George Bernard Shaw,The Miraculous Revenge
The Miraculous Revenge
George Bernard Shaw
I arrived in
Dublin on the evening of the 5th of August, and drove to the residence of my
uncle, the Cardinal Archbishop. He is, like most of my family, deficient in
feeling, and consequently cold to me personally. He lives in a dingy house,
with a side-long view of the portico of his cathedral from the front windows,
and of a monster national school from the back. My uncle maintains no retinue.
The people believe that he is waited upon by angels. When I knocked at the
door, an old woman, his only servant, opened it, and informed me that her
master was then officiating in the cathedral, and that he had directed her to
prepare dinner for me in his absence.
An unpleasant
smell of salt fish made me ask her what the dinner consisted of. She assured me
that she had cooked all that could be permitted in His Holiness’s house on a
Friday. On my asking her further why on a Friday, she replied that Friday was a
fast day. I bade her tell His Holiness that I had hoped to have the pleasure of
calling on him shortly, and drove to a hotel in Sackville Street, where I
engaged apartments and dined.
After dinner I
resumed my eternal search — I know not for what: it drives me to and fro like
another Cain. I sought in the streets without success. I went to the theatre.
The music was execrable, the scenery poor. I had seen the play a month before
in London, with the same beautiful artist in the chief part. Two years had
passed since, seeing her for the first time, I had hoped that she, perhaps,
might be the long-sought mystery. It had proved otherwise. On this night I
looked at her and listened to her for the sake of that bygone hope, and
applauded her generously when the curtain fell. But I went out lonely still.
When I had supped at a restaurant, I returned to my hotel, and tried to read.
In vain. The sound of feet in the corridors as the other occupants of the hotel
went to bed distracted my attention from my book. Suddenly it occurred to me
that I had never quite understood my uncle’s character. He, father to a great
flock of poor and ignorant Irish; an austere and saintly man, to whom livers of
hopeless lives daily appealed for help heavenward; who was reputed never to
have sent away a troubled peasant without relieving him of his burden by
sharing it; whose knees were worn less by the altar steps than by the tears and
embraces of the guilty and wretched: he had refused to humour my light
extravagances, or to find time to talk with me of books, flowers, and music.
Had I not been mad to expect it? Now that I needed sympathy myself, I did him
justice. I desired to be with a true-hearted man, and to mingle my tears with
his.
I looked at my
watch. It was nearly an hour past midnight. In the corridor the lights were
out, except one jet at the end. I threw a cloak upon my shoulders, put on a
Spanish hat, and left my apartment, listening to the echoes of my measured
steps retreating through the deserted passages.
A strange
sight arrested me on the landing of the grand staircase. Through an open door I
saw the moonlight shining through the windows of a saloon in which some
entertainment had recently taken place. I looked at my watch again: it was but
one o’clock and yet the guests had departed. I entered the room, my boots
ringing loudly on the waxed boards. On a chair lay a child’s cloak and a broken
toy. The entertainment had been a children’s party. I stood for a time looking
at the shadow of my cloaked figure upon the floor, and at the disordered
decorations, ghostly in the white light. Then I saw that there was a grand
piano, still open, in the middle of the room. My fingers throbbed as I sat down
before it, and expressed all that I felt in a grand hymn which seemed to thrill
the cold stillness of the shadows into a deep hum of approbation, and to people
the radiance of the moon with angels. Soon there was a stir without too, as if
the rapture were spreading abroad. I took up the chant triumphantly with my
voice, and the empty saloon resounded as though to the thunder of an orchestra.
‘Hallo, sir!’
‘Confound you, sir —’ ‘Do you suppose that this —’ ‘What the deuce —?’
I turned; and
silence followed. Six men, partially dressed, and with dishevelled hair, stood
regarding me angrily. They all carried candles. One of them had a bootjack,
which he held like a truncheon. Another, the foremost, had a pistol. The night
porter was behind trembling.
‘Sir,’ said
the man with the revolver, coarsely, ‘may I ask whether you are mad, that you
disturb people at this hour with such an unearthly noise?’
‘Is it
possible that you dislike it?’ I replied, courteously.
‘Dislike it!’
said he, stamping with rage. ‘Why — damn everything — do you suppose we were
enjoying it?’
‘Take care:
he’s mad,’ whispered the man with the bootjack.
I began to
laugh. Evidently they did think me mad. Unaccustomed to my habits, and ignorant
of music as they probably were, the mistake, however absurd, was not unnatural.
I rose. They came closer to one another; and the night porter ran away.
‘Gentlemen,’ I
said, ‘I am sorry for you. Had you lain still and listened, we should all have
been the better and happier. But what you have done, you cannot undo. Kindly
inform the night porter that I am gone to visit my uncle, the Cardinal
Archbishop. Adieu!’
I strode past
them, and left them whispering among themselves. Some minutes later I knocked
at the door of the Cardinal’s house. Presently a window on the first floor was
opened; and the moonbeams fell on a grey head, with a black cap that seemed
ashy pale against the unfathomable gloom of the shadow beneath the stone sill.
‘Who are you?’
‘I am Zeno
Legge.’
‘What do you
want at this hour?’
The question
wounded me. ‘My dear uncle,’ I exclaimed, ‘I know you do not intend it, but you
make me feel unwelcome. Come down and let me in, I beg.’
‘Go to your
hotel,’ he said sternly. ‘I will see you in the morning. Goodnight.’ He
disappeared and closed the window.
