TWO GALLANTS
THE
grey warm evening of August had descended upon the city and a mild warm air, a
memory of summer, circulated in the streets. The streets, shuttered for the
repose of Sunday, swarmed with a gaily coloured crowd. Like illumined pearls
the lamps shone from the summits of their tall poles upon the living texture
below which, changing shape and hue unceasingly, sent up into the warm grey
evening air an unchanging unceasing murmur.
Two young men came down the hill of Rutland Square. On
of them was just bringing a long monologue to a close. The other, who walked on
the verge of the path and was at times obliged to step on to the road, owing to
his companion's rudeness, wore an amused listening face. He was squat and
ruddy. A yachting cap was shoved far back from his forehead and the narrative
to which he listened made constant waves of expression break forth over his
face from the corners of his nose and eyes and mouth. Little jets of wheezing
laughter followed one another out of his convulsed body. His eyes, twinkling
with cunning enjoyment, glanced at every moment towards his companion's face.
Once or twice he rearranged the light waterproof which he had slung over one
shoulder in toreador fashion. His breeches, his white rubber shoes and his
jauntily slung waterproof expressed youth. But his figure fell into rotundity
at the waist, his hair was scant and grey and his face, when the waves of
expression had passed over it, had a ravaged look.
When he was quite sure that the narrative had ended he
laughed noiselessly for fully half a minute. Then he said:
"Well!... That takes the biscuit!"
His voice seemed winnowed of vigour; and to enforce
his words he added with humour:
"That takes the solitary, unique, and, if I may
so call it, recherche biscuit! "
He became serious and silent when he had said this.
His tongue was tired for he had been talking all the afternoon in a
public-house in Dorset Street. Most people considered Lenehan a leech but, in
spite of this reputation, his adroitness and eloquence had always prevented his
friends from forming any general policy against him. He had a brave manner of
coming up to a party of them in a bar and of holding himself nimbly at the
borders of the company until he was included in a round. He was a sporting
vagrant armed with a vast stock of stories, limericks and riddles. He was
insensitive to all kinds of discourtesy. No one knew how he achieved the stern
task of living, but his name was vaguely associated with racing tissues.
"And where did you pick her up, Corley?" he
asked.
Corley ran his tongue swiftly along his upper lip.
"One night, man," he said, "I was going
along Dame Street and I spotted a fine tart under Waterhouse's clock and said
good- night, you know. So we went for a walk round by the canal and she told me
she was a slavey in a house in Baggot Street. I put my arm round her and
squeezed her a bit that night. Then next Sunday, man, I met her by appointment.
We vent out to Donnybrook and I brought her into a field there. She told me she
used to go with a dairyman.... It was fine, man. Cigarettes every night she'd
bring me and paying the tram out and back. And one night she brought me two
bloody fine cigars -- O, the real cheese, you know, that the old fellow used to
smoke.... I was afraid, man, she'd get in the family way. But she's up to the
dodge."
"Maybe she thinks you'll marry her," said
Lenehan.
"I told her I was out of a job," said
Corley. "I told her I was in Pim's. She doesn't know my name. I was too
hairy to tell her that. But she thinks I'm a bit of class, you know."
Lenehan laughed again, noiselessly.
"Of all the good ones ever I heard," he
said, "that emphatically takes the biscuit."
Corley's stride acknowledged the compliment. The swing
of his burly body made his friend execute a few light skips from the path to
the roadway and back again. Corley was the son of an inspector of police and he
had inherited his father's frame and gut. He walked with his hands by his sides,
holding himself erect and swaying his head from side to side. His head was
large, globular and oily; it sweated in all weathers; and his large round hat,
set upon it sideways, looked like a bulb which had grown out of another. He
always stared straight before him as if he were on parade and, when he wished
to gaze after someone in the street, it was necessary for him to move his body
from the hips. At present he was about town. Whenever any job was vacant a
friend was always ready to give him the hard word. He was often to be seen
walking with policemen in plain clothes, talking earnestly. He knew the inner
side of all affairs and was fond of delivering final judgments. He spoke
without listening to the speech of his companions. His conversation was mainly
about himself what he had said to such a person and what such a person had said
to him and what he had said to settle the matter. When he reported these
dialogues he aspirated the first letter of his name after the manner of
Florentines.
Lenehan offered his friend a cigarette. As the two
young men walked on through the crowd Corley occasionally turned to smile at
some of the passing girls but Lenehan's gaze was fixed on the large faint moon
circled with a double halo. He watched earnestly the passing of the grey web of
twilight across its face. At length he said:
"Well... tell me, Corley, I suppose you'll be
able to pull it off all right, eh?"
