The Boarding House

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:01):
Story seven of Dubliner's. This LibriVox recording is in the
public domain. The boarding House Missus Mooney was a butcher's daughter.
She was a woman who was quite able to keep
things to herself. A determined woman, she had married her
father's foreman and opened the butcher's shop near Spring Gardens.

(00:24):
But as soon as his father in law was dead,
mister Mooney began to go to the devil. He drank,
plundered the till ran headlong into debt. It is no
use making him take the pledge. He was sure to
break out again a few days after by fighting his
wife in the presence of customers, and by buying bad meat.
He ruined his business. One night he went for his

(00:46):
wife with a cleaver, and she had to sleep in
a neighbor's house. After that they lived apart. She went
to the priest and got a separation from him with
care of the children. She would give him neither money,
nor food nor house room, and so he was obliged
to enlist himself as a sheriff's man. He was a
shabby stoop, little drunkard with a white face and a

(01:07):
white mustache and white eyebrows penciled above his little eyes,
which were pink veined and raw, and all day long
he sat in the bailiff's room waiting to be put
on a job. Missus Mooney, who had taken what remained
for money out of the butcher's business and set up
a boarding house in Hardwick Street, was a big, imposing woman.

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Her house had a floating population made up of tourists
from Liverpool and the Isle of Man and occasionally artistes
from the music halls. Its resident population was made up
of clerks from the city. She governed her house cunningly
and firmly, knew when to give credit, when to be stern,
and when to let things pass. All the resident young

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men spoke of her as the Madam. Missus Mooney's young
men paid fifteen shillings a week for board and lodgings,
beer or stout at dinner excluded. They shared in common
tastes and occupations, and for this reason they were very
chummy with one another. They discussed with one another the
chances of favorites and outsiders. Jack Mooney, the Madam's son,

(02:13):
who was a clerk to a commission agent in Fleet Street,
had the reputation of being a hard case He was
fond of using soldiers obscenities. Usually he came home in
the small hours. When he met his friends, he had
always a good one to tell them, and he was
always sure to be on to a good thing, that
is to say, a likely horse or a likely artiste.

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He was also handy with the myths and sang comic songs.
On Sunday nights, there would often be a reunion in
missus Mooney's front drawing room. The music hall artists would
oblige and Sheridan played waltzes and polkas and vamped accompaniments. Polymoney,
the madam's daughter would also sing. She sang, I'm a

(02:57):
naughty girl. Y needn't sham y I am. Polly was
a slim girl of nineteen. She had light, soft hair
and a small full mouth. Her eyes, which were gray
with a shade of green through them, had a habit
of glancing upwards when she spoke with any one, which
made her look like a little perverse madonna. Missus Mooney

(03:19):
had first sent her daughter to be a typist in
a corn factor's office, but as a disreputable sheriff's man
used to come every other day to the office asking
to be allowed to say a word to his daughter.
She had taken her daughter home again and set her
to do housework. As Polly was very lively, the intention
was to give her the run of the young men. Besides,

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young men like to feel that there is a young
woman not very far away. Polly, of course flirted with
the young men, but missus Mooney, who was a shrewd judge,
knew that these young men were only passing the time away,
none of them meant business. Things went on so for
a long time, and missus Mooney began to think of
sending Polly back to typewriting. When she noticed that something

(04:04):
was going on between Polly and one of the young men,
she watched the pair and kept her own counsel. Polly
knew that she was being watched, but still her mother's
persistent silence could not be misunderstood. There be no open
complicity between mother and daughter, no open understanding. But though

(04:24):
people in the house began to talk of the affair,
still missus Mooney did not intervene. Polly began to grow
a little strange in her manner, and the young man
was evidently perturbed. At last, when she judged it to
be the right moment, Missus Mooney intervened. She dealt with
moral problems as a cleaver deals with meat, and in

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this case she had made up her mind. It was
a bright Sunday morning of early summer, promising heat, but
with a fresh breeze blowing. All the windows of the
boarding house were open, and the lace curtains balloon gently
towards the street. Beneath the raised sashes. The belfry of
George's Chirts sent out constant peels and worshippers, singly or

(05:08):
in groups, traversed the little circus before the church, revealing
their purpose by their self contained demeanor, no less than
by the little volumes in their gloved hands. Breakfast was
over in the boarding house, and the table of the
breakfast room was covered with plates on which lay yellow
streaks of eggs, with morsels of bacon fat and bacon rind.