I felt that if
I let this rebuff pass, I should not feel kindly towards my uncle in the
morning, nor, indeed, at any future time. I therefore plied the knocker with my
right hand, and kept the bell ringing with my left until I heard the door-chain
rattle within. The Cardinal’s expression was grave nearly to moroseness as he
confronted me on the threshold.
‘Uncle,’ I
cried, grasping his hand, ‘do not reproach me. Your door is never shut against
the wretched. I am wretched. Let us sit up all night and talk.’
‘You may thank
my position and not my charity for your admission, Zeno,’ he said. ‘For the
sake of the neighbours, I had rather you played the fool in my study than upon
my doorstep at this hour. Walk upstairs quietly, if you please. My housekeeper
is a hard-working woman: the little sleep she allows herself must not be
disturbed.’
‘You have a
noble heart, uncle. I shall creep like a mouse.’
‘This is my
study,’ he said, as we entered an ill-furnished den on the second floor. ‘The
only refreshment I can offer you, if you desire any, is a bunch of raisins. The
doctors have forbidden you to touch stimulants, I believe.’
‘By heaven —!’
He raised his finger. ‘Pardon me: I was wrong to swear. But I had totally
forgotten the doctors. At dinner I had a bottle of Graves.’.‘Humph! You have no
business to be travelling alone. Your mother promised me that Bushy should come
over here with you.’
‘Pshaw! Bushy
is not a man of feeling. Besides, he is a coward. He refused to come with me
because I purchased a revolver.’
‘He should
have taken the revolver from you, and kept to his post.’
‘Why will you
persist in treating me like a child, uncle? I am very impressionable, I grant
you; but I have gone round the world alone, and do not need to be dry-nursed
through a tour in Ireland.’
‘What do you
intend to do during your stay here?’
I had no
plans; and instead of answering I shrugged my shoulders and looked round the
apartment. There was a statuette of the Virgin upon my uncle’s desk. I looked
at its face, as he was wont to look in the midst of his labours. I saw there
eternal peace. The air became luminous with an infinite network of the jewelled
rings of Paradise descending in roseate clouds upon us.
‘Uncle,’ I
said, bursting into the sweetest tears I had ever shed, ‘my wanderings are
over. I will enter the Church, if you will help me. Let us read together the
third part of Faust; for I understand it at last.’
‘Hush, man,’
he said, half rising with an expression of alarm. ‘Control yourself.’
‘Do not let my
tears mislead you. I am calm and strong. Quick, let us have Goethe:
Das
Unbeschreibliche.
Hier ist
gethan;
Das
Ewig–Weibliche.
Zieht uns
hinan.’
‘Come, come.
Dry your eyes and be quiet. I have no library here.’
‘But I have —
in my portmanteau at the hotel,’ I said, rising. ‘Let me go for it, I will
return in fifteen minutes.’
‘The devil is
in you, I believe. Cannot —’
I interrupted
him with a shout of laughter. ‘Cardinal,’ I said noisily, ‘you have become
profane; and a profane priest is always the best of good fellows. Let us have
some wine; and I will sing you a German beer song.’
‘Heaven
forgive me if I do you wrong,’ he said; ‘but I believe God has laid the
expiation of some sin on your unhappy head. Will you favour me with your
attention for a while? I have something to say to you, and I have also to get
some sleep before my hour for rising, which is half-past five.’
‘My usual hour
for retiring — when I retire at all. But proceed. My fault is not inattention,
but over-susceptibility.’
‘Well, then, I
want you to go to Wicklow. My reasons —’
‘No matter
what they may be,’ said I, rising again. ‘It is enough that you desire me to
go. I shall start forthwith.’
‘Zeno! will
you sit down and listen to me?’
I sank upon my
chair reluctantly. ‘Ardour is a crime in your eyes, even when it is shown in
your service,’ I said. ‘May I turn down the light?’
‘Why?’
‘To bring on
my sombre mood, in which I am able to listen with tireless patience.’
‘I will turn
it down myself. Will that do?’.I thanked him, and composed myself to listen in
the shadow. My eyes, I felt, glittered. I was like Poe’s raven.
‘Now for my
reasons for sending you to Wicklow. First, for your own sake. If you stay in
town, or in any place where excitement can be obtained by any means, you will
be in Swift’s Hospital in a week. You must live in the country, under the eye
of one upon whom I can depend.
And you must
have something to do to keep you out of mischief, and away from your music and
painting and poetry, which, Sir John Richards writes to me, are dangerous for
you in your present morbid state. Second, because I can entrust you with a task
which, in the hands of a sensible man, might bring discredit on the Church. In
short, I want you to investigate a miracle.’
He looked
attentively at me. I sat like a statue.
‘You
understand me?’ he said.
‘Nevermore,’ I
replied, hoarsely. ‘Pardon me,’ I added, amused at the trick my imagination had
played me, ‘I understand you perfectly. Proceed.’
‘I hope you
do. Well, four miles distant from the town of Wick-low is a village called Four
Mile Water. The resident priest is Father Hickey. You have heard of the
miracles at Knock?’
I winked.
‘I did not ask
you what you think of them, but whether you have heard of them. I see you have.
