until the sick man had been forgiven and anointed.
Dark is the deed you have done, Oh herd, said Sweeny, for owing to the wound you have dealt me I cannot henceforth escape through the hedge.
I did not know you were there, said the herd.
By Christ, man, said Sweeny, I have not injured you at all.
Christ’s curse on you, Oh herd, said Moling.
Thereafter they had colloquy and talked loudly together until they had achieved a plurality of staves, Sweeny terminating the talking with these verses.
There was a time when I preferred
to the low converse of humans
the accents of the turtle-dove
fluttering about a pool.
There was a time when I preferred
to the tinkle of neighbour bells
the voice of the blackbird from the crag
and the belling of a stag in a storm.
There was a time when I preferred
to the voice of a fine woman near me
the call of the mountain-grouse
heard at day.
There was a time when I preferred
the yapping of the wolves
to the voice of a cleric
melting and megling within.
Thereafter a death-swoon assailed Sweeny so that Moling and his clerics arose till each man had placed a stone on Sweeny’s tomb.
Dear indeed is he whose tomb it is, said Moling, dear to me the madman, delightful to behold him at yonder well. Its name is Madman’s Well for often he would feast on its cresses and its water and the well is named after him on account of that. Dear to me every other place that Sweeny was wont to frequent.
And Moling addressed himself to the composition and the honey-tongued recital of these following poems.
Here is the tomb of Sweeny!
His memory racks my heart,
dear to me therefore are the haunts
of the Saintly madman.
Dear to me Glen Bolcain fair
&nbs
p; for Sweeny loved it;
dear the streams that leave it
dear its green-crowned cresses.
That beyant is Madman’s Well
dear the man it nourished,
dear its perfect sand,
beloved its clear waters.
Melodious was the talk of Sweeny
long shall I hold his memory,
I implore the King of Heaven
on his tomb and above his grave.
Biographical reminiscence, part the sixth: Early one evening I was seated at the large table in the dining-room arranging and perusing my day-papers when I perceived that the hall-door had been opened from without by the means of a latch-key. After a brief interval it was shut again. I heard the loud voice of my uncle from the hallway intermixed with another voice that was not known to me at all; then the shuffling of feet and thud of gloved palms knocked together in discords of good humour. Hastily I covered such sheets as contained reference to the forbidden question of the sexual relations.
The door of the dining-room was thrown open but nobody entered for the space of fifteen seconds; after that, my uncle came in with a swift heavy stride bearing in his arms before him a weighty object covered with a black waterproof cloth. This he placed on the table without delay and clapped his hands together in a token that his task had been accomplished.
Description of my uncle: Bluff, abounding in external good nature; concerned-that-he-should-be-well-thought-of; holder of Guinness clerkship the third class.
An elderly man of slight build entered, smiling diffidently at me as I sat there at the supervision of my papers. His body was bent sidewise in an awkward fashion and his shoulders appeared to move lithely beneath his coat as if his woollen small-clothes had been disarranged in the divesting of his street-coat. His skull shone clearly in the gaslight under the aura of his sparse hair. His double-breasted jacket bore a vertical ripple in the front, a result of the inexpensive quality of the canvas lining. He nodded to me in friendly salutation.
Fingering his coat-tails, my uncle took a stand near the fire and surveyed us, bisecting between us the benison of his smile. Not terminating it when he addressed me, it imparted a soft husky quality to his voice.
Well, fellow-my-lad, he said, what are we at this evening? My nephew, Mr Corcoran.
I arose. Mr Corcoran advanced and extended his small hand, exerting considerable strength in a fine man-grip.
I hope we are not disturbing you at your work, he said.
Not at all, I answered.
My uncle laughed.
Faith, he said, you would want to be a clever man to do that, Mr Corcoran. That would be a miracle certainly. Tell me this, do you ever open a book at all?
This I received in silence, standing quietly by the table.
Nature of silence: Indifferent, contemptuous.
Perceiving that my want of reply showed me sad and crestfallen before the rebuke of my uncle, Mr Corcoran moved quickly to my defence.
Oh I don’t know about that, he said. I don’t know about that.
The people that never seem to exert themselves at all, these are the boys that win the prize. Show me a man that is always fussing and rushing about and I will show you a man that never did a day’s work in his life.
My uncle smiled about him without malice.
Maybe true, he said, maybe not.
Now a funny thing I have a young lad at home, said Mr Corcoran, and I declare to God I am sick sore and tired telling him to stop in at night and do his lessons but you might as well be talking to that, look.
Choosing his boot the buttoned class, as a convenient example of inanition, he lifted it in the air, slowly describing an arc of forty-five degrees.
Well he came home the other day with a report and I declare to God the little monkey got his own back in great style. He had me where he wanted me. First in Christian doctrine if you please.
My uncle removed his smile in solicitous interrogation.
Your boy Tom?
Young Tom the same boyo.
Well I’m very glad to hear it, I am indeed, said my uncle. A sharp-witted little lad he is too. Christian doctrine of course, it is very nice to see the young lads making that their own. That particular subject I mean. It is very necessary in the times we live in, it is, faith.
