She passed by with her daughter and a quick glance through the open door of the hall
showed her the cause of the stewards' idleness. At first she wondered had she
mistaken the hour. No, it was twenty minutes to eight.
In the dressing-room behind the stage she was introduced to the secretary of the
Society, Mr Fitzpatrick. She smiled and shook his hand. He was a little man, with a
white, vacant face. She noticed that he wore his soft brown hat carelessly on the side
of his head and that his accent was flat. He held a programme in his hand, and, while
he was talking to her, he chewed one end of it into a moist pulp. He seemed to bear
disappointments lightly. Mr Holohan came into the dressing-room every few minutes
with reports from the box-office. The artistes talked among themselves nervously,
glanced from time to time at the mirror and rolled and unrolled their music. When it
was nearly half past eight, the few people in the hall began to express their desire to
be entertained. Mr Fitzpatrick came in, smiled vacantly at the room, and said:
`Well, now, ladies and gentlemen. I suppose we'd better open the ball.'
Mrs Kearney rewarded his very flat final syllable with a quick stare of contempt, and
then said to her daughter encouragingly:
`Are you ready, dear?'
When she had an opportunity, she called Mr Holohan aside and asked him to tell her
what it meant. Mr Holohan did not know what it meant. He said that the committee
had made a mistake in arranging for four concerts: four were too many.
`And the artistes!' said Mrs Kearney. `Of course they are doing their best, but really
they are not good.'
Mr Holohan admitted that the artistes were no good, but the committee, he said, had
decided to let the first three concerts go as they pleased and reserve all the talent for
Saturday night. Mrs Kearney said nothing, but, as the mediocre items followed one
another on the platform and the few people in the hall grew fewer and fewer, she
began to regret that she had put herself to any expense for such a concert. There was
something she didn't like in the look of things, and Mr Fitzpatrick's vacant smile
irritated her very much. However, she said nothing and waited to see how it would
end. The concert expired shortly before ten, and everyone went home quickly.
The concert on Thursday night was better attended, but Mrs Kearney saw at once that
the house was filled with paper. The audience behaved indecorously, as if the concert
were an informal dress rehearsal. Mr Fitzpatrick seemed to enjoy himself; he was
quite unconscious that Mrs Kearney was taking angry note of his conduct. He stood at
the edge of the screen, from time to time jutting out his head and exchanging a laugh
with two friends in the corner of the balcony. In the course of the evening, Mrs
Kearney learned that the Friday concert was to be abandoned and that the committee
was going to move heaven and earth to secure a bumper house on Saturday night.
When she heard this, she sought out Mr Holohan. She buttonholed him as he was
limping out quickly with a glass of lemonade for a young lady and asked him was it
true. Yes, it was true.
`But, of course, that doesn't alter the contract,' she said. `The contract was for four
concerts.'
Mr Holohan seemed to be in a hurry; he advised her to speak to Mr Fitzpatrick. Mrs
Kearney was now beginning to be alarmed. She called Mr Fitzpatrick away from his
screen and told him that her daughter had signed for four concerts and that, of course,
according to the terms of the contract, she should receive the sum originally stipulated
for, whether the society gave the four concerts or not. Mr Fitzpatrick, who did not
catch the point at issue very quickly, seemed unable to resolve the difficulty and said
that he would bring the matter before the committee. Mrs Kearney's anger began to
flutter in her cheek and she had all she could do to keep from asking:
`And who is the Cometty, pray?'
But she knew that it would not be ladylike to do that: so she was silent.
Little boys were sent out into the principal streets of Dublin early on Friday morning
with bundles of handbills. Special puffs appeared in all the evening papers, reminding
the music-loving public of the treat which was in store for it on the following evening.
Mrs Kearney was somewhat reassured, but she thought well to tell her husband part of
her suspicions. He listened carefully and said that perhaps it would be better if he
went with her on Saturday night. She agreed. She respected her husband in the same
way as she respected the General Post Office, as something large, secure, and fixed;
and though she knew the small number of his talents she appreciated his abstract
value as a male. She was glad that he had suggested coming with her. She thought her
plans over.
