A Mother

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Story thirteen of Dubliner's. This LibriVox recording is in the
public domain. A mother, mister Hollahan, assistant secretary of the
Era Abou 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.

(00:22):
He had a gammy leg, and for this his friends
called him Hoppy Hollahan. 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 missus
Carney who arranged everything. Miss Devlin had become missus Carney
out of spite. She had been educated in a high

(00:44):
class convent, where she had learned French and music. As
she was naturally pale and unbending a 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

(01:04):
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 and secret. However,
when she drew near the limit and her friends began
to loosen their tongues about her, she silenced them by
marrying mister Carney, who was a boot maker an ormont key.

(01:28):
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, missus Carney 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

(01:50):
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 eyer down quilt over his feet and
made a strong rum punch. For his part, he was

(02:13):
a model father. By paying a small sum every week
into his society. He insured for both his daughters a
dowry of one hundred pounds each. When they came to
the age of twenty four, he sent the older daughter,
Kathleen to a good convent, where she learned French and music,
and afterward paid her fees at the academy. Every year
in the month of July, missus Kearney found occasion to

(02:36):
say to some friend, my good man is packing us
off to Skees for a few weeks. If it was
not Scares, it was hoth or Greystones. When the Irish
Revival began to be appreciable, missus Carney determined to take
advantage of her daughter's name and brought an Irish teacher
to the house. Kathleen and her sister sent Irish picture

(02:57):
post cards to their friends, and these friends sent back
other Irish picture post cards. On special Sundays, when mister
Carney 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 Carneys,
musical friends or nationalist friends. And when they had played

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every little counter of gossip, they shook hands with one
another altogether, laughing at the crossing of so many hands,
and said good bye to one another. In Irish. Soon
the name of miss Katherine 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. Missus

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Carney was well content at this. Therefore, she was not
surprised when one day mister Holland 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 ancient 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

(04:04):
heart and soul into the details of the enterprise, advised
and dissuaded, and finally a contract was drawn up by
which Catherine was to receive eight guineas for her services
as accompanist at the four grand concerts. As mister Hollohan
was a novice in such delicate matters as the wording
of bills and the disposing of items for a program,

(04:25):
missus Carney helped him. She had tact. She knew what
our teasts should go into capitals and what our teasts
should go into small type. She knew that the first
tenor would not like to come on after mister Mead's
comic turn. To keep the audience continually diverted, she slipped
the doubtful items in between the old favorites. Mister Holland

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called to see her every day and 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, mister Hollan. And while he was helping himself,
she said, don't be afraid, don't be afraid of it.
Everything went on smoothly. Missus Carney bought some lovely blush

(05:09):
pink charmouse and brown Thomisus to let into the front
of Katharine'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

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were to be on Wednesday Thursday, Friday and Saturday. When
missus Carney arrived with her daughter at the ancient 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

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hall showed her the cause of the Stuart's idleness. At
first she wondered, had she mistaken the eye. No. It
was twenty minutes to eight. In the dressing room behind
the stage, she was introduced to the secretary of the Society,
mister Fitzpatrick. She smiled and shook his hand. He was
a little man with a white, vacant face. She noticed

(06:16):
that he wore his soft brown hat carelessly on the
side of his head, and that his accent was flat.
He held a program 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.
Mister Holland came into the dressing room every few minutes
with reports from the box office. The artists talked among

(06:38):
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. Mister Fitzpatrick came in,
smiled vacantly at the room, and said, well, now, ladies
and gentlemen, I suppose we'd better open the ball. Missus

(07:00):
Carney 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 mister Hollan aside and asked him to tell her
what it meant. Mister Hollahan 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 artists, said,

(07:25):
Missus Carney, of course, they are doing their best, but
really they are not good. Mister Hollahan admitted that the
artists 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. Missus
Carney said nothing, but as the mediocre items followed one

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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 mister Fitzpatrick's vacant smile irrit her very much. However,
she said nothing and waited to see how it would end.

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The concert expired shortly before ten, and everyone went home quickly.
The concert on Thursday night was better attended, but missus
Carney saw at once that the house was filled with paper.
The audience behaved indecorously, as if the concert were an
informal dress rehearsal. Mister Fitzpatrick seemed to enjoy himself. He
was quite unconscious that missus Carney was taking angry note

(08:28):
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, missus Carney
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 mister Holland She button hold

(08:51):
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. Mister Hollahan seemed to be in a hurry.
He advised her to speak to mister Fitzpatrick. Missus Kearney
was now beginning to be alarmed. She called mister Fitzpatrick

(09:14):
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. Mister 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.

