glanced at Mrs Kearney.
The noise in the auditorium had risen to a clamour when Mr Fitzpatrick burst into the
room, followed by Mr Holohan, who was panting. The clapping and stamping in the
hall were punctuated by whistling. Mr Fitzpatrick held a few banknotes in his hand.
He counted out four into Mrs Kearney's hand and said she would get the other half at
the interval. Mrs Kearney said:
`This is four shillings short.'
But Kathleen gathered in her skirt and said: `Now, Mr Bell,' to the first item, who was
shaking like an aspen. The singer and the accompanist went out together. The noise in
the hall died away. There was a pause of a few seconds, and then the piano was heard.
The first part of the concert was very successful except for Madam Glynn's item. The
poor lady sang Killarney in a bodiless gasping voice, with all the old-fashioned
mannerisms of intonation and pronunciation which she believed lent elegance to her
singing. She looked as if she had been resurrected from an old stage-wardrobe and the
cheaper parts of the hall made fun of her high wailing notes. The first tenor and the
contralto, however, brought down the house. Kathleen played a selection of Irish airs
which was generously applauded. The first part closed with a stirring patriotic
recitation delivered by a young lady who arranged amateur theatricals. It was
deservedly applauded, and, when it was ended, the men went out for the interval,
content.
All this time the dressing-room was a hive of excitement. In one corner were Mr
Holohan, Mr Fitzpatrick, Miss Beirne, two of the stewards, the baritone, the bass, and
Mr O'Madden Burke. Mr O'Madden Burke said it was the most scandalous exhibition
he had ever witnessed. Miss Kathleen Kearney's musical career was ended in Dublin
after that, he said. The baritone was asked what did he think of Mrs Kearney's
conduct. He did not like to say anything. He had been paid his money and wished to
be at peace with men. However, he said that Mrs Kearney might have taken the
artistes into consideration. The stewards and the secretaries debated hotly as to what
should be done when the interval came.
`I agree with Miss Beirne,' said Mr O'Madden Burke. `Pay her nothing.'
In another corner of the room were Mrs Kearney and her husband, Mr Bell, Miss
Healy, and the young lady who had to recite the patriotic piece. Mrs Kearney said that
the committee had treated her scandalously. She had spared neither trouble nor
expense and this was how she was repaid.
They thought they had only a girl to deal with and that, therefore, they could ride
roughshod over her. But she would show them their mistake. They wouldn't have
dared to have treated her like that if she had been a man. But she would see that her
daughter got her rights: she wouldn't be fooled. If they didn't pay her to the last
farthing she would make Dublin ring. Of course she was sorry for the sake of the
artistes. But what else could she do? She appealed to the second tenor, who said he
thought she had not been well treated. Then she appealed to Miss Healy. Miss Healy
wanted to join the other group, but she did not like to do so because she was a great
friend of Kathleen's and the Kearneys had often invited her to their house.
As soon as the first part was ended Mr Fitzpatrick and Mr Holohan went over to Mrs
Kearney and told her that the other four guineas would be paid after the committee
meeting on the following Tuesday and that, in case her daughter did not play for the
second part, the committee would consider the contract broken and would pay
nothing.
`I haven't seen any committee,' said Mrs Kearney angrily. `My daughter has her
contract. She will get four pounds eight into her hand or a foot she won't put on that
platform.'
`I'm surprised at you, Mrs Kearney,' said Mr Holohan. `I never thought you would
treat us this way.'
`And what way did you treat me?' asked Mrs Kearney.
Her face was inundated with an angry colour and she looked as if she would attack
someone with her hands.
`I'm asking for my rights,' she said.
`You might have some sense of decency,' said Mr Holohan.
`Might I, indeed?... And when I ask when my daughter is going to be paid I can't get a
civil answer.'
She tossed her head and assumed a haughty voice:
`You must speak to the secretary. It's not my business. I'm a great fellow fol-the-
diddle-I-do.'
`I thought you were a lady,' said Mr Holohan, walking away from her abruptly.
