or two, or all. If you, then you only; if my body, then you also; if my mind, then all. Now?’
She looked at him helplessly. He seemed serious. But he had seemed serious when he spoke of putting on his gems and lemon, etc. She felt, as she felt so often with Murphy, spattered with words that went dead as soon as they sounded; each word obliterated, before it had time to make sense, by the word that came next; so that in the end she did not know what had been said. It was like difficult music heard for the first time.
‘You twist everything,’ she said. ‘Work needn’t mean any of that.’
‘Then is the position unchanged?’ said Murphy. ‘Either I do what you want or you walk out. Is that it?’
She made to rise, he pinioned her wrists.
‘Let me go,’ said Celia.
‘Is it?’ said Murphy.
‘Let me go,’ said Celia.
He let her go. She rose and went to the window. The sky, cool, bright, full of movement, anointed her eyes, reminded her of Ireland.
‘Yes or no?’ said Murphy. The eternal tautology.
‘Yes,’ said Celia. ‘Now you hate me.’
‘No,’ said Murphy. ‘Look is there a clean shirt.’
4
I N Dublin a week later, that would be September 19th, Neary minus his whiskers was recognised by a former pupil called Wylie, in the General Post Office contemplating from behind the statue of Cuchulain. Neary had bared his head, as though the holy ground meant something to him. Suddenly he flung aside his hat, sprang forward, seized the dying hero by the thighs and began to dash his head against his buttocks, such as they are. The Civic Guard on duty in the building, roused from a tender reverie by the sound of blows, took in the situation at his leisure, disentangled his baton and advanced with measured tread, thinking he had caught a vandal in the act. Happily Wylie, whose reactions as a street bookmaker’s stand were as rapid as a zebra’s, had already seized Neary round the waist, torn him back from the sacrifice and smuggled him half-way to the exit.
‘Howlt on there, youze,’ said the C.G.
Wylie turned back, tapped his forehead and said, as one sane man to another:
‘John o’ God’s. Hundred per cent harmless.’
‘Come back in here owwathat,’ said the C.G.
Wylie, a tiny man, stood at a loss. Neary, almost as large as the C.G. though not of course so nobly proportioned, rocked blissfully on the right arm of his rescuer. It was not in the C.G.’s nature to bandy words, nor had it come into any branch of his training. He resumed his steady advance.
‘Stillorgan,’ said Wylie. ‘Not Dundrum.’
The C.G. laid his monstrous hand on Wylie’s left arm and exerted a strong pull along the line he had mapped out in his mind. They all moved off in the desired direction, Neary shod with orange-peel.
‘John o’ God’s,’ said Wylie. ‘As quiet as a child.’
They drew up behind the statue. A crowd gathered behind them. The C.G. leaned forward and scrutinised the pillar and draperies.
‘Not a feather out of her,’ said Wylie. ‘No blood, no brains, nothing.’
The C.G. straightened up and let go Wylie’s arm.
‘Move on,’ he said to the crowd, ‘before yer moved on.’
The crowd obeyed, with the single diastole-systole which is all the law requires. Feeling amply repaid by this superb symbol for the trouble and risk he had taken in issuing an order, the C.G. inflected his attention to Wylie and said more kindly:
‘Take my advice, mister—’ He stopped. To devise words of advice was going to tax his ability to the utmost. When would he learn not to plunge into the labyrinths of an opinion when he had not the slightest idea of how he was to emerge? And before a hostile audience! His embarrassment was if possible increased by the expression of strained attention on Wylie’s face, clamped there by the promise of advice.
‘Yes, sergeant,’ said Wylie, and held his breath.
‘Run him back to Stillorgan,’ said the C.G. Done it!
Wylie’s face came asunder in
She looked at him helplessly. He seemed serious. But he had seemed serious when he spoke of putting on his gems and lemon, etc. She felt, as she felt so often with Murphy, spattered with words that went dead as soon as they sounded; each word obliterated, before it had time to make sense, by the word that came next; so that in the end she did not know what had been said. It was like difficult music heard for the first time.
‘You twist everything,’ she said. ‘Work needn’t mean any of that.’
‘Then is the position unchanged?’ said Murphy. ‘Either I do what you want or you walk out. Is that it?’
She made to rise, he pinioned her wrists.
‘Let me go,’ said Celia.
‘Is it?’ said Murphy.
‘Let me go,’ said Celia.
He let her go. She rose and went to the window. The sky, cool, bright, full of movement, anointed her eyes, reminded her of Ireland.
‘Yes or no?’ said Murphy. The eternal tautology.
‘Yes,’ said Celia. ‘Now you hate me.’
‘No,’ said Murphy. ‘Look is there a clean shirt.’
4
I N Dublin a week later, that would be September 19th, Neary minus his whiskers was recognised by a former pupil called Wylie, in the General Post Office contemplating from behind the statue of Cuchulain. Neary had bared his head, as though the holy ground meant something to him. Suddenly he flung aside his hat, sprang forward, seized the dying hero by the thighs and began to dash his head against his buttocks, such as they are. The Civic Guard on duty in the building, roused from a tender reverie by the sound of blows, took in the situation at his leisure, disentangled his baton and advanced with measured tread, thinking he had caught a vandal in the act. Happily Wylie, whose reactions as a street bookmaker’s stand were as rapid as a zebra’s, had already seized Neary round the waist, torn him back from the sacrifice and smuggled him half-way to the exit.
‘Howlt on there, youze,’ said the C.G.
Wylie turned back, tapped his forehead and said, as one sane man to another:
‘John o’ God’s. Hundred per cent harmless.’
‘Come back in here owwathat,’ said the C.G.
Wylie, a tiny man, stood at a loss. Neary, almost as large as the C.G. though not of course so nobly proportioned, rocked blissfully on the right arm of his rescuer. It was not in the C.G.’s nature to bandy words, nor had it come into any branch of his training. He resumed his steady advance.
‘Stillorgan,’ said Wylie. ‘Not Dundrum.’
The C.G. laid his monstrous hand on Wylie’s left arm and exerted a strong pull along the line he had mapped out in his mind. They all moved off in the desired direction, Neary shod with orange-peel.
‘John o’ God’s,’ said Wylie. ‘As quiet as a child.’
They drew up behind the statue. A crowd gathered behind them. The C.G. leaned forward and scrutinised the pillar and draperies.
‘Not a feather out of her,’ said Wylie. ‘No blood, no brains, nothing.’
The C.G. straightened up and let go Wylie’s arm.
‘Move on,’ he said to the crowd, ‘before yer moved on.’
The crowd obeyed, with the single diastole-systole which is all the law requires. Feeling amply repaid by this superb symbol for the trouble and risk he had taken in issuing an order, the C.G. inflected his attention to Wylie and said more kindly:
‘Take my advice, mister—’ He stopped. To devise words of advice was going to tax his ability to the utmost. When would he learn not to plunge into the labyrinths of an opinion when he had not the slightest idea of how he was to emerge? And before a hostile audience! His embarrassment was if possible increased by the expression of strained attention on Wylie’s face, clamped there by the promise of advice.
‘Yes, sergeant,’ said Wylie, and held his breath.
‘Run him back to Stillorgan,’ said the C.G. Done it!
Wylie’s face came asunder in
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