Complete Works of Bram Stoker (476 page)

Even as I speak a shudder cleaves the air, a cataclysmal mirage comes into view, the organ booms and the impish choir begins its torturing refrain.

Underneath this picture there is no placard.

The dreadful music ceases, and the horrid scene before me works on in silence. It passes, and then there is neither light nor darkness. The desert disappears, the gateway is no more, the infinite host has gone like the dew of the morning, and I am left in presence of nothing.

The realisation is frightful; my brain is whirling; relief must come; human nature cannot bear it. Ah, thank God, I am going mad-when from somewhere, but whence I know not, comes a light scornful laugh, a Satanic voice says, “Sold again!” the organ swells, the invisible choir sings anew, and the whole series of pictures begins again from the beginning. For a moment the tension is relaxed, “God’s in His heaven” after all, when, like the clang of steel, the Voice utters the unanswerable question. Oh, God, I must-I shall speak. The answer, the answer is-

“What time is it, Russell?” (Russell was the male night-nurse, the necessity for whose presence the reader will by this time fully understand!)

“Half-past four, sir.”

“Well, I must get up to catch the first train to Glasgow. It is a matter of life and death. Please give me my clothes.”

Russell endeavours to soothe me with promises of going tomorrow, and so forth, all of which I see through with merciless clearness. In the end, as I threaten to alarm the whole household, I am wrapped up in blankets, carried to an easy-chair before the fire, and a screen put behind me.

“You can’t get a train, sir, before half-past six.”

“Excuse me, there is a train at 5.55, and I am going to get it. By the way, are you sure Sister is not about? I thought I saw her round the corner of the screen. No? Then give me some soda and milk, and have you a cigarette anywhere?”

Russell naturally denied having cigarettes, whereupon, as he afterwards told me, I proceeded to curse him, his family, antecedents, and descendants together, with such copiousness and minuteness of diction that I spoke without stopping for an hour and a half! I fancy Mr Kipling is responsible for at least the Indian meticulosity of my comminations. Anyhow, the effort having exhausted me, on Russell saying that I had now missed the train, and had better go back to bed to wait for the next, I sensibly agreed.

That was the climax, and on awaking some hours later from a peaceful sleep I found that the crisis was past, and that I was as sane again as usual. The first book I asked for was the Pilgrim’s Progress, and as soon as I was permitted to read I turned to the account of Christian’s passage through the Valley of the Shadow. I had felt before that Bunyan’s demons were stage demons, his quagmires and pits merely simulacra, the accessories generally such as Drury Lane would laugh to scorn. Now I am sure of it. The real difficulty, of course, is to do it better.

THE MAN FROM SHORROX

‘Throth, yer ‘ann’rs, I’ll tell ye wid pleasure; though, trooth to tell, it’s only poor wurrk telling the same shtory over an’ over agin. But I niver object to tell it to rale gintlemin, like yer ‘ann’rs, what don’t forget that a poor man has a mouth on to him as much as Creeshus himself has.

The place was a market town in Kilkenny  —  or maybe King’s County or Queen’s County. At all evints, it was wan of them counties what Cromwell  —  bad cess to him!  —  gev his name to. An’ the house was called after him that was the Lord Liftinint an’ invinted the polis  —  God forgive him! It was kep’ be a man iv the name iv Misther Mickey Byrne an’ his good lady  —  at laste it was till wan dark night whin the bhoys mistuk him for another gindeman, an unknown man, what had bought a contagious property  —  mind ye the impidence iv him. Mickey was comin’ back from the Curragh Races wid his skin that tight wid the full of the whiskey inside of him that he couldn’t open his eyes to see what was goin’ on, or his mouth to set the bhoys right afther he had got the first tap on the head wid wan of the blackthorns what they done such jobs wid. The poor bhoys was that full of sorra for their mishap whin they brung him home to his widdy that the crather hadn’t the hearrt to be too sevare on thim. At the first iv course she was wroth, bein’ only a woman afther all, an’ weemun not bein’ gave to rayson like nun is. Millia murdher! but for a bit she was like a madwoman, and was nigh to have cut the heads from affav thim wid the mate chopper, till, seein’ thim so white and quite, she all at wance flung down the chopper an’ knelt down be the corp.

‘Lave me to me dead,’ she sez. ‘Oh mm! it’s no use more people nor is needful bein’ made unhappy over this night’s terrible wurrk. Mick Byrne would have no man worse for him whin he was living, and he’ll have harm to none for his death! Now go; an’, oh bhoys, be dacent and quite, an’ don’t thry a poor widdied sowl too hard!’

Well, afther that she made no change in things ginerally, but kep’ on the hotel jist the same; an’ whin some iv her friends wanted her to get help, she only sez: ‘Mick an’ me run this house well enough; an’ whin I’m thinkin’ of takun’ help I’ll tell yez. I’ll go on be meself, as I mane to, till Mick an’ me comes together agun.’