I need not
tell you that even a miracle may do more harm than good to the Church in this
country, unless it can be proved so thoroughly that her powerful and jealous
enemies are silenced by the testimony of followers of their heresy. Therefore,
when I saw in a Wexford newspaper last week a description of a strange
manifestation of the Divine Power which was said to have taken place at Four
Mile Water, I was troubled in my mind about it. So I wrote to Father Hickey,
bidding him give me an account of the matter if it were true, and, if not, to
denounce from the altar the author of the report, and to contradict it in the
paper at once. This is his reply. He says —— well, the first part is about
Church matters: I need not trouble you with it. He goes on to say ——‘One
moment. Is that his own handwriting? It does not look like a man’s.’
‘He suffers
from rheumatism in the fingers of his right hand; and his niece, who is an
orphan, and lives with him, acts as his amanuensis. Well —’
‘Stay. What is
her name?’
‘Her name?
Kate Hickey.’
‘How old is
she?’
‘Tush, man,
she is only a little girl. If she were old enough to concern you, I should not
send you into her way. Have you any more questions to ask about her?’
‘None. I can
fancy her in a white veil at the rite of confirmation, a type of faith and
innocence.
Enough of her.
What says the Reverend Hickey of the apparitions?’
‘They are not
apparitions. I will read you what he says. Ahem! “In reply to your inquiries
concerning the late miraculous event in this parish, I have to inform you that
I can vouch for its truth, and that I can be confirmed not only by the
inhabitants of the place, who are all Catholics, but by every person acquainted
with the former situation of the graveyard referred to, including the
Protestant Archdeacon of Baltinglas, who spends six weeks annually in the
neighbourhood.”
The newspaper
account is incomplete and inaccurate. The following are the facts: About four
years ago, a man named Wolfe Tone Fitzgerald settled in this village as a
farrier. His antecedents did not transpire; and he had no family. He lived by
himself; was very careless of his person; and when in his cups, as he often
was, regarded the honour neither of God nor man in his conversation. Indeed if
it were not speaking ill of the dead, one might say that he was a dirty,
drunken, blasphemous blackguard. Worse again, he was, I fear, an atheist; for
he never attended Mass, and gave His Holiness worse language even than he gave
the Queen. I should have mentioned that he was a bitter rebel, and boasted that
his grandfather had been out in ‘98, and his father with Smith O’Brien. At last
he went by the name of Brimstone Billy, and was held up in the village as the
type of all wickedness.
‘“You are
aware that our graveyard, situated on the north side of the water, is famous
throughout the country as the burial-place of the nuns of St Ursula, the hermit
of Four Mile Water, and many other holy people. No Protestant has ever ventured
to enforce his legal right of interment there, though two have died in the
parish within my own recollection. Three weeks ago, this Fitzgerald died in a
fit brought on by drink; and a great hullabaloo was raised in the village when
it became known that he would be buried in the graveyard. The body had to be
watched to prevent its being stolen and buried at the cross-roads. My people
were greatly disappointed when they were told I could do nothing to stop the
burial, particularly as I of course refused to read any service on the
occasion. However, I bade them not interfere; and the inter-ment was effected
on the 14th of July, late in the evening, and long after the legal hour. There
was no disturbance. Next morning, the graveyard was found moved to the south
side of the water, with the one newly-filled grave left behind on the north
side; and thus they both remain.”
The departed
saints would not lie with the reprobate. I can testify to it on the oath of a
Christian priest; and if this will not satisfy those outside the Church,
everyone, as I said before, who remembers where the graveyard was two months
ago, can confirm me.
“‘I
respectfully suggest that a thorough investigation into the truth of this
miracle be proposed to a committee of Protestant gentlemen. They shall not be
asked to accept a single fact on hearsay from my people. The ordnance maps show
where the graveyard was; and anyone can see for himself where it is. I need not
tell your Eminence what a rebuke this would be to those enemies of the holy
Church that have sought to put a stain on her by discrediting the late
wonderful manifestations at Knock Chapel. If they come to Four Mile Water, they
need cross-examine no one. They will be asked to believe nothing but their own
senses.
“‘Awaiting
your Eminence’s counsel to guide me further in the matter, ‘“I am, etc.”’
‘Well, Zeno,’
said my uncle: ‘what do you think of Father Hickey now?’
‘Uncle: do not
ask me. Beneath this roof I desire to believe everything. The Reverend Hickey
has appealed strongly to my love of legend. Let us admire the poetry of his
narrative, and ignore the balance of probability between a Christian priest
telling a lie on his oath and a graveyard swimming across a river in the middle
of the night and forgetting to return.
‘Tom Hickey is
not telling a lie, sir. You may take my word for that. But he may be mistaken.’
‘Such a
mistake amounts to insanity. It is true that I myself, awaking suddenly in the
depth of night, have found myself convinced that the position of my bed had
been reversed. But on opening my eyes the illusion ceased. I fear Mr Hickey is
mad. Your best course is this. Send down to Four Mile Water a perfectly sane
investigator; an acute observer; one whose perceptive faculties, at once
healthy and subtle, are absolutely unclouded by religious prejudice. In a word,
send me. I will report to you the true state of affairs in a few days; and you
can then make arrangements for transferring Hickey from the altar to the
asylum.’
‘Yes, I had
intended to send you. You are wonderfully sharp; and you would make a capital
detective if you could only keep your mind to one point. But your chief
qualification for this business is that you are too crazy to excite the
suspicion of those whom you may have to watch.