The night of the grand concert came. Mrs Kearney, with her husband and daughter,
arrived at the Ancient Concert Rooms three-quarters of an hour before the time at
which the concert was to begin. By ill luck it was a rainy evening. Mrs Kearney
placed her daughter's clothes and music in charge of her husband and went all over
the building looking for Mr Holohan or Mr Fitzpatrick. She could find neither. She
asked the stewards was any member of the committee in the hall and, after a great
deal of trouble, a steward brought out a little woman named Miss Beirne, to whom
Mrs Kearney explained that she wanted to see one of the secretaries. Miss Beirne
expected them any minute and asked could she do anything. Mrs Kearney looked
searchingly at the oldish face which was screwed into an expression of trustfulness
and enthusiasm and answered:
`No, thank you!'
The little woman hoped they would have a good house. She looked out at the rain
until the melancholy of the wet street effaced all the trustfulness and enthusiasm from
her twisted features. Then she gave a little sigh and said:
`Ah, well! We did our best, the dear knows.'
Mrs Kearney had to go back to the dressing-room.
The artistes were arriving. The bass and the second tenor had already come. The bass,
Mr Duggan, was a slender young man with a scattered black moustache. He was the
son of a hall porter in an office in the city and, as a boy, he had sung prolonged bass
notes in the resounding hall. From this humble state he had raised himself until he had
become a first-rate artiste. He had appeared in grand opera. One night, when an
operatic artiste had fallen ill, he had undertaken the part of the king in the opera of
Maritana at the Queen's Theatre. He sang his music with great feeling and volume
and was warmly welcomed by the gallery; but, unfortunately, he marred the good
impression by wiping his nose in his gloved hand once or twice out of
thoughtlessness. He was unassuming and spoke little. He said yous so softly that it
passed unnoticed and he never drank anything stronger than milk, for his voice's sake.
Mr Bell, the second tenor, was a fair-haired little man who competed every year for
prizes at the Feis Ceoil. On his fourth trial he had been awarded a bronze medal. He
was extremely nervous and extremely jealous of other tenors and he covered his
nervous jealousy with an ebullient friendliness. It was his humour to have people
know what an ordeal a concert was to him. Therefore when he saw Mr Duggan he
went over to him and asked:
`Are you in it too?'
`Yes,' said Mr Duggan.
Mr Bell laughed at his fellow-sufferer, held out his hand and said:
`Shake!'
Mrs Kearney passed by these two young men and went to the edge of the screen to
view the house. The seats were being filled up rapidly and a pleasant noise circulated
in the auditorium. She came back and spoke to her husband privately. Their
conversation was evidently about Kathleen, for they both glanced at her often as she
stood chatting to one of her Nationalist friends, Miss Healy, the contralto. An
unknown solitary woman with a pale face walked through the room. The women
followed with keen eyes the faded blue dress which was stretched upon a meagre
body. Someone said that she was Madam Glynn, the soprano.
`I wonder where did they dig her up,' said Kathleen to Miss Healy. `I'm sure I never
heard of her.'
Miss Healy had to smile. Mr Holohan limped into the dressing-room at that moment
and the two young ladies asked him who was the unknown woman. Mr Holohan said
that she was Madam Glynn from London. Madam Glynn took her stand in a corner of
the room, holding a roll of music stiffly before her and from time to time changing the
direction of her startled gaze. The shadow took her faded dress into shelter but fell
revengefully into the little cup behind her collar-bone. The noise of the hall became
more audible. The first tenor and the baritone arrived together They were both well
dressed, stout, and complacent, and they brought a breath of opulence among the
company.
Mrs Kearney brought her daughter over to them, and talked to them amiably. She
wanted to be on good terms with them but, while she strove to be polite, her eyes
followed Mr Holohan in his limping and devious courses. As soon as she could she
excused herself and went out after him.
`Mr Holohan, I want to speak to you for a moment, she said.'
They went down to a discreet part of the corridor. Mrs Kearney asked him when was
her daughter going to be paid. Mr Holohan said that Mr Fitzpatrick had charge of that.