Corley closed one eye expressively as an answer.
"Is she game for that?" asked Lenehan
dubiously. "You can never know women."
"She's all right," said Corley. "I know
the way to get around her, man. She's a bit gone on me."
"You're what I call a gay Lothario," said
Lenehan. "And the proper kind of a Lothario, too!"
A shade of mockery relieved the servility of his
manner. To save himself he had the habit of leaving his flattery open to the
interpretation of raillery. But Corley had not a subtle mind.
"There's nothing to touch a good slavey," he
affirmed. "Take my tip for it."
"By one who has tried them all," said
Lenehan.
"First I used to go with girls, you know,"
said Corley, unbosoming; "girls off the South Circular. I used to take
them out, man, on the tram somewhere and pay the tram or take them to a band or
a play at the theatre or buy them chocolate and sweets or something that way. I
used to spend money on them right enough," he added, in a convincing tone,
as if he was conscious of being disbelieved.
But Lenehan could well believe it; he nodded gravely.
"I know that game," he said, "and it's
a mug's game."
"And damn the thing I ever got out of it,"
said Corley.
"Ditto here," said Lenehan.
"Only off of one of them," said Corley.
He moistened his upper lip by running his tongue along
it. The recollection brightened his eyes. He too gazed at the pale disc of the
moon, now nearly veiled, and seemed to meditate.
She was... a bit of all right," he said
regretfully.
He was silent again. Then he added:
"She's on the turf now. I saw her driving down
Earl Street one night with two fellows with her on a car."
"I suppose that's your doing," said Lenehan.
"There was others at her before me," said
Corley philosophically.
This time Lenehan was inclined to disbelieve. He shook
his head to and fro and smiled.
"You know you can't kid me, Corley," he said.
"Honest to God!" said Corley. "Didn't
she tell me herself?"
Lenehan made a tragic gesture.
"Base betrayer!" he said.
As they passed along the railings of Trinity College,
Lenehan skipped out into the road and peered up at the clock.
"Twenty after," he said.
"Time enough," said Corley. "She'll be
there all right. I always let her wait a bit."
Lenehan laughed
quietly.
'Ecod! Corley, you know how to take them," he
said.
"I'm up to all their little tricks," Corley
confessed.
"But tell me," said Lenehan again, "are
you sure you can bring it off all right? You know it's a ticklish job. They're
damn close on that point. Eh? ... What?"
His bright, small eyes searched his companion's face
for reassurance. Corley swung his head to and fro as if to toss aside an
insistent insect, and his brows gathered.
"I'll pull it off," he said. "Leave it
to me, can't you?"
Lenehan said no more. He did not wish to ruffle his
friend's temper, to be sent to the devil and told that his advice was not
wanted. A little tact was necessary. But Corley's brow was soon smooth again.
His thoughts were running another way.
"She's a fine decent tart," he said, with
appreciation; "that's what she is."
They walked along Nassau Street and then turned into
Kildare Street. Not far from the porch of the club a harpist stood in the
roadway, playing to a little ring of listeners. He plucked at the wires
heedlessly, glancing quickly from time to time at the face of each new-comer
and from time to time, wearily also, at the sky. His harp, too, heedless that
her coverings had fallen about her knees, seemed weary alike of the eyes of
strangers and of her master's hands. One hand played in the bass the melody of
Silent, O Moyle, while the other hand careered in the treble after each group
of notes. The notes of the air sounded deep and full.
The two young men walked up the street without
speaking, the mournful music following them. When they reached Stephen's Green
they crossed the road. Here the noise of trams, the lights and the crowd
released them from their silence.
"There she is!" said Corley.
At the corner of Hume Street a young woman was
standing. She wore a blue dress and a white sailor hat. She stood on the
curbstone, swinging a sunshade in one hand. Lenehan grew lively.
"Let's have a look at her, Corley," he said.
Corley glanced sideways at his friend and an
unpleasant grin appeared on his face.
"Are you trying to get inside me?" he asked.
"Damn it!" said Lenehan boldly, "I
don't want an introduction. All I want is to have a look at her. I'm not going
to eat her."
"O ... A look at her?" said Corley, more
amiably. "Well... I'll tell you what. I'll go over and talk to her and you
can pass by."
"Right!" said Lenehan.
Corley had already thrown one leg over the chains when
Lenehan called out:
"And after? Where will we meet?"
"Half ten," answered Corley, bringing over
his other leg.
"Where?"
