bailing him out.
“What’s to happen? Well, one thing’s for certain, it’s no time for Miss Emily to be coming home. Oh yes, on the five o’clock train, Wednesday. Yes, dreadful. Poor child; I always feared for her, you know. I always feared that with those parents of hers she would come to some harm. I prayed for her every night. I even went on a solemn novena to Our Lady for her protection. Now, Mary, don’t be saying things like that. Are you as wise as God? Well, then, keep your heathen opinions to yourself. I know that God always answers prayer. Still, it’s no time for her to be coming home, expecting a baby and all. Hadn’t you heard? That… that… animal, poor child, he left her with a baby. And all of the age of her, too. Evil times, indeed. You only have to look at the state of the country—those atheist Socialists running amok in Dublin, those heretic Protestant Unionists rampaging in Ulster. The likes of you and me should be pitying those poor souls who have no faith to give them moral guidance and strength.
“The house? Well, unless there’s a miracle, and I’m hopeful, still praying, Mary, it’ll all have to be sold. House, lands, everything. Well, Mary, I’m sure that whoever comes after, there’ll still be need for a housekeeper, but all the same, it wouldn’t do any harm to be keeping an ear to the ground, if you know what I mean.
“You know what I think? It’s a curse. I do most certainly believe that. Someone, or something, is willing sorrow and misfortune on this household. There has not been one minute’s good luck within these walls since the year turned. Bad luck—you can feel it, Mary, sometimes. Why, it’s almost like a physical presence. You can feel it pressing down on you like an oppressive vapour. No, I’m quite serious; there is a heavy, dark atmosphere in this house. Everyone who comes notices it. Not that there’ve been too many of those—visitors, I mean.
“Oh: here, Mary, I’ll have to go … I can hear the master’s car on the gravel. I hadn’t thought he’d be so quick. In his current humour, I wouldn’t want to be caught using the telephone. Yes, I will, surely, next free day I get. And good-bye to you, too, Mary.”
Emily’s Diary: October 12, 1913
I WAS GLAD, VERY glad, to be leaving the Fitzwilliam Square Clinic, the atmosphere in Dublin has grown sour and suspicious. On every side groups of men are taking names and arms and banners to march beneath: Irish Volunteers, Irish Citizens’ Army, Fianna, Cumann na Mban, Sinn Fein, as well as the locked out workers. The streets are angry, the climate discontented. How far this autumn of disease is from impatient swallows flocking about Craigdarragh, woods full of the voice of the rooks. It makes me all the more eager to return. In the mornings the gardeners in the square sweep the paths and set fire to their little piles of leaves and the smell is enough to transport me, instantly: I am there. Blackthorn walking sticks in the hall stand; from the kitchen wafts of vinegar and pickling spice, baking pies and apples stewing with cloves; a particular golden light that shines into parts of the house it somehow never reaches in any other season; the hot stone jar down the bed and the equinoxial gales rattling the roof slates.
The sadness of the romantic imagination is to be ever disappointed that the reality never matches the imagining of it. Always in reality there are the shadows where the light will never reach, the wallpaper peeling by the skirting board, the hall stand missing a cherub and with a cracked tulip tile.
I have said I was glad to be leaving Dublin; I did not say I was glad to be home.
They did not even come to welcome me. Their only daughter, and they sent Mrs. O’Carolan in a trap with Paddy-Joe. Oh, yes, it was good to see Mrs. O’C and Paddy-Joe again, and their delight in seeing me was honestly transparent—Mrs. O’C could hardly speak a word; she must have wrung out an entire
“What’s to happen? Well, one thing’s for certain, it’s no time for Miss Emily to be coming home. Oh yes, on the five o’clock train, Wednesday. Yes, dreadful. Poor child; I always feared for her, you know. I always feared that with those parents of hers she would come to some harm. I prayed for her every night. I even went on a solemn novena to Our Lady for her protection. Now, Mary, don’t be saying things like that. Are you as wise as God? Well, then, keep your heathen opinions to yourself. I know that God always answers prayer. Still, it’s no time for her to be coming home, expecting a baby and all. Hadn’t you heard? That… that… animal, poor child, he left her with a baby. And all of the age of her, too. Evil times, indeed. You only have to look at the state of the country—those atheist Socialists running amok in Dublin, those heretic Protestant Unionists rampaging in Ulster. The likes of you and me should be pitying those poor souls who have no faith to give them moral guidance and strength.
“The house? Well, unless there’s a miracle, and I’m hopeful, still praying, Mary, it’ll all have to be sold. House, lands, everything. Well, Mary, I’m sure that whoever comes after, there’ll still be need for a housekeeper, but all the same, it wouldn’t do any harm to be keeping an ear to the ground, if you know what I mean.
“You know what I think? It’s a curse. I do most certainly believe that. Someone, or something, is willing sorrow and misfortune on this household. There has not been one minute’s good luck within these walls since the year turned. Bad luck—you can feel it, Mary, sometimes. Why, it’s almost like a physical presence. You can feel it pressing down on you like an oppressive vapour. No, I’m quite serious; there is a heavy, dark atmosphere in this house. Everyone who comes notices it. