The Red and The Green Part 2

'You'll behave yourself decently or I'll belt you.'

'You will not.'

'I will so.'

'Yah! Yah! Patsie's not me da!' sang Cathal, waltzing the length of the drawing-room.

The Dumay's house stood at the upper end of Blessington Street, a wide, sad, dirty street due north of the Pillar, which crawled up the hill and ended at the railings of a melancholy little park. It had, under the pale bright sky, its own quiet air of dereliction, a street leading nowhere, always full of idling dogs and open doorways. Yet in form it closely resembled the other great Georgian arteries of Dublin, with its n.o.ble continuous facade of sombre blackened red brick which seemed to absorb, rather than to be revealed by, the perpetual rainy light. Looked at closely, the bricks of these houses showed in fact a variety of colours, some purplish red, some yellowish grey, all glued together by a jelly of filth to form a uniform organic surface rather like the scales of a fish, the basic material of Dublin, a city conjured from the earth all in one piece by some tousled Dido. Iron railings guarded deep cave-like areas where dandelions and young saplings flourished, and a few steps led up to each front door, above which was a graceful semicircular fanlight. The ornate pillars which flanked the doors, battered and flattened by time, had the air of Grecian antiquities. The windows alone were, the length of the street, handsome and elegant as upon their first day.

The doors varied. They were serious affairs, solid and many-panelled, and if well painted and provided with handsome knockers and a bra.s.s plate or two could sufficiently announce, even here, the residences of substantial citizens, well-bred reticent professional men. But by now many of the doors in the street were broken-down, their paint peeling off, chequered with mysterious holes, and lacking their knockers so that visitors had to shout through the letter-box. Various strange activities had meanwhile developed in the bas.e.m.e.nts, such as a bicycle shop in one, a carpenter's workshop in another, and in one area a man sat all day mending cane chairs. While through grimy gla.s.s the fanlights displayed, besides the usual gaudy little figure of Christ the King, the cards of hairdressers and of chimney sweeps. At the end of the street there was even a house which had a sweet shop on the ground floor.

Yet the street had a spirit above these matters and in the evening when the lamp-lighter was just going his rounds, or on certain soft days when the sun shone through cloud, making everything vivid and exact as in a print, the street looked beautiful, with that particular sad, resigned, orderly beauty of Dublin. Those squared, cliff-like, blackened Dublin streets, stretching on and on, still had some inkling of perfection, even though the terraces sometimes looked more like warehouses, even had become warehouses, or in the poorer streets had gaping holes for windows and doors. Even then they seemed to know that they represented, they still in their darkened condition were, the most beautiful dwellings which the human race had ever invented.

The Dumays' house was not the finest in the street, nor was it the shabbiest. The door had been painted dark green some six years ago. It had a large bra.s.s knocker in the form of a wreath which the servant Jinny, a single girl of advancing years, who was paid eight s.h.i.+llings a week and lived in some nearby tenements affectionately called 'the little h.e.l.l', occasionally polished when the matter came into her mind. On entering the house the first impression was of an ecclesiastical darkness and of the smell referred to by Mrs Chase-White. The ecclesiastical air was contributed by a stained-gla.s.s window on the half-landing which was in fact inside a lavatory, the door of which, when untenanted, stood always open. This place may also have accounted for the smell. The upper landing, which was long and lit by a skylight, was divided into two, for no very clear reason, by a faintly jangling bead curtain; while along the walls stood a series of shrines or side-chapels containing stuffed birds, cairns of wax fruit, and cascades of disintegrating b.u.t.terflies under gla.s.s domes.

The drawing-room in which Cathal was now prancing was a long brown room, dimmed by brownish-white lace curtains, and very full of bulbous mahogany furniture. There were a number of coloured pictures of flower gardens, a large pinkish print called The Love Letter, and a prominent crucifix. Both Kathleen and Pat were indifferent to their surroundings and accepted the miscellany of bra.s.s bowls, ginger jars, embroidered clothlets and photos in upholstered frames as a natural part of the daily scene, as little remarkable as the rocks upon the seash.o.r.e. Only Cathal displayed any concern with interior decoration and his interests so far were limited to the collecting of model animals, which now jostled the other inhabitants of the tall and extremely complicated overmantel, causing Jinny, when the day for dusting them came round, to utter under her breath words which would have startled Father Ryan. In the midst of the overmantel, whose unsymmetrical undulations suggested a natural growth rather than the workings of the human mind, was a slim extremely tall elliptical mirror, which showed in reflection an even more melancholy room filled with an atmosphere the colour of strong tea.