For the affair
may be a trick. If so, I hope and believe that Hickey has no hand in it. Still,
it is my duty to take every precaution.’
‘Cardinal: may
I ask whether traces of insanity have ever appeared in our family?’
‘Except in you
and in my grandmother, no. She was a Pole; and you resemble her personally.
Why do you
ask?’
‘Because it
has often occurred to me that you are, perhaps, a little cracked. Excuse my
candour; but a man who has devoted his life to the pursuit of a red hat; who
accuses everyone else beside himself of being mad; and who is disposed to
listen seriously to a tale of a peripatetic graveyard, can hardly be quite
sane. Depend upon it, uncle, you want rest and change. The blood of your Polish
grandmother is in your veins.’
‘I hope I may
not be committing a sin in sending a ribald on the Church’s affairs,’ he
replied, fervently. ‘However, we must use the instruments put into our hands.
Is it agreed that you go?’
‘Had you not
delayed me with this story, which I might as well have learned on the spot, I
should have been there already.’
‘There is no
occasion for impatience, Zeno. I must first send to Hickey to find a place for
you.
I shall tell
him that you are going to recover your health, as, in fact, you are. And, Zeno,
in Heaven’s name be discreet. Try to act like a man of sense. Do not dispute
with Hickey on matters of religion. Since you are my nephew, you had better not
disgrace me.’
‘I shall
become an ardent Catholic, and do you infinite credit, uncle.’
‘I wish you would,
although you would hardly be an acquisition to the Church. And now I must turn
you out. It is nearly three o’clock; and I need some sleep. Do you know your
way back to your hotel!’
‘I need not
stir. I can sleep in this chair. Go to bed, and never mind me.’
‘I shall not
close my eyes until you are safely out of the house. Come, rouse yourself, and
say goodnight.’
The following
is a copy of my first report to the Cardinal:
Four Mile
Water, County Wicklow.
10th August.
My Dear Uncle.
The miracle is
genuine. I have affected perfect credulity in order to throw the Hickeys and
the countryfolk off their guard with me. I have listened to their method of
convincing sceptical strangers. I have examined the ordnance maps, and
cross-examined the neighbouring Protestant gentlefolk. I have spent a day upon
the ground on each side of the water, and have visited it at midnight. I have
considered the upheaval theories, subsidence theories, volcanic theories and
tidal wave theories which the provincial savants have suggested. They are all
untenable. There is only one scoffer in the district, an Orangeman; and he
admits the removal of the cemetery, but says it was dug up and transplanted in
the night by a body of men under the command of Father Tom. This also is out of
the question. The interment of Brimstone Billy was the first which had taken
place for four years; and his is the only grave which bears a trace of recent
digging. It is alone on the north bank; and the inhabitants shun it after
nightfall. As each passer-by during the day throws a stone upon it, it will
soon be marked by a large cairn. The graveyard, with a ruined stone chapel
still standing in its midst, is on the south side. You may send down a
committee to investigate the matter as soon as you please. There can be no
doubt as to the miracle having actually taken place, as recorded by Hickey. As
for me, I have grown so accustomed to it that if the county Wicklow were to
waltz off with me to Middlesex, I should be quite impatient of any expressions
of surprise from my friends in London.
Is not the
above a businesslike statement? Away, then, with this stale miracle. If you
would see for yourself a miracle which can never pall, a vision of youth and
health to be crowned with garlands for ever, come down and see Kate Hickey,
whom you suppose to be a little girl.
Illusion, my
lord cardinal, illusion! She is seventeen, with a bloom and a brogue that would
lay your asceticism in ashes at a flash. To her I am an object of wonder, a
strange man bred in wicked cities. She is courted by six feet of farming
material, chopped off a spare length of coarse humanity by the Almighty, and
flung into Wicklow to plough the fields. His name is Phil Langan; and he hates
me. I have to consort with him for the sake of Father Tom, whom I entertain
vastly by stories of your wild oats sown at Salamanca. I exhausted all my
authentic anecdotes the first day; and now I invent gallant escapades with
Spanish donnas, in which you figure as a youth of unstable morals. This
delights Father Tom infinitely. I feel that I have done you a service by thus
casting on the cold sacerdotal abstraction which formerly represented you in
Kate’s imagination a ray of vivifying passion.
What a country
this is! A Hesperidean garden: such skies!
Adieu, uncle.
Zeno Legge.
Behold me,
then, at Four Mile Water, in love. I had been in love frequently; but not
oftener than once a year had I encountered a woman who affected me as seriously
as Kate Hickey. She was so shrewd, and yet so flippant! When I spoke of art she
yawned. When I deplored the sordidness of the world she laughed, and called me
‘poor fellow’! When I told her what a treasure of beauty and freshness she had
she ridiculed me. When I reproached her with her brutality she became angry,
and sneered at me for being what she called a fine gentleman. One sunny
afternoon we were standing at the gate of her uncle’s house, she looking down
the dusty road for the detestable Langan, I watching the spotless azure sky,
when she said:
‘How soon are
you going back to London?’
‘I am not
going back to London, Miss Hickey. I am not yet tired of Four Mile Water.’
‘I’m sure Four
Mile Water ought to be proud of your approbation.’
‘You
disapprove of my liking it, then? Or is it that you grudge me the happiness I
have found there? I think Irish ladies grudge a man a moment’s peace.’
‘I wonder you
have ever prevailed on yourself to associate with Irish ladies, since they are
so far beneath you.’