An’, sure enough, the ould place wint on jist the same, though, more betoken, there wasn’t Mick wid his shillelagh to kape the pace whin things got pretty hot on fair nights, an’ in the gran’ ould election times, when heads was bruk like eggs  —  glory be to God!

My! but she was the fine woman, was the Widdy Byrne! A gran’ crathur intirely: a fine upshtandin’ woman, nigh as tall as a modheratesized man, wid a forrm on her that’d warrm yer hearrt to look at, it sthood out that way in the right places. She had shkin like satin, wid a warrm flush in it, like the sun shinun’ on a crock iv yestherday’s crame; an’ her cheeks an’ her neck was that firrm that ye couldn’t take a pinch iv thim  —  though sorra wan iver dar’d to thry, the worse luck! But her hair! Begor, that was the finishing touch that set all the min crazy. It was jist wan mass iv red, like the heart iv a burnun’ furze-bush whin the smoke goes from aff iv it. Musha! but it’d make the blood come up in yer eyes to see the glint iv that hair wid the light shunun’ on it. There was niver a man, what was a man at all at all, iver kem in be the door that he didn’t want to put his two arrms round the widdy an’ giv’ her a hug immadiate. They was fine min too, some iv thim  —  and warrm men  —  big graziers from Kildare, and the like, that counted their cattle be scores, an’ used to come ridin’ in to market on huntin’ horses what they’d refuse hundlireds iv pounds for from officers in the Curragh an’ the quality. Begor, but some iv thim an’ the dhrovers was rare miii in a fight. More nor wance I seen them, forty, maybe half a hundred, strong, clear the market-place at Banagher or Athy. Well do I remimber the way the big, red, hairy wrists iv thim’d go up in the air, an’ down’d come the springy ground-ash saplins what they carried for switches. The whole lot iv thim wanted to come coortun’ the widdy; but sorra wan iv her’d look at thim. She’d flirt an’ be coy an’ taze thim and make thim mad for love iv her, as weemin likes to do. Thank God for the same! for mayhap we min wouldn’t love thim as we do only for their thricky ways; an’ thin what’d become iv the counthry wid nothin’ in it at all except single min an’ ould maids jist dyin’, and growin’ crabbed for want iv chuidher to kiss an’ tache an’ shpank an’ make love to? Shure, yer ‘ann’rs, ‘tis childher as makes the hearrt iv man green, jist as it is fresh wather that makes the grass grow. Divil a shtep nearer would the widdy iver let mortial man come. ‘No,’ she’d say; ‘whin I see a man fit to fill Mick’s place, I’ll let yez know iv it; thank ye kindly’; an’ wid that she’d shake her head till the beautiful red hair iv it’d be like shparks iv fire  —  an’ the mm more mad for her nor iver.

But, mind ye, she wasn’t no shpoil-shport; Mick’s wife knew more nor that, an’ his widdy didn’t forgit the thrick iv it. She’d lade the laugh herself if ‘twas anything a dacent woman could shmile at; an’ if it wasn’t, she’d send the girrls aff to their beds, an’ tell the min they might go on talkin’ that way, for there was only herself to be insulted; an’ that’d shut thim up pretty quick I’m tellin’ yez. But av any iv thim’d thry to git affectionate, as min do whin they’ve had all they can carry, well, thin she had a playful way iv dalin’ wid thim what’d always turn the laugh agin’ thim. She used to say that she lamed the beginnun’ iv it at the school an’ the rest iv it from Mick. She always kep by her on the counther iv the bar wan iv thim rattan canes wid the curly ends, what the soldiers carries whin they can’t barry a whip, an’ are goin’ out wid their cap on three hairs, an’ thim new oiled, to scorch the girrls. An’ thin whin any iv the shuitors’d get too affectionate she’d lift the cane an’ swish them wid it, her laughin’ out iv her like mad all the time. At first wan or two iv the min’d say that a kiss at the widdy was worth a clip iv a cane; an’ wan iv thim, a warrm horse-fanner from Poul-a-Phoka, said he’d complate the job av she was to cut him into ribbons. But she was a handy woman wid the cane  —  which was shtrange enough, for she had no childer to be practisin’ on  —  an’ whin she threw what was left iv him back over the bar, wid his face like a gridiron, the other min what was laughin’ along wid her tuk the lesson to hearrt. Whiniver afther that she laid her hand on the cane, no matther how quietly, there’d be no more talk iv thryin’ for kissin’ in that quarther.

