13-a-mother.txt

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 elder 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 many 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 dressing-room
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 she 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 her 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 felt 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.