Kathleen had returned now and was placing upon the blue-and-white cross-st.i.tch tablecloth the large silver milk-jug and sugar-bowl reserved for special occasions. Her sons fell silent. They never addressed each other now in her presence. They watched her with a faint detached curiosity as one might watch an animal which had wandered into view close by. She for her part was irritably aware of them. She was wearing an old-fas.h.i.+oned skirt of brown serge which reached almost to the ground and a high-necked white blouse over which she had drawn for the occasion a long knitted jacket of purple and orange stripes. Her hair was still fairish, though dulling now towards a peppery grey, and strained straight back into a large round bun. She had a small straight nose and large light-brown eyes. Her forehead was not so much wrinkled as pitted and crumpled with anxiety. She had been handsome and still looked strong, but in rather a haunted way.

The two boys had returned to their books. Pat was reading a novel by George Moore, and Cathal was studying O'Growney's Simple Lessons in Irish. Pat was fond of his mother, but there had always been much awkwardness between them. Pat had been nearly sixteen when his father died, and Kathleen, out of an anxious fear that the boys might now get completely out of hand, had attempted to impose a strict regime upon him. Pat had accepted his father as a force of nature to be endured, evaded, and in later years challenged, but never resented. His mother appeared as an arbitrary human will, and his struggle with her produced in him excitements and emotions which he found in some way loathesome. He punished her subsequently by his silence and had now got into the habit of speaking to her very little. He had found her second marriage entirely incomprehensible; and although he liked rather than disliked his stepfather he felt contemptuous of him and had never regarded him as a person with any sort of authority.

'They're here now,' said Jinny, ushering Frances Bellman and Andrew Chase-White into the room. Kathleen kissed Frances and complimented her on her dress. There was a mumble of greetings and a rumble of heavy chairs as everybody settled down about the small low tea-table, knocking it a good deal with their knees.

Pat stared at Andrew Chase-White without troubling to conceal the fact that he was inspecting him. Andrew had grown up a good deal since their last meeting. He had, almost, the face of a man, and an imposing blond moustache which he plucked at affectedly. He looked well in uniform, seeming taller and broader, and Pat felt no inclination to laugh at the glittering spurs and highly polished boots. Even Cathal seemed rather impressed and silenced. There entered the room with this smartly turned-out young officer the strong atmosphere of a larger public world. He seemed almost too good-looking, too typical, as if he had been chosen as a special envoy, a role which he seemed almost consciously to be playing, as he twitched his moustache and talked gallantly in a loud voice to Mrs Drumm, casting sidelong glances at Pat. He also spent a good deal of time examining the room as if to make sure that there had been no unauthorized alterations in his absence. His gaze returned uneasily to the crucifix.

Pat was surprised to find how much he was affected by seeing Andrew in uniform. He had no particular interest in his cousin, though as he had said to Cathal he 'didn't mind him'. As a boy he had only been concerned with children older than himself and Andrew had always been among the small fry. What struck him now was simply that whiff of the public world, that incarnate image of the soldier, official, stamped and approved. Actually to have this large topical object planted, as if by a practical joke, in his own drawing-room affected him not so much with annoyance as with surprise. There was also a certain envy, though not of Andrew personally. The young officer was an emblem of power. But Pat had his own reasons for not joining up.

Pat, who was vaguely aware that he had been, at various childhood times, rather 'hard on' Andrew, was conscious now of his cousin's almost frantic desire to impress him. There was an atmosphere of revenge in the air. Pat noticed it absently, casually, since he felt himself entirely invulnerable through being completely superior. He was prepared, even with a sort of amus.e.m.e.nt, to let his opponent enjoy what he took to be an advantage, easily inhibiting an a.s.sertion of personality which would have put young Andrew definitively in his place. As far as Pat was concerned, Andrew was still the little shouting boy who had followed him about, making a nuisance of himself on beaches all round the coast of Ireland. The present phenomenon was interesting not as an individual but as a type.

Kathleen was now talking to Frances, laying down certain principles for dealing with the servant problem which were to be pa.s.sed on to Hilda. The conversation among the other three was staccato: Andrew condescendingly over-friendly, Pat distantly polite, Cathal, now recovering from his first discomfiture, definitely truculent. Andrew addressed his remarks to Pat, who offered minimal replies, while they both ignored provocative interjections from Cathal.

'I see you have an Irish grammar there. How interesting. Who's studying it?'

'Cathal is.'

'Is Irish a difficult language?'

'I understand that it's not an easy language.'

'It must be grand to know it.'

'Why don't you learn it then?'

'Do you think it important that the Irish people should learn it?'

'Sure, aren't you Irish yourself?'

'It has a certain symbolic value.'

'"A country without language is a country without a soul."'

'Yes, I appreciate that it has a symbolic value. On the other hand, if one is born to the language of Shakespeare-'

'You mean the language of Cromwell.'