‘Did I say
they were beneath me, Miss Hickey? I feel that I have made a deep impression on
you.’
‘Indeed! Yes,
you’re quite right. I assure you I can’t sleep at night for thinking of you, Mr
Legge. It’s the best a Christian can do, seeing you think so mighty little of
yourself.’
‘You are
triply wrong, Miss Hickey: wrong to be sarcastic with me, wrong to pretend that
there is anything unreasonable in my belief that you think of me sometimes, and
wrong to discourage the candour with which I always avow that I think
constantly of myself.’
‘Then you had
better not speak to me, since I have no manners.’
‘Again! Did I
say you had no manners? The warmest expressions of regard from my mouth seem to
reach your ears transformed into insults. Were I to repeat the Litany of the
Blessed Virgin, you would retort as though I had been reproaching you. This is
because you hate me.
You never
misunderstand Langan, whom you love.
‘I don’t know
what London manners are, Mr Legge; but in Ireland gentlemen are expected to
mind their own business. How dare you say I love Mr Langan?’
‘Then you do
not love him?’
‘It is nothing
to you whether I love him or not.’
‘Nothing to me
that you hate me and love another?’
‘I didn’t say
I hated you. You’re not so very clever yourself at understanding what people
say, though you make such a fuss because they don’t understand you.’ Here, as
she glanced down the road again, she suddenly looked glad.
‘Aha!’ I said.
‘What do you
mean by “Aha!”’
‘No matter. I
will now show you what a man’s sympathy is. As you perceived just then, Langan
— who is too tall for his age, by the bye — is coming to pay you a visit. Well,
instead of staying with you, as a jealous woman would, I will withdraw.’
‘I don’t care
whether you go or stay, I’m sure. I wonder what you would give to be as fine a
man as Mr Langan.’
‘All I
possess: I swear it! But solely because you admire tall men more than broad
views. Mr Langan may be defined geometrically as length without breadth;
altitude without position; a line on the landscape, not a point in it.’
‘How very
clever you are!’
‘You do not
understand me, I see. Here comes your lover, stepping over the wall like a
camel.
And here go I,
out through the gate like a Christian. Good afternoon, Mr Langan. I am going
because Miss Hickey has something to say to you about me which she would rather
not say in my presence. You will excuse me?’
‘Oh, I’ll
excuse you,’ said he boorishly. I smiled, and went out. Before I was quite out
of hearing, Kate whispered vehemently to him, ‘I hate that fellow.’
I smiled
again; but I had scarcely done so when my spirits fell. I walked hastily away
with a coarse threatening sound in my ears like that of the clarionets whose
sustained low notes darken the woodland in ‘Der Freischutz’. I found myself
presently at the graveyard. It was a barren place, enclosed by a mud wall with
a gate to admit funerals, and numerous gaps to admit the peasantry, who made
short cuts across it as they went to and fro between Four Mile Water and the
market town. The graves were mounds overgrown with grass: there was no keeper;
nor were there flowers, railings or any of the conventionalities that make an
English graveyard repulsive.
A great thorn
bush, near what was called the grave of the holy sisters, was covered with
scraps of cloth and flannel, attached by peasant women who had prayed before
it. There were three kneeling there as I entered; for the reputation of the
place had been revived of late by the miracle; and a ferry had been established
close by, to conduct visitors over the route taken by the graveyard. From where
I stood I could see on the opposite bank the heap of stones, perceptibly
increased since my last visit, marking the deserted grave of Brimstone Billy. I
strained my eyes broodingly at it for some minutes, and then descended the
river bank and entered the boat.
‘Good evenin
t’your honour,’ said the ferryman, and set to work to draw the boat hand over
hand by a rope stretched across the water.
‘Good evening.
Is your business beginning to fall off yet?’
‘Faith, it
never was as good as it mightabeen. The people that comes from the south side
can see Billy’s grave — Lord have mercy on him! — across the wather; and they
think bad of payin’ a penny to put a stone over him. It’s them that lives
towrst Dublin that makes the journey. Your honour is the third I’ve brought
from south to north this blessed day.’
‘When do most
people come? In the afternoon, I suppose?’
‘All hours,
sur, except afther dusk. There isnt a sowl in the counthry ud come within sight
of that grave wanst the sun goes down.
‘And you! do
you stay here all night by yourself?’
‘The holy
heavens forbid! Is it me stay here all night? No, your honour: I tether the
boat at siven o’hlyock, and lave Brimstone Billy — God forgimme! — to take care
of it t’ll mornin’.’
‘It will be
stolen some night, I’m afraid.’
‘Arra, who’d
dar come next or near it, let alone stale it? Faith, I’d think twice before
lookin’ at it meself in the dark. God bless your honour, and gran’che long
life.’
I had given
him sixpence. I went to the reprobate’s grave and stood at the foot of it,
looking at the sky, gorgeous with the descent of the sun. To my English eyes,
accustomed to giant trees, broad lawns, and stately mansions, the landscape was
wild and inhospitable. The ferryman was already tugging at the rope on his way
back (I had told him I did not intend to return that way), and presently I saw
him make the painter fast to the south bank; put on his coat; and trudge
homeward. I turned towards the grave at my feet. Those who had interred
Brimstone Billy, working hastily at an unlawful hour, and in fear of
molestation by the people, had hardly dug a grave. They had scooped out earth enough
to hide their burden, and no more. A stray goat had kicked away a corner of the
mound and exposed the coffin. It occurred to me, as I took some of the stones
from the cairn, and heaped them so as to repair the breach, that had the
miracle been the work of a body of men, they would have moved the one grave
instead of the many. Even from a supernatural point of view, it seemed strange
that the sinner should have banished the elect, when, by their superior
numbers, they might so much more easily have banished him.