He turned to me.
Now Mister-my-friend, he said, when are we going to hear from you? When are you going to bring home a prize? Certainly you have enough papers there to win a prize at something…
He laughed slightly.
…if it was only a paper-chase, he added.
His laugh had a dual function, partly to applaud his jest, partly to cloak his anger. Turning to Mr Corcoran he extracted from him a small smile of concurrence.
I know my catechism, I said in a toneless manner.
That is the main thing, said Mr Corcoran.
Aye but do you, said my uncle quickly, do you, that’s the question. What is meant by sanctifying grace? Why does the bishop give those he confirms a stroke on the cheek? Name the seven deadly sins. Name the one that begins with S.
Anger, I answered.
Anger begins with A, said my uncle.
Mr Corcoran, in order to achieve diversion, removed the black cloth in a priestly manner, showing that the object on the table was a gramophone.
I think you have the needles, he said.
My uncle had assumed a flushed appearance.
All present and correct, Sir, he said loudly, taking a small canister from his pocket Oh indeed there is little respect for the penny catechism in Ireland today and well I know it. But it has stood to us, Mr Corcoran, and will please God to the day we die. It is certainly a grand thing to see the young lads making it their own for you won’t get very far in the world without it. Mark that, my lad. It is worth a bag of your fine degrees and parchments.
He blew his nose and went to the table in order to assist Mr Corcoran. The two of them bent together at the adjustment of the machine, extracting a collapsible extensible retractable tone-arm from its interior with the aid of their four hands. I gathered my day-papers silently, hopeful that I might escape without offence. Mr Corcoran opened a small compartment at the base of the machine by pressing a cleverly hidden spring and brought out a number of records, scraping and whistling them together by a careless manner of manipulation. My uncle was occupied with inserting a cranking device into an aperture in the machine’s side and winding it with the meticulous and steady motion that is known to prolong the life and resiliency of springs. Fearing that his careful conduct of the task was not observed, he remarked that fast winding will lead to jerks, jerks will lead to strain and strain to breakage, thus utilizing a figure of speech to convey the importance of taking pains.
Name of figure of speech: Anadipolsis (or Epanastrophe).
Moderation in all things, he said, that is the trick that won the war.
I then recalled that he was a member of an operatic society composed of residents of the Rathmines and Rathgar district, an indifferent voice of the baritone range winning for him a station in the chorus. Mr Corcoran, I thought, was likewise situated.
My uncle placed a needle finely on the revolving disk and stepped quickly back, his meticulous hands held forth without motion in his expectancy. Mr Corcoran was waiting in a chair by the fire, his legs crossed, his downcast head supported in position by the knuckles of his right hand, which were resting damply on his top teeth. The tune came duly, a thin spirant from the Patience opera. The records were old and not of the modern electrical manufacture. A chorus intervening, Mr Corcoran and my uncle joined in it in happy and knowledgeable harmony, stressing the beat with manual gesture. My uncle, his back to me, also moved his head authoritatively, exercising a roll of fat which he was accustomed to wear at the back of his collar, so that it paled and reddened in the beat of the music.
The tune ended.
My uncle shook his head and made a noise of perplexed admiration as he arose with haste to remove
the needle.
I could listen to that tune, he said, from early morning to late at night and not a bit of me would tire of it Ah, it’s a lovely thing. I think it’s the nicest of the whole lot, I do indeed. There’s a great lilt in it, Mr Corcoran.
Mr Corcoran, whom by chance I was observing, smiled preliminarily but when about to speak, his smile was transfixed on his features and his entire body assumed a stiff attitude. Suddenly he sneezed, spattering his clothing with a mucous discharge from his nostrils.
As my uncle hurried to his assistance, I felt that my gorge was about to rise. I retched slightly, making a noise with my throat similar to that utilized by persons in the article of death. My uncle’s back was towards me as he bent in ministration.
There’s a very catching cold going around, Mr Corcoran, he said. You would need to watch yourself. You would need to keep yourself well wrapped up.
I clutched my belongings and retired quickly as they worked together with their pocket-cloths. I went to my room and lay prostrate on my bed, endeavouring to recover my composure. After a time the thin music came upon my ear, thinner and hollower through the intervening doors but perceptibly reinforced at the incidence of a chorus. Putting on my grey coat, I made my way to the street.
Such was the degree of my emotional disturbance that I walked down to the centre of the town without adverting to my surroundings and without a predetermined destination. There was no rain but the streets were glistening and people were moving in a quick active manner along the pavements. A slight fog, perforated by the constellation of the street-lamps, hung down on the roadway from the roofs of the houses. Reaching the Pillar, I turned about to retrace my steps when I perceived that Kerrigan had emerged from a side-street and was now walking actively before me. Hastening after him, I dealt him a smart blow with my closed fist in the small of the back, thereby eliciting a coarse expression not infrequently associated with the soldiery. We then saluted in formal fashion and talked on general academic topics, continuing to walk in the Grafton Street direction.
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