After that Mrs Kearney's conduct was condemned on all hands: everyone approved of
what the committee had done. She stood at the door, haggard with rage, arguing with
her husband and daughter, gesticulating with them. She waited until it was time for
the second part to begin in the hope that the secretaries would approach her. But Miss
Healy had kindly consented to play one or two accompaniments. Mrs Kearney had to
stand aside to allow the baritone and his accompanist to pass up to the platform. She
stood still for an instant like an angry stone image and, when the first notes of the
song struck her ear, she caught up her daughter's cloak and said to her husband:
`Get a cab!'
He went out at once. Mrs Kearney wrapped the cloak round her daughter and
followed him. As she passed through the doorway she stopped and glared into Mr
Holohan's face.
`I'm not done with you yet,' she said.
`But I'm done with you,' said Mr Holohan.
Kathleen followed her mother meekly. Mr Holohan began to pace up and down the
room in order to cool himself, for he felt his skin on fire.
`That's a nice lady!' he said. `O, she's a nice lady!'
`You did the proper thing, Holohan,' said Mr O'Madden Burke, poised upon his
umbrella in approval.
Grace
Two gentlemen who were in the lavatory at the time tried to lift him up: but he was
quite helpless. He lay curled up at the foot of the stairs down which he had fallen.
They succeeded in turning him over. His hat had rolled a few yards away and his
clothes were smeared with the filth and ooze of the floor on which he had lain, face
downwards. His eyes were closed and he breathed with a grunting noise. A thin
stream of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
These two gentlemen and one of the curates carried him up the stairs and laid him
down again on the floor of the bar. In two minutes he was surrounded by a ring of
men. The manager of the bar asked everyone who he was and who was with him. No
one knew who he was, but one of the curates said he had served the gentleman with a
small rum.
`Was he by himself?' asked the manager.
`No, sir. There was two gentlemen with him.'
`And where are they?'
No one knew; a voice said:
`Give him air. He's fainted.'
The ring of onlookers distended and closed again elastically. A dark medal of blood
had formed itself near the man's head on the tessellated floor. The manager, alarmed
by the grey pallor of the man's face, sent for a policeman.
His collar was unfastened and his necktie undone. He opened his eyes for an instant,
sighed and closed them again. One of the gentlemen who had carried him upstairs
held a dinged silk hat in his hand. The manager asked repeatedly did no one know
who the injured man was or where had his friends gone. The door of the bar opened
and an immense constable entered. A crowd which had followed him down the
laneway collected outside the door, struggling to look in through the glass panels.
The manager at once began to narrate what he knew. The constable, a young man
with thick immobile features, listened. He moved his head slowly to right and left and
from the manager to the person on the floor, as if he feared to be the victim of some
delusion. Then he drew off his glove, produced a small book from his waist, licked
the lead of his pencil and made ready to indite. He asked in a suspicious provincial
accent:
`Who is the man? What's his name and address?'
A young man in a cycling-suit cleared his way through the ring of bystanders. He
knelt down promptly beside the injured man and called for water. The constable knelt
down also to help. The young man washed the blood from the injured man's mouth
and then called for some brandy. The constable repeated the order in an authoritative
voice until a curate came running with the glass. The brandy was forced down the
man's throat. In a few seconds he opened his eyes and looked about him. He looked at
the circle of faces and then, understanding, strove to rise to his feet.
`You're all right now?' asked the young man in the cycling suit.
`Sha, 's nothing,' said the injured man, trying to stand up.
He was helped to his feet. The manager said something about a hospital and some of
the bystanders gave advice. The battered silk hat was placed on the man's head. The
constable asked:
`Where do you live?'
The man, without answering, began to twirl the ends of his moustache. He made light
of his accident. It was nothing, he said: only a little accident. He spoke very thickly.
`Where do you live?' repeated the constable.
The man said they were to get a cab for him. While the point was being debated a tall
agile gentleman of fair complexion, wearing a long yellow ulster, came from the far
end of the bar. Seeing the spectacle, he called out:
`Hallo, Tom, old man! What's the trouble?'