It was almost
dark when I left the spot. After a walk of half a mile, I recrossed the water
by a bridge, and returned to the farmhouse in which I lodged. Here, finding
that I had had enough of solitude, I only stayed to take a cup of tea. Then I
went to Father Hickey’s cottage.
Kate was alone
when I entered. She looked up quickly as I opened the door, and turned away
disappointed when she recognised me.
‘Be generous
for once,’ I said. ‘I have walked about aimlessly for hours in order to avoid spoiling
the beautiful afternoon for you by my presence. When the sun was up I withdrew
my shadow from your path. Now that darkness has fallen, shed some light on
mine. May I stay half an hour?’
‘You may stay
as long as you like, of course. My uncle will soon be home. He is clever enough
to talk to you.’
‘What! More
sarcasms! Come, Miss Hickey, help me to spend a pleasant evening. It will only
cost you a smile. I am somewhat cast down. Four Mile Water is a paradise; but
without you, it would be a little lonely.’
‘It must be
very lonely for you. I wonder why you came here.’
‘Because I
heard that the women here were all Zerlinas, like you, and the men Masettos,
like Mr Phil — where are you going to?’
‘Let me pass,
Mr Legge. I had intended never speaking to you again after the way you went on
about Mr Langan today; and I wouldn’t either, only my uncle made me promise not
to take any notice of you, because you were — no matter; but I won’t listen to
you any more on the subject.’
‘Do not go. I
swear never to mention his name again. I beg your pardon for what I said: You
shall have no further cause for complaint. Will you forgive me?’.She sat down,
evidently disappointed by my submission. I took a chair, and placed myself near
her. She tapped the floor impatiently with her foot. I saw that there was not a
movement I could make, not a look, not a tone of my voice, which did not
irritate her.
‘You were
remarking,’ I said, ‘that your uncle desired you to take no notice of me
because —’
She closed her
lips, and did not answer.
‘I fear I have
offended you again by my curiosity. But indeed, I had no idea that he had
forbidden you to tell me the reason.
‘He did not
forbid me. Since you are so determined to find out —’
‘No: excuse
me. I do not wish to know, I am sorry I asked.’
‘Indeed!
Perhaps you would be sorrier still to be told. I only made a secret of it out
of consideration for you.’
‘Then your
uncle has spoken ill of me behind my back. If that be so, there is no such
thing as a true man in Ireland. I would not have believed it on the word of any
woman alive save yourself.’
‘I never said
my uncle was a backbiter. Just to show you what he thinks of you, I will tell
you, whether you want to know it or not, that he bid me not mind you because
you were only a poor mad creature, sent down here by your family to be out of
harm’s way.’
‘Oh, Miss
Hickey!’
‘There now!
you have got it Out of me; and I wish I had bit my tongue out first. I
sometimes think — that I maytr’t sin! — that you have a bad angel in you.
‘I am glad you
told me this,’ I said gently. ‘Do not reproach yourself for having done so, I
beg.
Your uncle has
been misled by what he has heard of my family, who are all more or less insane.
Far from being
mad, I am actually the only rational man named Legge in the three kingdoms. I
will prove this to you, and at the same time keep your indiscretion in
countenance, by telling you something I ought not to tell you. It is this. I am
not here as an invalid or a chance tourist. I am here to investigate the
miracle. The Cardinal, a shrewd if somewhat erratic man, selected mine from all
the long heads at his disposal to come down here, and find out the truth of
Father Hickey’s story. Would he have entrusted such a task to a madman, think
you?’
‘The truth of
— who dared to doubt my uncle’s word? And so you are a spy, a dirty informer.’
I started. The
adjective she had used, though probably the commonest expression of contempt in
Ireland, is revolting to an Englishman.
‘Miss Hickey,’
I said: ‘there is in me, as you have said, a bad angel. Do not shock my good
angel — who is a person of taste —— quite away from my heart, lest the other be
left undisputed monarch of it. Hark! The chapel bell is ringing the angelus.
Can you, with that sound softening the darkness of the village night, cherish a
feeling of spite against one who admires you?’
‘You come
between me and my prayers,’ she said hysterically, and began to sob. She had
scarcely done so, when I heard voices without. Then Langan and the priest
entered.
‘Oh, Phil,’
she cried, running to him, ‘take me away from him:
I can’t bear
—’ I turned towards him, and showed him my dogtooth in a false smile. He felled
me at one stroke, as he might have felled a poplar-tree.
‘Murdher!’
exclaimed the priest. ‘What are you doin’, Phil?’
‘He’s an
informer,’ sobbed Kate. ‘He came down here to spy on you, uncle, and to try and
show that the blessed miracle was a make-up. I knew it long before he told me,
by his insulting ways. He wanted to make love to me.’
I rose with
difficulty from beneath the table, where I had lain motionless for a moment.