Well, at the time I’m comm’ to there was great divarshuns intirely goin’ on in the town. The fair was on the morra, an’ there was a power iv people in the town; an’ cattle, an’ geese, an’ turkeys, an’ butther, an’ pigs, an’ vegetables, an’ all kinds iv divilment, includin’ a berryin’  —  the same bein’ an ould attorney-man, savin’ yer prisince; a lone man widout friends, lyin’ out there in the gran’ room iv the hotel what they call the ‘Queen’s Room’. Well, I needn’t tell yer ‘ann’rs that the place was pretty full that night. Musha, but it’s the fleas thimselves what had the bad time iv it, wid thim crowded out on the outside, an’ shakin’, an’ thrimblin’ wid the cowld. The widdy, av coorse, was in the bar passin’ the time iv the day wid all that kem in, an’ keepin’ her eyes afore an’ ahint her to hould the girrls up to their wurrk an’ not to be thriflin’ wid the mm. My! but there was a power iv min at the bar that night; warrm farmers from four counties, an’ graziers wid their ground-ash plants an’ big frieze coats, an’ plinty iv commercials, too. In the middle iv it all, up the shtreet at a hand gallop comes an Athy carriage wid two horses, an’ pulls up at the door wid the horses shmokin’. An’ begor’, the man in it was smokin’ too, a big cygar nigh ~s long as yer arrm. He jumps out an’ walks up as bould as brass to the bar, jist as if there was niver a livin’ sowl but himself in the place. He chucks the widdy undher the chin at wanst, an’, taking aff his hat, sez: ‘I want the best room in the house. I travel for Shorrox’, the greatest long-cotton firrm in the whole worrld, an’ I want to open up a new line here! The best is what I want, an’ that’s not good enough for me!’

Well, gintlemun, ivery wan in the place was spacheless at his impidence; an’, begor! that was the only time in her life I’m tould whin the widdy was tuk back. But, glory be, it didn’t take long for her to recover herself, an’ sez she quitely: ‘I don’t doubt ye, sur! The best can’t be too good for a gintleman what makes himself so aisy at home!’ an’ she shmiled at him till her teeth shone l ike jools.

God knows, gintlemin, what does be in weemin’s minds whin they’re dalin’ wid a man! Maybe it was that Widdy Byrne only wanted to kape the pace wid all thim min crowdin’ roun’ her, an’ thim clutchin’ on tight to their shticks an’ aiger for a fight wid any man on her account. Or maybe it was that she forgive him his impidence; for well I know that it’s not the most modest man, nor him what kapes his distance, that the girrls, much less the widdies, like the best. But anyhow she spake out iv her to the man from Manchesther: ‘I’m sorry, sur, that I can’t give ye the best room  —  what we call the best  —  for it is engaged already.’

‘Then turn him out!’ sez he.

‘I can’t,’ she says  —  ’at laste not till tomorra; an’ ye can have the room thin iv ye like.’

There was a kind iv a sort iv a shnicker among some iv the min, thim knowin’ iv the corp, an’ the Manchesther man tuk it that they was laughin’ at him; so he sez: ‘I’ll shleep in that room tonight; the other gintleman can put up wid me iv I can wid him. Unless,’ sez he, oglin’ the widdy, ‘I can have the place iv the masther iv the house, if there’s a priest or a parson handy in this town  —  an’ sober,’ sez he.

Well, tho’ the widdy got as red as a Claddagh cloak, she jist laughed an’ turned aside, sayin’: ‘Throth, sur, but it’s poor Mick’s place ye might have, an’ welkim, this night.’

‘An’ where might that be now, ma’am?’ sez he, lanin’ over the bar; an’ him would have chucked her under the chin agun, only that she moved her head away that quick.

‘In the churchyard!’ she sez. ‘Ye might take Mick’s place there, av ye like, an’ I’ll not be wan to say ye no.’

At that the min round all laughed, an’ the man from Manchesther got mad, an’ shpoke out, rough enough too it seemed: ‘Oh, he’s all right where he is. I daresay he’s quiter times where he is than whin he had my luk out. Him an’ the Devil can toss for choice in bein’ lonely or bein’ quite.’

Wid that the widdy blazes up all iv a suddunt, like a live sod shtuck in the thatch, an’ sez she: ‘Who are ye that dares to shpake ill iv the dead, an’ to couple his name wid the Divil, an’ to his widdy’s very face? It’s aisy seen that poor Mick is gone!’ an’ wid that she threw her apron over her head an’ sot down an’ rocked herself to and fro, as widdies do whin the fit is on thim iv missin’ the dead.

There was more nor wan man there what’d like to have shtud opposite the Manchesther man wid a bit iv a blackthorn in his hand; but they knew the widdy too well to dar to intherfere till they were let. At length wan iv thim  —  Mr Hogan, from nigh Portarlington, a warrm man, that’d put down a thousand pounds iv dhry money any day in the week  —  kem over to the bar an’ tuk aff his hat, an’ sez he: ‘Mrs Byrne, ma’am, as a friend of poor dear ould Mick, I’d be glad to take his quarrel on meself on his account, an’ more than proud to take it on his widdy’s, if, ma’am, ye’ll only honour me be saying the wurrd.’