'Don't keep interrupting, Cathal.'

'Well, I know when I'm not wanted!'

Cathal turned his chair right round to face Frances and his mother. Pat felt, like a small electric shock, a change in the emotional temperature which he realized to be Andrew's apprehension of their being left as it were tete-a-tete. Pat began to feel extreme irritation. He hoped that the conversation would not start to come round to the question of the war. He thought he could feel, and that with even more annoyance, Andrew deliberately avoiding the subject. At the thought that the 'lilly-white boy' might see himself as tactfully sparing his interlocutor an embarra.s.sment a jeering scowl invaded Pat's face. He composed his features with difficulty.

'You must come round and see my mother's new house.'

'Oh yes.'

'She's always asking after you.'

'I trust Aunt Hilda is well?'

'She's fine now. She was awfully upset by the Zepps, you know.'

'Was she?'

'And how is my Uncle Barnabas these days?'

'Very well, I believe.'

'I'm so glad. You see, I haven't had time to come and see him since I came over, actually.'

'Really.'

Calmly determined to let the conversation run if necessary to a stand-still Pat fixed his eyes upon the crucifix above Andrew's head. He realized that this object somehow upset his cousin. Andrew squirmed in his seat. Pat thought he would try to force Andrew to look at the crucifix. But at that moment there was a little uproar from the other group.

'Our Lord said, "I bring not peace but a sword".' Cathal, who was incapable of tolerating a conventional conversation, had somehow steered the talk on to more general topics and was raising his voice.

'He meant the sword of the spirit,' said Kathleen in a subdued way. Having spent so much of her life as a widow with two high-spirited boys, she had cultivated a particularly soft rather dispiriting voice guaranteed to lower the temperature of any discussion.

'No He didn't, and I tell you why, because He was a Socialist.'

Frances laughed.

Pat, unable to resist contradicting his brother, turned round and said, 'Even if that were true, which it isn't, it wouldn't be very relevant.'

'How do you know if it's relevant since you don't know what we're talking about?'

Frances said, 'We're discussing pacifism.' She emulated Kathleen's slow soft voice.

'I told you it wasn't relevant.'

'It is so relevant. War is right when it's a fight for social justice.'

'But you don't have to kill people fighting for social justice,' said Kathleen. 'I agree with Daniel O'Connell, "No political reform is worth shedding one drop of blood".'

'Are you a pacifist, Aunt Kathleen?' asked Andrew. His air of friendly condescension made Pat want to kick him.

'No, not really. I just feel about this awful trench warfare- it can't be right. War has changed its nature.'

'It's all a matter of ends and means,' said Cathal.

'But some means are so terrible they can't really be means any more because the end gets lost. And some means are wicked in themselves, like torturing people or murder.'

'We call killing murder when we think it's a means to a bad end,' said Cathal. 'Of course this war is senseless, but that's because it's an imperialist war, and not because-'

'You don't even know what "imperialist" means,' said Pat.

'You want to say,' said Frances slowly and softly to Kathleen, 'that it could be all right with bows and arrows, but this sort of thing couldn't possibly be all right. I think I agree with you. When you really look at what's happening the world seems to have gone mad.'

'So you think Cousin Andrew's acting wrongly?' said Cathal, in a loud voice.

'Oh no, no!' said Kathleen. 'I was only speaking for myself.'

'Something can't be right or wrong just for yourself, if it's right or wrong it must be right or wrong for everybody.'

'Not at all,' said Pat, 'it depends what you mean-'

'Of course in a way I agree with you, Aunt Kathleen,' said Andrew. 'It's all very well for people in places of safety to exhort us all to fight. But once one's been at close quarters with the business it's another matter.'

There was a short silence. 'How close quarters have you been at?' asked Pat, who very well knew the answer to his question.

Andrew flushed and frowned. 'Well, I can't say I've seen any action yet. I wasn't long in France.'

'It was smart of you to join the cavalry,' said Cathal. 'We all know the cavalry are kept miles behind the front line.'

'That's not true as it happens. And at least I've joined the army, I'm not just sitting at home or playing at soldiers in the back garden like some people.'

Cathal stood up, almost overthrowing the table. Frances and Kathleen started to speak in raised voices.

At that moment an extraordinary sound was heard just outside the room. It consisted of a series of loud resounding b.u.mps accompanied by a tinkle of breaking gla.s.s and a human voice protesting in a traditional manner. Silence followed. Pat, interpreting the phenomenon, which was familiar to him in a.n.a.logous forms, concluded that his stepfather, carrying some bottles of whiskey, must have fallen down the second flight of stairs, which, after creeping past the drawing-room door, he had been cautiously mounting. 'Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,' said Kathleen. There was a general rush to the door.

