AFTER THE RACE
THE cars came scudding in towards Dublin, running evenly like pellets in
the groove of the Naas Road. At the crest of the hill at Inchicore sightseers
had gathered in clumps to watch the cars careering homeward and through this
channel of poverty and inaction the Continent sped its wealth and industry. Now
and again the clumps of people raised the cheer of the gratefully oppressed.
Their sympathy, however, was for the blue cars -- the cars of their friends,
the French.
The French, moreover, were virtual victors. Their team had finished
solidly; they had been placed second and third and the driver of the winning
German car was reported a Belgian. Each blue car, therefore, received a double
measure of welcome as it topped the crest of the hill and each cheer of welcome
was acknowledged with smiles and nods by those in the car. In one of these
trimly built cars was a party of four young men whose spirits seemed to be at
present well above the level of successful Gallicism: in fact, these four young
men were almost hilarious. They were Charles Segouin, the owner of the car;
Andre Riviere, a young electrician of Canadian birth; a huge Hungarian named
Villona and a neatly groomed young man named Doyle. Segouin was in good humour
because he had unexpectedly received some orders in advance (he was about to
start a motor establishment in Paris) and Riviere was in good humour because he
was to be appointed manager of the establishment; these two young men (who were
cousins) were also in good humour because of the success of the French cars.
Villona was in good humour because he had had a very satisfactory luncheon; and
besides he was an optimist by nature. The fourth member of the party, however,
was too excited to be genuinely happy.
He was about twenty-six years of age, with a soft, light brown moustache
and rather innocent-looking grey eyes. His father, who had begun life as an
advanced Nationalist, had modified his views early. He had made his money as a
butcher in Kingstown and by opening shops in Dublin and in the suburbs he had
made his money many times over. He had also been fortunate enough to secure
some of the police contracts and in the end he had become rich enough to be
alluded to in the Dublin newspapers as a merchant prince. He had sent his son
to England to be educated in a big Catholic college and had afterwards sent him
to Dublin University to study law. Jimmy did not study very earnestly and took
to bad courses for a while. He had money and he was popular; and he divided his
time curiously between musical and motoring circles. Then he had been sent for
a term to Cambridge to see a little life. His father, remonstrative, but
covertly proud of the excess, had paid his bills and brought him home. It was
at Cambridge that he had met Segouin. They were not much more than
acquaintances as yet but Jimmy found great pleasure in the society of one who
had seen so much of the world and was reputed to own some of the biggest hotels
in France. Such a person (as his father agreed) was well worth knowing, even if
he had not been the charming companion he was. Villona was entertaining also --
a brilliant pianist -- but, unfortunately, very poor.
The car ran on merrily with its cargo of hilarious youth. The two
cousins sat on the front seat; Jimmy and his Hungarian friend sat behind.
Decidedly Villona was in excellent spirits; he kept up a deep bass hum of
melody for miles of the road The Frenchmen flung their laughter and light words
over their shoulders and often Jimmy had to strain forward to catch the quick
phrase. This was not altogether pleasant for him, as he had nearly always to
make a deft guess at the meaning and shout back a suitable answer in the face
of a high wind. Besides Villona's humming would confuse anybody; the noise of
the car, too.
Rapid motion through space elates one; so does notoriety; so does the
possession of money. These were three good reasons for Jimmy's excitement. He
had been seen by many of his friends that day in the company of these
Continentals. At the control Segouin had presented him to one of the French
competitors and, in answer to his confused murmur of compliment, the swarthy
face of the driver had disclosed a line of shining white teeth. It was pleasant
after that honour to return to the profane world of spectators amid nudges and
significant looks. Then as to money -- he really had a great sum under his
control. Segouin, perhaps, would not think it a great sum but Jimmy who, in
spite of temporary errors, was at heart the inheritor of solid instincts knew
well with what difficulty it had been got together. This knowledge had
previously kept his bills within the limits of reasonable recklessness, and if
he had been so conscious of the labour latent in money when there had been
question merely of some freak of the higher intelligence, how much more so now
when he was about to stake the greater part of his substance! It was a serious
thing for him.
Of course, the investment was a good one and Segouin had managed to give
the impression that it was by a favour of friendship the mite of Irish money
was to be included in the capital of the concern. Jimmy had a respect for his
father's shrewdness in business matters and in this case it had been his father
who had first suggested the investment; money to be made in the motor business,
pots of money. Moreover Segouin had the unmistakable air of wealth. Jimmy set
out to translate into days' work that lordly car in which he sat. How smoothly
it ran. In what style they had come careering along the country roads! The
journey laid a magical finger on the genuine pulse of life and gallantly the
machinery of human nerves strove to answer the bounding courses of the swift
blue animal.
They drove down Dame Street. The street was busy with unusual traffic,
loud with the horns of motorists and the gongs of impatient tram-drivers. Near
the Bank Segouin drew up and Jimmy and his friend alighted. A little knot of
people collected on the footpath to pay homage to the snorting motor. The party
was to dine together that evening in Segouin's hotel and, meanwhile, Jimmy and
his friend, who was staying with him, were to go home to dress. The car steered
out slowly for Grafton Street while the two young men pushed their way through
the knot of gazers. They walked northward with a curious feeling of
disappointment in the exercise, while the city hung its pale globes of light
above them in a haze of summer evening.