"Corner of Merrion Street. We'll be coming back."
"Work it all right now," said Lenehan in
farewell.
Corley did not answer. He sauntered across the road
swaying his head from side to side. His bulk, his easy pace, and the solid
sound of his boots had something of the conqueror in them. He approached the
young woman and, without saluting, began at once to converse with her. She
swung her umbrella more quickly and executed half turns on her heels. Once or
twice when he spoke to her at close quarters she laughed and bent her head.
Lenehan observed them for a few minutes. Then he
walked rapidly along beside the chains at some distance and crossed the road
obliquely. As he approached Hume Street corner he found the air heavily scented
and his eyes made a swift anxious scrutiny of the young woman's appearance. She
had her Sunday finery on. Her blue serge skirt was held at the waist by a belt
of black leather. The great silver buckle of her belt seemed to depress the
centre of her body, catching the light stuff of her white blouse like a clip.
She wore a short black jacket with mother-of-pearl buttons and a ragged black
boa. The ends of her tulle collarette had been carefully disordered and a big
bunch of red flowers was pinned in her bosom stems upwards. Lenehan's eyes
noted approvingly her stout short muscular body. rank rude health glowed in her
face, on her fat red cheeks and in her unabashed blue eyes. Her features were
blunt. She had broad nostrils, a straggling mouth which lay open in a contented
leer, and two projecting front teeth. As he passed Lenehan took off his cap
and, after about ten seconds, Corley returned a salute to the air. This he did
by raising his hand vaguely and pensively changing the angle of position of his
hat.
Lenehan walked as far as the Shelbourne Hotel where he
halted and waited. After waiting for a little time he saw them coming towards
him and, when they turned to the right, he followed them, stepping lightly in
his white shoes, down one side of Merrion Square. As he walked on slowly,
timing his pace to theirs, he watched Corley's head which turned at every
moment towards the young woman's face like a big ball revolving on a pivot. He
kept the pair in view until he had seen them climbing the stairs of the
Donnybrook tram; then he turned about and went back the way he had come.
Now that he was alone his face looked older. His
gaiety seemed to forsake him and, as he came by the railings of the Duke's
Lawn, he allowed his hand to run along them. The air which the harpist had
played began to control his movements His softly padded feet played the melody
while his fingers swept a scale of variations idly along the railings after
each group of notes.
He walked listlessly round Stephen's Green and then
down Grafton Street. Though his eyes took note of many elements of the crowd
through which he passed they did so morosely. He found trivial all that was meant
to charm him and did not answer the glances which invited him to be bold. He
knew that he would have to speak a great deal, to invent and to amuse and his
brain and throat were too dry for such a task. The problem of how he could pass
the hours till he met Corley again troubled him a little. He could think of no
way of passing them but to keep on walking. He turned to the left when he came
to the corner of Rutland Square and felt more at ease in the dark quiet street,
the sombre look of which suited his mood. He paused at last before the window
of a poor-looking shop over which the words Refreshment Bar were printed in
white letters. On the glass of the window were two flying inscriptions: Ginger
Beer and Ginger Ale. A cut ham was exposed on a great blue dish while near it
on a plate lay a segment of very light plum-pudding. He eyed this food
earnestly for some time and then, after glancing warily up and down the street,
went into the shop quickly.
He was hungry for, except some biscuits which he had
asked two grudging curates to bring him, he had eaten nothing since
breakfast-time. He sat down at an uncovered wooden table opposite two
work-girls and a mechanic. A slatternly girl waited on him.
"How much is a plate of peas?" he asked.
"Three halfpence, sir," said the girl.
"Bring me a plate of peas," he said,
"and a bottle of ginger beer."
He spoke roughly in order to belie his air of
gentility for his entry had been followed by a pause of talk. His face was
heated. To appear natural he pushed his cap back on his head and planted his
elbows on the table. The mechanic and the two work-girls examined him point by
point before resuming their conversation in a subdued voice. The girl brought
him a plate of grocer's hot peas, seasoned with pepper and vinegar, a fork and
his ginger beer. He ate his food greedily and found it so good that he made a
note of the shop mentally. When he had eaten all the peas he sipped his ginger
beer and sat for some time thinking of Corley's adventure. In his imagination
he beheld the pair of lovers walking along some dark road; he heard Corley's
voice in deep energetic gallantries and saw again the leer of the young woman's
mouth. This vision made him feel keenly his own poverty of purse and spirit. He
was tired of knocking about, of pulling the devil by the tail, of shifts and
intrigues. He would be thirty-one in November. Would he never get a good job?