Barnabas Drumm, wearing his hat, was sitting on the floor with his back against the newel post. A wide area of broken gla.s.s surrounded him, and from an extensive dark stain on the carpet there rose an overwhelming odour of whiskey. Barnabas looked sideways at the group in the doorway. Although he must have been perfectly aware that his predicament could amuse n.o.body and indeed must be causing a variety of different chagrins to all present, he could not help clowning it a little. He sat there with legs outstretched and began to whistle through his teeth.

Kathleen pa.s.sed him by, stepping over him, and half ran along the landing. She returned in a moment with a dustpan and brush and, ignoring her husband, began to pick up the larger pieces of gla.s.s and put them into the pan. She worked slowly, in a resigned manner resembling the low voice she used to her sons, putting a quiet bitterness into the droop of her head.

Frances said, 'Are you all right? Have you hurt yourself?'

Cathal retired back into the drawing-room and shut the door sharply behind him. He was always wounded and affronted by his stepfather's total lack of dignity.

Andrew put his hand on Frances' arm, as if to protect her from a rowdy scene.

Annoyed by all these reactions and infuriated by the author of the incident, Pat said, 'For G.o.d's sake get up!' He pulled off his stepfather's hat and jammed it on to the post with a force which nearly split the crown.

With a good deal of dumb show, rubbing his bottom and his elbows, Barnabas began slowly to rise. He said, 'Isn't it just the like of me to do a thing like that.'

Barnabas Drumm was a short round man with a mild flabby face and a large golden moustache a little grizzled at the ends or soiled with Guinness. His brown hair fuzzed tonsure-fas.h.i.+on round a neat bald spot. The puzzled light blue of his eyes, invaded now by streaky reds and yellows, retained a childish quality. He still had a mouthful of good teeth and showed them often in a smile which though invariably gentle was also a reminder that he had once been better armed for the battle of life than he now seemed in general to be. Women, speculating about why level-headed Kathleen Dumay should have taken up with this muddle of a man, were divided between those who said that she had been pushed around by her first husband and now wanted someone she could push around, and those who voted Barney to be 'really rather sweet'.

'h.e.l.lo, Andrew,' said Barnabas. 'We meet at last, though not in the happiest circ.u.mstances. Think of all that excellent whiskey gone bang. Oughtn't we all to go down on our knees and lick the carpet.'

'Barney, will you please see me to the tram?' said Frances suddenly. Her voice sounded strained, as if she were about to burst into tears.

'Why, my dear, of course-'

Andrew said, 'But, Frances-'

'No, don't you come, Andrew. You stay here. I've got something special I want to say to Barney. Thank you so much, Aunt Kathleen. I've so much enjoyed myself.'

Frances had already seized her umbrella and her boa and was leading Barnabas away along the landing. Kathleen murmured something with her head still well down among the gla.s.s. Laboriously she was picking up tiny glittering splinters between her fingers.

Pat went back into the drawing-room and joined Cathal, who was standing stern-eyed at the window. Together, like a grim tribunal, they looked disapprovingly down upon their stepfather as he disappeared down the street arm-in-arm with Frances, sheltering under her umbrella in the light rain. He contrived to look jaunty. Pat detested jauntiness.

Andrew Chase-White, looking distracted, came running back into the room. The brothers ignored him. He seemed to run about for a little while like a dog. Then he returned to Kathleen and tried to help her with the gla.s.s, but the task appeared to be completed. He came back again and started to look for his raincoat. Pat wandered from the window and took up the George Moore novel. Andrew got as far as the door and then suddenly came back and stood before his cousin.

'Pat-'

'Yes?'

'Oh-sorry-nothing-'

'Goodbye, then.'

Looking wretched, Andrew left the room, colliding with Kathleen, who was returning with the tea tray. Murmuring thanks, he made for the stairs.

Kathleen, watched by her sons, began slowly to stack up the tea things. Pat noticed that she was crying. Big tears welled from her eyes and fell from her cheeks on to the tray. She always stooped double over any task she performed. Pat could not fathom his mother's frequent and unconcealed tears, but he felt them as an aggression upon himself and averted his eyes. These exhibitions displeased him without troubling him deeply. He found women obscure and mysterious but not interesting. Kathleen left the room.

'Ah well,' said Cathal. '"Up the long ladder and down the short rope, to h.e.l.l with King Billy and long live the Pope." What did he want, I wonder?'

'He wanted to apologize. He would have done so if you hadn't been here.'

'Well, let him go. We don't mind him. He's nothing. Are you going to belt me?'

'I'll let you off this time.'

'Pat-'

'Yes?'

Cathal came up behind his brother and gently put his arms round his waist. 'When is it to be?'

'I don't know what you're talking about.'