In Jimmy's house this dinner had been pronounced an occasion. A certain
pride mingled with his parents' trepidation, a certain eagerness, also, to play
fast and loose for the names of great foreign cities have at least this virtue.
Jimmy, too, looked very well when he was dressed and, as he stood in the hall
giving a last equation to the bows of his dress tie, his father may have felt
even commercially satisfied at having secured for his son qualities often
unpurchaseable. His father, therefore, was unusually friendly with Villona and
his manner expressed a real respect for foreign accomplishments; but this
subtlety of his host was probably lost upon the Hungarian, who was beginning to
have a sharp desire for his dinner.
The dinner was excellent, exquisite. Segouin, Jimmy decided, had a very
refined taste. The party was increased by a young Englishman named Routh whom
Jimmy had seen with Segouin at Cambridge. The young men supped in a snug room
lit by electric candle lamps. They talked volubly and with little reserve.
Jimmy, whose imagination was kindling, conceived the lively youth of the
Frenchmen twined elegantly upon the firm framework of the Englishman's manner.
A graceful image of his, he thought, and a just one. He admired the dexterity
with which their host directed the conversation. The five young men had various
tastes and their tongues had been loosened. Villona, with immense respect,
began to discover to the mildly surprised Englishman the beauties of the
English madrigal, deploring the loss of old instruments. Riviere, not wholly
ingenuously, undertook to explain to Jimmy the triumph of the French
mechanicians. The resonant voice of the Hungarian was about to prevail in
ridicule of the spurious lutes of the romantic painters when Segouin shepherded
his party into politics. Here was congenial ground for all. Jimmy, under
generous influences, felt the buried zeal of his father wake to life within
him: he aroused the torpid Routh at last. The room grew doubly hot and
Segouin's task grew harder each moment: there was even danger of personal
spite. The alert host at an opportunity lifted his glass to Humanity and, when the
toast had been drunk, he threw open a window significantly.
That night the city wore the mask of a capital. The five young men
strolled along Stephen's Green in a faint cloud of aromatic smoke. They talked
loudly and gaily and their cloaks dangled from their shoulders. The people made
way for them. At the corner of Grafton Street a short fat man was putting two
handsome ladies on a car in charge of another fat man. The car drove off and
the short fat man caught sight of the party.
"Andre."
"It's Farley!"
A torrent of talk followed. Farley was an American. No one knew very
well what the talk was about. Villona and Riviere were the noisiest, but all
the men were excited. They got up on a car, squeezing themselves together amid
much laughter. They drove by the crowd, blended now into soft colours, to a
music of merry bells. They took the train at Westland Row and in a few seconds,
as it seemed to Jimmy, they were walking out of Kingstown Station. The
ticket-collector saluted Jimmy; he was an old man:
"Fine night, sir!"
It was a serene summer night; the harbour lay like a darkened mirror at
their feet. They proceeded towards it with linked arms, singing Cadet Roussel
in chorus, stamping their feet at every:
"Ho! Ho! Hohe, vraiment!"
They got into a rowboat at the slip and made out for the American's
yacht. There was to be supper, music, cards. Villona said with conviction:
"It is delightful!"
There was a yacht piano in the cabin. Villona played a waltz for Farley
and Riviere, Farley acting as cavalier and Riviere as lady. Then an impromptu
square dance, the men devising original figures. What merriment! Jimmy took his
part with a will; this was seeing life, at least. Then Farley got out of breath
and cried "Stop!" A man brought in a light supper, and the young men
sat down to it for form's sake. They drank, however: it was Bohemian. They
drank Ireland, England, France, Hungary, the United States of America. Jimmy
made a speech, a long speech, Villona saying: "Hear! hear!" whenever
there was a pause. There was a great clapping of hands when he sat down. It
must have been a good speech. Farley clapped him on the back and laughed
loudly. What jovial fellows! What good company they were!
Cards! cards! The table was cleared. Villona returned quietly to his piano
and played voluntaries for them. The other men played game after game, flinging
themselves boldly into the adventure. They drank the health of the Queen of
Hearts and of the Queen of Diamonds. Jimmy felt obscurely the lack of an
audience: the wit was flashing. Play ran very high and paper began to pass.
Jimmy did not know exactly who was winning but he knew that he was losing. But
it was his own fault for he frequently mistook his cards and the other men had
to calculate his I.O.U.'s for him. They were devils of fellows but he wished
they would stop: it was getting late. Someone gave the toast of the yacht The
Belle of Newport and then someone proposed one great game for a finish.
The piano had stopped; Villona must have gone up on deck. It was a
terrible game. They stopped just before the end of it to drink for luck. Jimmy
understood that the game lay between Routh and Segouin. What excitement! Jimmy
was excited too; he would lose, of course. How much had he written away? The
men rose to their feet to play the last tricks. talking and gesticulating.
Routh won. The cabin shook with the young men's cheering and the cards were
bundled together. They began then to gather in what they had won. Farley and
Jimmy were the heaviest losers.
He knew that he would regret in the morning but at present he was glad
of the rest, glad of the dark stupor that would cover up his folly. He leaned
his elbows on the table and rested his head between his hands, counting the
beats of his temples. The cabin door opened and he saw the Hungarian standing
in a shaft of grey light:
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