‘Sir,’ I said,
‘I am somewhat dazed by the recent action of Mr Langan, whom I beg, the next
time he converts himself into a fulling-mill, to do so at the expense of a man
more nearly his equal in strength than I. What your niece has told you is
partly true. I am indeed the Cardinal’s spy; and I have already reported to him
that the miracle is a genuine one. A committee of gentlemen will wait on you
tomorrow to verify it, at my suggestion. I have thought that the proof might be
regarded by them as more complete if you were taken by surprise. Miss Hickey:
that I admire all that is admirable in you is but to say that I have a sense of
the beautiful. To say that I love you would be mere profanity. Mr Langan: I
have in my pocket a loaded pistol, which I carry from a silly English prejudice
against your countrymen. Had I been the Hercules of the ploughtail, and you in
my place, I should have been a dead man now. Do not redden: you are safe as far
as I am concerned.’
‘Let me tell
you before you leave my house for good,’ said Father Hickey, who seemed to have
become unreasonably angry, ‘that you should never have crossed my threshold if
I had known you were a spy: no, not if your uncle were his Holiness the Pope
himself.’
Here a
frightful thing happened to me. I felt giddy, and put my hand to my head. Three
warm drops trickled over it. Instantly I became murderous. My mouth filled with
blood, my eyes were blinded with it; I seemed to drown in it. My hand went
involuntarily to the pistol. It is my habit to obey my impulses
instantaneously. Fortunately the impulse to kill vanished before a sudden
perception of how I might miraculously humble the mad vanity in which these
foolish people had turned upon me. The blood receded from my ears; and I again
heard and saw distinctly.
‘And let me
tell you,’ Langan was saying, ‘that if you think yourself handier with cold
lead than you are with your fists, I’ll exchange shots with you, and welcome,
whenever you please.
Father Tom’s credit
is the same to me as my own; and if you say a word against it, you lie.’
‘His credit is
in my hands,’ I said. ‘I am the Cardinal’s witness. Do you defy me?’
‘There is the
door,’ said the priest, holding it open before me. ‘Until you can undo the visible
work of God’s hand your testimony can do no harm to me.’
‘Father
Hickey,’ I replied, ‘before the sun rises again upon Four Mile Water, I will
undo the visible work of God’s hand, and bring the pointing finger of the
scoffer upon your altar.’
I bowed to
Kate, and walked out. It was so dark that I could not at first see the
garden-gate.
Before I found
it, I heard through the window Father Hickey’s voice, saying, ‘I wouldn’t for
ten pound that this had happened, Phil. He’s as mad as a march hare. The Cardinal
told me so.
I returned to
my lodging, and took a cold bath to cleanse the blood from my neck and
shoulder.
The effect of
the blow I had received was so severe, that even after the bath and a light
meal I felt giddy and languid. There was an alarm-clock on the mantelpiece: I
wound it; set the alarm for half-past twelve; muffled it so that it should not
disturb the people in the adjoining room; and went to bed, where I slept
soundly for an hour and a quarter. Then the alarm roused me, and I sprang up
before I was thoroughly awake. Had I hesitated, the desire to relapse into
perfect sleep would have overpowered me. Although the muscles of my neck were
painfully stiff, and my hands unsteady from my nervous disturbance, produced by
the interruption of my first slumber, I dressed myself resolutely, and, after
taking a draught of cold water, stole out of the house. It was exceedingly
dark; and I had some difficulty in finding the cow-house, whence I borrowed a
spade, and a truck with wheels, ordinarily used for moving sacks of potatoes.
These I carried in my hands until I was beyond earshot of the house, when I put
the spade on the truck, and wheeled it along the road to the cemetery. When I
approached the water, knowing that no one would dare to come thereabout as such
an hour, I made greater haste, no longer concerning myself about the rattling
of the wheels. Looking across to the opposite bank, I could see a
phosphorescent glow, marking the lonely grave of Brimstone Billy. This helped
me to find the ferry station, where, after wandering a little and stumbling
often, I found the boat, and embarked with my implements. Guided by the rope, I
crossed the water without difficulty; landed; made fast the boat; dragged the
truck up the bank; and sat down to rest on the cairn at the grave. For nearly a
quarter of an hour I sat watching the patches of jack-o’-lantern fire, and
collecting my strength for the work before me. Then the distant bell of the
chapel clock tolled one. I rose; took the spade; and in about ten minutes
uncovered the coffin, which smelt horribly. Keeping to windward of it, and
using the spade as a lever, I contrived with great labour to place it on the
truck. I wheeled it without accident to the landing-place, where, by placing
the shafts of the truck upon the stern of the boat and lifting the foot by main
strength, I succeeded in embarking my load after twenty minutes’ toil, during
which I got covered with clay and perspiration, and several times all but upset
the boat. At the southern bank I had less difficulty in getting truck and
coffin ashore, and dragging them up to the graveyard.
It was now
past two o’clock, and the dawn had begun; so that I had no further trouble from
want of light. I wheeled the coffin to a patch of loamy soil which I had noticed
in the afternoon near the grave of the holy sisters. I had warmed to my work;
my neck no longer pained me; and I began to dig vigorously, soon making a
shallow trench, deep enough to hide the coffin with the addition of a mound.