`Sha, 's nothing,' said the man.
The newcomer surveyed the deplorable figure before him and then turned to the
constable, saying:
`It's all right, constable. I'll see him home.'
The constable touched his helmet and answered:
`All right, Mr Power!'
`Come now, Tom,' said Mr Power, taking his friend by the arm. `No bones broken:
What? Can you walk?'
The young man in the cycling-suit took the man by the other arm and the crowd
divided.
`How did you get yourself into this mess?' asked Mr Power.
`The gentleman fell down the stairs,' said the young man.
`I' 'ery 'uch o'liged to you, sir,' said the injured man.
`Not at all.'
`'an't we have a little... ?'
`Not now. Not now.'
The three men left the bar and the crowd sifted through the doors into the laneway.
The manager brought the constable to the stairs to inspect the scene of the accident.
They agreed that the gentleman must have missed his footing. The customers returned
to the counter, and a curate set about removing the traces of blood from the floor.
When they came out into Grafton Street, Mr Power whistled for an outsider. The
injured man said again as well as he could:
`I' 'ery 'uch o'liged to you, sir. I hope we'll 'eet again. 'y na'e is Kernan.'
The shock and the incipient pain had partly sobered him.
`Don't mention it,' said the young man.
They shook hands. Mr Kernan was hoisted on to the car and, while Mr Power was
giving directions to the carman, he expressed his gratitude to the young man and
regretted that they could not have a little drink together.
`Another time,' said the young man.
The car drove off towards Westmoreland Street. As it passed the Ballast Office the
clock showed half past nine. A keen east wind hit them, blowing from the mouth of
the river. Mr Kernan was huddled together with cold. His friend asked him to tell how
the accident had happened.
`I 'an't 'an,' he answered, `'y 'ongue is hurt.'
`Show.'
The other leaned over the wheel of the car and peered into Mr Kernan's mouth but he
could not see. He struck a match and, sheltering it in the shell of his hands, peered
again into the mouth which Mr Kernan opened obediently. The swaying movement of
the car brought the match to and from the opened mouth. The lower teeth and gums
were covered with clotted blood and a minute piece of the tongue seemed to have
been bitten off. The match was blown out.
`That's ugly,' said Mr Power.
`Sha, 's nothing,' said Mr Kernan, closing his mouth and pulling the collar of his filthy
coat across his neck.
Mr Kernan was a commercial traveller of the old school which believed in the dignity
of its calling. He had never been seen in the city without a silk hat of some decency
and a pair of gaiters. By grace of these two articles of clothing, he said, a man could
always pass muster. He carried on the tradition of his Napoleon, the great Blackwhite,
whose memory he evoked at times by legend and mimicry. Modern business methods
had spared him only so far as to allow him a little office in Crowe Street, on the
window blind of which was written the name of his firm with the address - London,
EC. On the mantelpiece of this little office a little leaden battalion of canisters was
drawn up and on the table before the window stood four or five china bowls which
were usually half full of a black liquid. From these bowls Mr Kernan tasted tea. He
took a mouthful, drew it up, saturated his palate with it and then spat it forth into the
grate. Then he paused to judge.
Mr Power, a much younger man, was employed in the Royal Irish Constabulary
Office in Dublin Castle. The arc of his social rise intersected the arc of his friend's
decline, but Mr Kernan's decline was mitigated by the fact that certain of those friends
who had known him at his highest point of success still esteemed him as a character.
Mr Power was one of these friends. His inexplicable debts were a byword in his
circle; he was a debonair young man.
The car halted before a small house on the Glasnevin Road and Mr Kernan was
helped into the house. His wife put him to bed, while Mr Power sat downstairs in the
kitchen asking the children where they went to school and what book they were in.
The children - two girls and a boy, conscious of their father's helplessness and of their
mother's absence, began some horseplay with him. He was surprised at their manners
and at their accents, and his brow grew thoughtful. After a while Mrs Kernan entered