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Missus Mooney sat in the straw arm chair and watched
the servant Mary remove the breakfast things. She made Mary
collect the crusts and pieces of broken bread to help
to make Tuesday's bread pudding. When the table was cleared,
the broken bread collected, the sugar and butter safe under
lock and key. She began to reconstruct the interview which

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he had had the night before with Polly. Things were
as she had suspected. She had been frank in her questions,
and Polly had been frank in her answers. Both had
been somewhat awkward. Of course, she had been made awkward
by her not wishing to receive the news in too
cavalier a fashion, or to seem to have connived, and
Polly had been made awkward, not merely because allusions of

(06:13):
that kind always made her awkward, but also because she
did not wish it to be thought that, in her
wise innocence she had divined the intention behind her mother's tolerance.
Missus Mooney glanced instinctively at the little gilt clock on
the mantel piece. As soon as she had become aware
through her reverie that the bells of George's Church had
stopped ringing, it was seventeen minutes past eleven. She would

(06:37):
have lots of time to have the matter out with
mister Doran and then catch short twelve at Marlborough Street.
She was sure she would win. To begin with, she
had all the weight of social opinion on her side.
She was an outraged mother. She had allowed him to
live beneath her roof, assuming that he was a man
of honor, and he had simply abused her hospitality. He

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was thirty four or thirty five years of aig, so
that youth could not be pleaded as his excuse, nor
could ignorance be his excuse. Since he was a man
who had seen something of the world. He had simply
taken advantage of Polly's youth and inexperience. That was evident.
The question was what reparation would he make. There must

(07:18):
be reparation made in such cases. It is all very
well for the man. He can go his ways as
if nothing had happened, having had his moment of pleasure,
But the girl has to bear the brunt. Some mothers
would be content to patch up such an affair for
a sum of money. She had all cases of it,
but she would not do so. For her only one

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reparation could make up for the loss of her daughter's
honor marriage. She counted all her cards again before sending
Mary up to mister Doran's room to say that she
wished to speak with him. She felt sure she would win.
He was a serious young man, not rakish or loud
voice like the others. If it had been mister Sheridan,
or mister Meade or Bantam Lions, her task would have

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been much harder. She did not think he would face publicity.
All the lodgers in the house knew something of the affair.
Details had been invented by some. Besides, he had been
employed for thirteen years in a great Catholic wine merchant's office,
and publicity would mean for him perhaps the loss of
his job, Whereas if he agreed, all might be well.

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She knew he had a good screw for one thing,
and she suspected he had a bit of stuff put
By nearly the half hour, she stood up and surveyed
herself in the pure glass. The decisive expression of her
great florid face satisfied her, and she thought of some
mother she knew who could not get their daughters off
their hands. Mister Dorran was very anxious. Indeed, this Sunday

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morning he had made two attempts to shave, but his
hand had been so unsteady that he had been obliged
to desist three days. Reddish beard fringed his jaw, and
every two or three minus a mist gathered on his glasses,
so that he had to take them off and polish
them with his pocket handkerchief. The recollection of his confession
of the night before was a cause of acute pain

(09:11):
to him. The priest had drawn out every ridiculous detail
of the affair, and in the end had so magnified
his sin that he was almost thankful at being afforded
a loophole of reparation. The harm was done. What could
he do now but marry her or run away. He
could not brazen it out. The affair would be sure
to be talked of, and his employer would be certain

(09:34):
to hear of it. Dublin is such a small city.
Every one knows everyone else's business. He felt his heart
leap warmly in his throat as he heard in his
excited imagination old mister Lennard calling out in his rasping voice,
send mister Doran here, please. All his long years of
service gone for nothing, all his industry and diligence thrown away.

(10:00):
As a young man, he had sown his wild oaths.
Of course, he had boasted of his free thinking and
denied the existence of God to his companions in public houses.
But that was all past and done with nearly. He
still bought a copy of Reynold's newspaper every week, but
he attended to his religious duties, and for nine tenths
of the year lived a regular life. He had money

(10:22):
enough to settle down on. It was not that but
the family would look down on her. First of all,
there was her disreputable father, and then her mother's boarding
house was beginning to get a certain fame. He had
a notion that he was being had. He could imagine
his friend's talking of the affair and laughing. She was
a little vulgar sometimes, she said, I seen, and if

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I'd have known. But what would grammar matter? If he
really loved her. He could not make up his mind
whether to like her or despise her for what she
had done. Of course, he had done it too. His
instinct aarurged him to remain free, not to marry. Once
you are married, you are done for it said. While
he was sitting helplessly on the side of the bed

(11:08):
in shirt and trousers, she tapped lightly on his door
and entered. She told him all that she had made
a clean breast of it to her mother, and that
her mother would speak with him that morning she cried
and threw her arms round his neck, saying, oh, Bob, bob,
what am I to do? What am I to do?
At all? She would put an end to herself, she said.