Would he never have a home of his own? He thought how pleasant it would be to
have a warm fire to sit by and a good dinner to sit down to. He had walked the
streets long enough with friends and with girls. He knew what those friends
were worth: he knew the girls too. Experience had embittered his heart against
the world. But all hope had not left him. He felt better after having eaten
than he had felt before, less weary of his life, less vanquished in spirit. He
might yet be able to settle down in some snug corner and live happily if he
could only come across some good simple-minded girl with a little of the ready.
He paid twopence halfpenny to the slatternly girl and
went out of the shop to begin his wandering again. He went into Capel Street
and walked along towards the City Hall. Then he turned into Dame Street. At the
corner of George's Street he met two friends of his and stopped to converse
with them. He was glad that he could rest from all his walking. His friends
asked him had he seen Corley and what was the latest. He replied that he had
spent the day with Corley. His friends talked very little. They looked vacantly
after some figures in the crowd and sometimes made a critical remark. One said
that he had seen Mac an hour before in Westmoreland Street. At this Lenehan
said that he had been with Mac the night before in Egan's. The young man who
had seen Mac in Westmoreland Street asked was it true that Mac had won a bit
over a billiard match. Lenehan did not know: he said that Holohan had stood
them drinks in Egan's.
He left his friends at a quarter to ten and went up
George's Street. He turned to the left at the City Markets and walked on into
Grafton Street. The crowd of girls and young men had thinned and on his way up
the street he heard many groups and couples bidding one another good-night. He
went as far as the clock of the College of Surgeons: it was on the stroke of ten.
He set off briskly along the northern side of the Green hurrying for fear
Corley should return too soon. When he reached the corner of Merrion Street he
took his stand in the shadow of a lamp and brought out one of the cigarettes
which he had reserved and lit it. He leaned against the lamp-post and kept his
gaze fixed on the part from which he expected to see Corley and the young woman
return.
His mind became active again. He wondered had Corley
managed it successfully. He wondered if he had asked her yet or if he would
leave it to the last. He suffered all the pangs and thrills of his friend's
situation as well as those of his own. But the memory of Corley's slowly
revolving head calmed him somewhat: he was sure Corley would pull it off all
right. All at once the idea struck him that perhaps Corley had seen her home by
another way and given him the slip. His eyes searched the street: there was no
sign of them. Yet it was surely half-an-hour since he had seen the clock of the
College of Surgeons. Would Corley do a thing like that? He lit his last
cigarette and began to smoke it nervously. He strained his eyes as each tram
stopped at the far corner of the square. They must have gone home by another
way. The paper of his cigarette broke and he flung it into the road with a
curse.
Suddenly he saw them coming towards him. He started
with delight and keeping close to his lamp-post tried to read the result in
their walk. They were walking quickly, the young woman taking quick short
steps, while Corley kept beside her with his long stride. They did not seem to
be speaking. An intimation of the result pricked him like the point of a sharp
instrument. He knew Corley would fail; he knew it was no go.
They turned down Baggot Street and he followed them at
once, taking the other footpath. When they stopped he stopped too. They talked
for a few moments and then the young woman went down the steps into the area of
a house. Corley remained standing at the edge of the path, a little distance
from the front steps. Some minutes passed. Then the hall-door was opened slowly
and cautiously. A woman came running down the front steps and coughed. Corley
turned and went towards her. His broad figure hid hers from view for a few
seconds and then she reappeared running up the steps. The door closed on her
and Corley began to walk swiftly towards Stephen's Green.
Lenehan hurried on in the same direction. Some drops
of light rain fell. He took them as a warning and, glancing back towards the
house which the young woman had entered to see that he was not observed, he ran
eagerly across the road. Anxiety and his swift run made him pant. He called out:
"Hallo, Corley!"
Corley turned his head to see who had called him, and
then continued walking as before. Lenehan ran after him, settling the
waterproof on his shoulders with one hand.
"Hallo, Corley!" he cried again.
He came level with his friend and looked keenly in his
face. He could see nothing there.
"Well?" he said. "Did it come off?"
They had reached the corner of Ely Place. Still
without answering, Corley swerved to the left and went up the side street. His
features were composed in stern calm. Lenehan kept up with his friend,
breathing uneasily. He was baffled and a note of menace pierced through his
voice.
"Can't you tell us?" he said. "Did you
try her?"
Corley halted at the first lamp and stared grimly
before him. Then with a grave gesture he extended a hand towards the light and,
smiling, opened it slowly to the gaze of his disciple. A small gold coin shone in the palm.
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