Mrs Kearney said that she didn't know anything about Mr Fitzpatrick. Her daughter
had signed a contract for eight guineas and she would have to be paid. Mr Holohan
said that it wasn't his business.
`Why isn't it your business?' asked Mrs Kearney. `Didn't you yourself bring her the
contract? Anyway, if it's not your business, it's my business, and I mean to see to it.'
`You'd better speak to Mr Fitzpatrick,' said Mr Holohan distinctly.
`I don't know anything about Mr Fitzpatrick,' repeated Mrs Kearney. `I have my
contract, and I intend to see that it is carried out.'
When she came back to the dressing-room her cheeks were slightly suffused. The
room was lively. Two men in outdoor dress had taken possession of the fireplace and
were chatting familiarly with Miss Healy and the baritone. They were the Freeman
man and Mr O'Madden Burke. The Freeman man had come in to say that he could
not wait for the concert as he had to report the lecture which an American priest was
giving in the Mansion House. He said they were to leave the report for him at the
Freeman office and he would see that it went in. He was a grey-haired man with a
plausible voice and careful manners. He held an extinguished cigar in his hand and
the aroma of cigar smoke floated near him. He had not intended to stay a moment,
because concerts and artistes bored him considerably, but he remained leaning against
the mantelpiece. Miss Healy stood in front of him, talking and laughing. He was old
enough to suspect one reason for her politeness, but young enough in spirit to turn the
moment to account. The warmth, fragrance, and colour of her body appealed to his
senses. He was pleasantly conscious that the bosom which he saw rise and fall slowly
beneath him rose and fell at that moment for him, that the laughter and fragrance and
wilful glances were his tribute. When he could stay no longer he took leave of her
regretfully.
`O'Madden Burke will write the notice,' he explained to Mr Holohan, `and I'll see it
in.'
`Thank you very much, Mr Hendrick,' said Mr Holohan. `You'll see it in, I know.
Now, won't you have a little something before you go?'
`I don't mind,' said Mr Hendrick.
The two men went along some tortuous passages and up a dark staircase and came to
a secluded room where one of the stewards was uncorking bottles for a few
gentlemen. One of these gentlemen was Mr O'Madden Burke, who had found out the
room by instinct. He was a suave, elderly man who balanced his imposing body, when
at rest, upon a large silk umbrella. His magniloquent western name was the moral
umbrella upon which he balanced the fine problem of his finances. He was widely
respected.
While Mr Holohan was entertaining the Freeman man Mrs Kearney was speaking so
animatedly to her husband that he had to ask her to lower her voice. The conversation
of the others in the dressing-room had become strained. Mr Bell, the first item, stood
ready with his music but the accompanist made no sign. Evidently something was
wrong. Mr Kearney looked straight before him, stroking his beard, while Mrs
Kearney spoke into Kathleen's ear with subdued emphasis. From the hall came sounds
of encouragement, clapping and stamping of feet. The first tenor and the baritone and
Miss Healy stood together, waiting tranquilly, but Mr Bell's nerves were greatly
agitated because he was afraid the audience would think that he had come late.
Mr Holohan and Mr O'Madden Burke came into the room. In a moment Mr Holohan
perceived the hush. He went over to Mrs Kearney and spoke with her earnestly. While
they were speaking the noise in the hall grew louder. Mr Holohan became very red
and excited. He spoke volubly, but Mrs Kearney said curtly at intervals:
`She won't go on. She must get her eight guineas.'
Mr Holohan pointed desperately towards the hall where the audience was clapping
and stamping. He appealed to Mr Kearney and to Kathleen. But Mr Kearney
continued to stroke his beard and Kathleen looked down, moving the point of her new
shoe: it was not her fault. Mrs Kearney repeated:
`She won't goon without her money.'
After a swift struggle of tongues Mr Holohan hobbled out in haste. The room was
silent. When the strain of the silence had become somewhat painful Miss Healy said
to the baritone:
`Have you seen Mrs Pat Campbell this week?'
The baritone had not seen her but he had been told that she was very fine. The
conversation went no further. The first tenor bent his head and began to count the
links of the gold chain which was extended across his waist, smiling and humming
random notes to observe the effect on the frontal sinus. From time to time everyone