(09:37):
Missus Carney's anger began to flutter in her cheek, and
she had all she could do to keep from asking
and who is the comedy prey? But she knew that
it would not be lady like to do that, so
she was silent. Little boys were sent out into the
principal streets of Dublin nearly on Friday morning with bundles
of handbills. Special puffs appeared in all the evening papers,

(10:00):
reminding the music loving public of the treat which was
in store for it. On the following evening. Missus Carney
was somewhat reassured, but she thought well to tell her
husband 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

(10:22):
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. Missus Kearney, with her
husband and daughter, arrived at the ancient concert rooms three

(10:42):
quarters of an hour before the time at which the
concert was to be gain. By your look, it was
a rainy evening. Missus Kearney placed her daughter's clothes and
music in charge of her husband, and went all over
the building, looking for mister Hollahan or mister Fitzpatrick. She
could find neither. She asked the student warts was any
member of the committee in the hall, And after a

(11:03):
great deal of trouble, as Stuart brought out a little
woman named miss Byrne, to whom missus Kearney explained that
she wanted to see one of the secretaries. Miss Byrne
expected them any minute and asked could she do anything.
Missus Carney looked searchingly at the oldish face, which was
screwed into an expression of trustfulness and enthusiasm, and answered no,

(11:24):
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, boh, well, we did our best. The
dear knows. Missus Carney had to go back to the
dressing room. The artists were arriving the bass, and the

(11:47):
second tenor had already come the bass. Mister Duggan was
a slender young man with a scattered black mustache. He
was the son of a hall porter and an office
in the city, and as a boy he had sung
plonged 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

(12:10):
when an operatic artist had fallen ill. He had undertaken
the part of the King in the opera of Maritana
at the Queen's Theater. 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.

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He was unassuming and spoke little. He said hues so
softly that had passed unnoticed, and he never drank anything
stronger than milk for his voice's sake. Mister Bell, the
second tenor, was a fair haired little man who competed
every year for prizes at the Feesch Cole. On his
fourth trial he had been awarded a bronze medal. He

(12:53):
was extremely nervous and extremely jealous of other tenors, and
he covered his nervous jealousy within a bulliant friendliness. It
was his humor to have people know what an ordeal
a concert was to him. Therefore, when he saw mister Duggan,
he went over to him and asked, are you in
it too? Yes, said mister Duggan. Mister Bell laughed at

(13:14):
his fellow sufferer, held out his hand and said shake.
Missus Carney 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 Katherine,

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for they both glanced at her often. As she stood
chatting to one of her nationalist friends. Miss Heey the contralto,
an unknown solitary woman with a pale face walked through
the room. The woman followed with keen eyes the faded
blue dress, which was stretched upon a meager body. Some
one said that she was Madame Glynn, the soprano. I

(13:56):
wonder where did they dig her up? Said Katherine to
miss Heely. I am sure I never heard of her.
Miss Heely had to smile. Mister Holloan limped into the
dressing room at that moment, and the two young ladies
asked them who was the unknown woman. Mister Holland said
that she was Madame Glynn from London. Madame Glynn took
her stand in the corner of the room, holding a

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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 complaisant,

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and they brought a breath of opulence among the company.
Missus Carney brought her daughter over to them and talked
to them amiebly. She wanted to be on good terms
with them, but while she strove to be polite, her
eyes followed mister Hollan in his limping and devious courses.
As soon as she could, she excused herself and went
out after him. Mister Hollahan, I want to speak to

(15:02):
you for a moment, she said. They went down to
a discreet part of the corridor. Missus Carney asked them
when was her daughter going to be paid? Mister Holland
said that mister Fitzpatrick had charge of that. Missus Carney
said that she didn't know anything about mister Fitzpatrick. Her
daughter had signed a contract for late guineas and she
would have to be paid. Mister Hollahan said that it

(15:24):
wasn't his business. Why isn't it your business, asked missus Carney.
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 mister Fitzpatrick, said
mister Holland distantly. I don't know anything about mister Fitzpatrick,
repeated missus Carney. I have a contract and I intend

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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 out door dress
had taken possession of the fireplace and were chatting familiarly
with Miss Heely and the Baton. They were the Freeman
Man and mister Omadden Burke. The Freemanman had come in

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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 gray 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

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had not intended to stay a moment, because concerts and
artists spored him considerably, but he remained, leaning against the mantelpiece.
Miss Heedy 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 color of her body appealed to

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his senses. He was pleasantly conscious that the bosom which
he saw rise and fall slowly beneath him, rose and
fell at that moment him. But the laughter and fragrance
and wilful glances were his tribute. When he could stay
no longer, he took leave of her regretfully. Mister o'madden
Burke will write the notice, he explained to mister Holland,