The chill pearl-coloured morning had by this time quite dissipated the
darkness. I could see, and was myself visible, for miles around. This alarmed
me, and made me impatient to finish my task. Nevertheless, I was forced to rest
for a moment before placing the coffin in the trench. I wiped my brow and
wrists, and again looked about me. The tomb of the holy women, a massive slab
supported on four stone spheres, was grey and wet with dew. Near it was the
thornbush covered with rags, the newest of which were growing gaudy in the
radiance which was stretching up from the coast on the east. It was time to
finish my work. I seized the truck; laid it alongside the grave; and gradually
prised the coffin off with the spade until it rolled over into the trench with
a hollow sound like a drunken remonstrance from the sleeper within. I shovelled
the earth round and over it, working as fast as possible. In less than a
quarter of an hour it was buried. Ten minutes more sufficed to make the mound
symmetrical, and to clear the traces of my work from the adjacent sward. Then I
flung down the spade; threw up my arms; and vented a sigh of relief and
triumph. But I recoiled as I saw that I was standing on a barren common,
covered with furze. No product of man’s handiwork was near me except my truck
and spade and the grave of Brimstone Billy, now as lonely as before. I turned
towards the water. On the opposite bank was the cemetery, with the tomb of the
holy women, the thornbush with its rags stirring in the morning breeze, and the
broken mud wall. The ruined chapel was there too, not a stone shaken from its
crumbling walls, not a sign to show that it and its precinct were less rooted
in their place than the eternal hills around.
I looked down
at the grave with a pang of compassion for the unfortunate Wolfe Tone
Fitzgerald, with whom the blessed would not rest. I was even astonished, though
I had worked expressly to this end. But the birds were astir, and the cocks
crowing. My landlord was an early riser. I put the spade on the truck again,
and hastened back to the farm, where I replaced them in the cow-house. Then I
stole into the house, and took a clean pair of boots, an overcoat, and a silk
hat. These, with a change of linen, were sufficient to make my appearance
respectable. I went out again, bathed in the Four Mile Water, took a last look
at the cemetery, and walked to Wicklow, whence I travelled by the first train
to Dublin.
Some months
later, at Cairo, I received a packet of Irish newspapers and a leading article,
cut from The Times, on the subject of the miracle. Father Hickey had suffered
the meed of his inhospitable conduct. The committee, arriving at Four Mile
Water the day after I left, had found the graveyard exactly where it had
formerly stood. Father Hickey, taken by surprise, had attempted to defend
himself by a confused statement, which led the committee to declare finally
that the miracle was a gross imposture. The Times, commenting on this after
adducing a number of examples of priestly craft, remarked, ‘We are glad to
learn that the Rev. Mr Hickey has been permanently relieved of his duties as
the parish priest of Four Mile Water by his ecclesiastical superior. It is less
gratifying to have to record that it has been found possible to obtain two
hundred signatures to a memorial embodying the absurd defence offered to the
committee, and expressing unabated confidence in the integrity of Mr Hickey.’
Nathan Hale Schoolhouse
This is the “Nathan Halle
Schoolhouse” in East Haddam, in the heart of the Connecticut River Valley in
Connecticut, one of the most beautiful areas of the state if not in all of New
England.
For the benefit of my friends in
other countries, Nathan Hale is a hero of the American revolution. Mostly he’s
a hero because he died at a very young age on a volunteer spying mission that
was doomed to fail and because he conducted himself with such dignity when he
was executed.
Hale was born in Coventry,
Connecticut, and entered Yale College at age 16. He was a brilliant student (He
graduated with honors) and while there was a leader of the Linonian Society of
Yale, which debated topics in astronomy, mathematics, literature, and the
ethics of slavery.
He was recruited into Knowlton's
Rangers, the first organized intelligence service organization of the United
States. When General George Washington needed a spy to operate in what would
soon be British held New York, Hale was the only volunteer. Hale stood over 6
feet tall, which, in those days, essentially made him a giant. He had a
distinctly loud and piercing, high pitched voice and adding to the mix, he wore
a ridiculous disguise and tried to pose as a traveling Dutch schoolmaster, all
of which only brought him even more attention when he suddenly appeared in
Flushing Bay, Queens.
The British took New York shortly
afterward on September 15, 1776. Five days later, Hale (probably) and other set
fire to the city, causing a major roundup of suspects. Hale was arrested the
following day. There are several versions of what happened. One was that he was
spotted trying to row a boat back to Connecticut
Another story says that the
infamous Major Robert Rogers of the Queen's Rangers AKA Roger’s Rangers, who were
more or less the English equivalent of the Green Berets, spotted Hale in a
tavern and recognized him and arrested him. However, the most likely story is
that he betrayed by his Loyalist cousin, Samuel Hale.
Hale was interrogated by British
General William Howe and, when it was discovered that he was carrying
incriminating documents, General Howe ordered his execution for spying.
(According to the standards of the time, spies were hanged as illegal
combatants.)
The next day, September 22, 1776,
the 21-year-old Hale was marched along Post Road to the Park of Artillery,
which was next to a public house called the Dove Tavern (at modern-day 66th
Street and Third Avenue) and hanged.
The only thing he definitely said
on the gallows was something to the effect of “I am Nathan Hale, a captain in
the Continental Army” although some accounts record him saying "I only
regret that I have but one life to lose for my country" or "I am so
satisfied with the cause in which I have engaged that my only regret is that I
have not more lives than one to offer in its service." (both lines are a
corruption of Joseph Addison's play, Cato)
Back to the schoolhouse. Hale
taught there in the of 1773, and was, by all reports, completely miserable
while he was there. He left after six months for another teaching position at
the Union Grammar School in New London, Connecticut.
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