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He comforted her feebly, telling her not to cry, that
it will be all right. Never fear. He felt against
his shirt the agitation of her bosom. It was not
altogether his fault that it had happened, he remembered well
with the curious patient memory of the celibate. The first
casual caresses, her dress, her breath, her fingers had given him. Then,

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late one night, as he was undressing for bed, she
had tapped at his door timidly. She wanted to relight
a candle at his, for hers had been blown out
by a gust. It was her bath night. She wore
a loose, open combing jacket of printed flannel. Her white
in steps shone in the opening of her furry slippers,
and the blood glowed warmly behind her. Perfumed skin from

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her hands and wrists too as she lit and steadied
her candle, A faint perfume arose. On nights when he
came in very late. It was she who warmed up
his dinner, he scarcely knew what he was eating, feeling
her beside him alone at night in the sleeping house,
and her thoughtfulness. If the night was anyway cold or
wet or windy, there was sure to be a little

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tumbler of points ready for him. Perhaps they could be
happy together. They used to go upstairs together on tiptoe,
each with a candle, and on the third landing exchanged
reluctant good nights. They used to kiss. He remembered well
her eyes, the touch of her hand, and his delirium.
But delirium passes. He echoed her phrase, applying it to himself.

(13:02):
What am I to do? The instinct of the celibate
warned him to hold back, But the sin was there.
Even his sense of honor told him that reparation must
be made for such a sin. While he was sitting
with her on the side of the bed, Mary came
to the door and said that the missus wanted to
see him in the parlor. He stood up to put
on his coat and waistcoat, more helpless than ever. When

(13:25):
he was dressed, he went over to her to comfort her.
It would be all right, never fear. He left her
crying on the bed and moaning softly, Oh my God.
Going down the stairs, his glasses became so dimmed with
moisture that he had to take them off and polish them.
He longed to ascend through the roof and fly away
to another country where he would never hear again of

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his trouble. And yet a force pushed him down stairs,
step by step. The implacable faces of his employer and
of the madam stared upon his discomfiture. On the last
slight of stairs, he passed Jack Mooney, who was coming
up from the pantry nursing two bottles of bass. They
saluted coldly, and the lover's eyes rested for a second

(14:08):
or two on a thick bulldog face at a pair
of thick short arms. When he reached the foot of
the staircase, he glanced up and saw Jack regarding him
from the door of the return room. Suddenly he remembered
the night when one of the music hall artists, a
little blonde Londoner, had made a rather free allusion to Polly.

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The reunion had been almost broken up on account of
Jack's violence. Everyone tried to quiet him. The music hall artiste,
the little paler than usual, kept smiling and saying that
there was no harm meant. But Jack kept shouting at
him that if any fellow tried that sort of game
on with his sister, he'd bloody well put his teeth
down his throat so he would. Polly sat for a

(14:50):
little time on the side of the bed, crying. Then
she dried her eyes and went over to the looking glass.
She dipped the end of the towel in the water
jug and refreshed her eyes with the cool water. She
looked at herself in profile and readjusted a hairpin above
her ear. Then she went back to the bed again
and sat at the foot. She regarded the pillows for

(15:11):
a long time, and the sight of them awakened in
her mind secret, amiable memories. She rested the nape of
her neck against the cool iron bed rail and fell
into a reverie. There was no longer any perturbation visible
on her face. She waited on patiently, almost cheerfully, without alarm,

(15:31):
her memories gradually giving place to hopes and visions of
the future. Her hopes and visions were so intricate that
she no longer saw the white pillows on which her
gaze was fixed, or remembered that she was waiting for anything.
At last, she heard her mother calling. She started to
her feet and ran to the banisters. Polly, Polly, yes, mamma,

(15:56):
come down, dear mister Dalton wants to speak to you.
Then she remembered what she had been waiting for. End
of story seven. The boarding house