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and I'll see it in. Thank you very much, mister Hendrick,
said mister Hollahan, you'd see it in I know. Now,
won't you have a little something before you go? I
don't mind, said mister Hendrick. The two men went along
some tortuous passages and up a dark staircase, and came
to a secluded room where one of the stewarts was
uncorking bottles for a few gentlemen. One of these gentlemen

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was mister 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 mister Hollahan was entertaining the freeman man,

(17:59):
missus Carney was seeking 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.
Mister Bell, the first item, stood ready with his music,
but the accompanist made no sign. Evidently something was wrong.
Mister Karney looked straight before him, stroking his beard, while

(18:21):
Missus Kearney spoke into Catherine'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 tranquility, but mister Bell's nerves were greatly agitated
because he was afraid the audience would think that he
had come late. Mister Holland and mister Omadenburg came into

(18:44):
the room in a moment. Mister Holland perceived a hush.
He went over to missus Carney and spoke with her earnestly.
While they were speaking, the noise in the hall grew louder.
Mister Holland became very red and excited. He spoke volubly,
but Missus Carney said curtly at intervals she won't go on.

(19:04):
She must get her eight Guineas mister Holland pointed desperately
towards the hall, where the audience was clapping and stamping.
He appeared to mister Kearney and to Kathleen, but mister
Kearney continued to stroke his beard, and Katherine looked down,
moving the point of her new shoe. It was not
her fault, Missus Kearney, repeated she won't go on without

(19:24):
her money. After a swift struggle of tongues, mister Holland
hobbled out in haste. The room was silent. When the
strain of the silence had become somewhat painful, miss heely
said to the baritone, have you seen missus pat Campbell
this week? The baritone had not seen her, but he
had been told that she was very fine. The conversation

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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 sighness. From time
to time every one glanced at missus Carney. The noise
in the auditorium had risen to a clamor when mister

(20:07):
Fitzpatrick burst into the room, followed by mister Hollahan, who
was panting. The clapping and stamping in the hall were
punctuated by whistling. Mister Fitzpatrick held a few bank notes
in his hand. He counted out four into Missus Carney's
hand and said she would get the other half. At
the interval. Missus Carney said this is for shilling short.

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But Catherine gathered in her skirt and said, now, mister
Bell to the first item, who was shaking like an aspen.
The singer and the accompanist went out together. The noise
in the 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

(20:50):
Madam Glynn's item. The poor Lady sang Kilarney 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

(21:12):
and the contralto, however, brought down the house. Catherine 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

(21:36):
a hive of excitement. In one corner where mister holland
mister Fitzpatrick, Miss Byrne, two of the Stuarts, the baritone,
the bass, and mister o'madden burke. Mister O. Madden Burke
said it was the most scandalous exhibition he had ever witnessed.
Miss Katherine Kearney's musical career was ended in Dublin. After that,
he said, the baritone was asked what did he think

(21:58):
of missus Carney'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 missus Carney
might have taken the artists into consideration. The stewarts and
the secretaries debated hotly as to what should be done.
When the interval came. I agree with miss Byrne, said
mister madden Burke. Pay her nothing. In another corner of

(22:22):
the room, where missus Kearney and her husband, mister Bell,
Miss Healy, and the young lady who had to recite
the patriotic peace, missus Carney 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

(22:44):
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 artists, but what
else could she do. She appealed to the second tenor,
who said he thought she had not been well treated.

(23:06):
Then she appealed to miss Heely. Miss Healey 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 Carneys had often invited her to their house.
As soon as the first part was ended, mister Fitzpatrick
and mister Hollahan went over to missus Carney and told
her that the other four guineas would be paid after

(23:26):
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 missus Carney 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, missus Carney, said mister Hollahan.

(23:50):
I never thought you would treat us this way? And
what way did you treat me? Asked missus Carney. Her
face was inundated with an angry color, 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 mister Hollan, might I indeed? And

(24:10):
when I asked 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. Fall that
did'll I do? I thought you were a lady, said
mister Hollan, walking away from her abruptly. After that, missus
Kearney's conduct was condemned on all hands. Every one approved

(24:34):
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. Missus Carney had to

(24:54):
stand aside to allow the baritone and his accompany us
to pass up to the platform. She stood still for
an instant, like an angry stone image, and when the
first doubts 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. Missus Carney wrapped
the cloak round her daughter and followed him. As she

(25:15):
passed through the doorway, she stopped and glared into mister
Holland's face. I'm not done with you yet, she said.
But I'm done with you, said mister Holland. Kathleen followed
her mother meekly. Mister Holland 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. Oh,

(25:40):
she's a nice lady. You did the proper thing, Hollen said.
Mister o Madenburke poised upon his umbrella in approval. End
of story thirteen, a mother,