A MOTHER
MR HOLOHAN, assistant
secretary of the Eire Abu Society, had been walking up and down Dublin for
nearly a month, with his hands and pockets full of dirty pieces of paper,
arranging about the series of concerts. He had a game leg and for this his
friends called him Hoppy Holohan. He walked up and down constantly, stood by
the hour at street corners arguing the point and made notes; but in the end it
was Mrs. Kearney who arranged everything.
Miss Devlin had
become Mrs. Kearney out of spite. She had been educated in a high-class
convent, where she had learned French and music. As she was naturally pale and
unbending in manner she made few friends at school. When she came to the age of
marriage she was sent out to many houses, where her playing and ivory manners
were much admired. She sat amid the chilly circle of her accomplishments,
waiting for some suitor to brave it and offer her a brilliant life. But the
young men whom she met were ordinary and she gave them no encouragement, trying
to console her romantic desires by eating a great deal of Turkish Delight in
secret. However, when she drew near the limit and her friends began to loosen
their tongues about her, she silenced them by marrying Mr. Kearney, who was a
bootmaker on Ormond Quay.
He was much older than
she. His conversation, which was serious, took place at intervals in his great
brown beard. After the first year of married life, Mrs. Kearney perceived that
such a man would wear better than a romantic person, but she never put her own
romantic ideas away. He was sober, thrifty and pious; he went to the altar
every first Friday, sometimes with her, oftener by himself. But she never
weakened in her religion and was a good wife to him. At some party in a strange
house when she lifted her eyebrow ever so slightly he stood up to take his
leave and, when his cough troubled him, she put the eider-down quilt over his
feet and made a strong rum punch. For his part, he was a model father. By
paying a small sum every week into a society, he ensured for both his daughters
a dowry of one hundred pounds each when they came to the age of twenty-four. He
sent the older daughter, Kathleen, to a good convent, where she learned French
and music, and afterward paid her fees at the Academy. Every year in the month
of July Mrs. Kearney found occasion to say to some friend:
"My good man is
packing us off to Skerries for a few weeks."
If it was not
Skerries it was Howth or Greystones.
When the Irish
Revival began to be appreciable Mrs. Kearney determined to take advantage of
her daughter's name and brought an Irish teacher to the house. Kathleen and her
sister sent Irish picture postcards to their friends and these friends sent
back other Irish picture postcards. On special Sundays, when Mr. Kearney went
with his family to the pro-cathedral, a little crowd of people would assemble
after mass at the corner of Cathedral Street. They were all friends of the
Kearneys -- musical friends or Nationalist friends; and, when they had played
every little counter of gossip, they shook hands with one another all together,
laughing at the crossing of so man hands, and said good-bye to one another in
Irish. Soon the name of Miss Kathleen Kearney began to be heard often on
people's lips. People said that she was very clever at music and a very nice
girl and, moreover, that she was a believer in the language movement. Mrs.
Kearney was well content at this. Therefore she was not surprised when one day
Mr. Holohan came to her and proposed that her daughter should be the
accompanist at a series of four grand concerts which his Society was going to
give in the Antient Concert Rooms. She brought him into the drawing-room, made
him sit down and brought out the decanter and the silver biscuit-barrel. She
entered heart and soul into the details of the enterprise, advised and
dissuaded: and finally a contract was drawn up by which Kathleen was to receive
eight guineas for her services as accompanist at the four grand concerts.
As Mr. Holohan was a
novice in such delicate matters as the wording of bills and the disposing of
items for a programme, Mrs. Kearney helped him. She had tact. She knew what
artistes should go into capitals and what artistes should go into small type.
She knew that the first tenor would not like to come on after Mr. Meade's comic
turn. To keep the audience continually diverted she slipped the doubtful items
in between the old favourites. Mr. Holohan called to see her every day to have
her advice on some point. She was invariably friendly and advising -- homely,
in fact. She pushed the decanter towards him, saying:
"Now, help
yourself, Mr. Holohan!"
And while he was
helping himself she said:
"Don't be
afraid! Don t be afraid of it! "
Everything went on
smoothly. Mrs. Kearney bought some lovely blush-pink charmeuse in Brown
Thomas's to let into the front of Kathleen's dress. It cost a pretty penny; but
there are occasions when a little expense is justifiable. She took a dozen of
two-shilling tickets for the final concert and sent them to those friends who
could not be trusted to come otherwise. She forgot nothing, and, thanks to her,
everything that was to be done was done.
The concerts were to
be on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday. When Mrs. Kearney arrived with
her daughter at the Antient Concert Rooms on Wednesday night she did not like
the look of things. A few young men, wearing bright blue badges in their coats,
stood idle in the vestibule; none of them wore evening dress. 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 dressingroom
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 was 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 be 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
Antient 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 distantly.
"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 go on
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 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 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 he: 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.
In another corner of the room were Mrs. Kearney and he: 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 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.
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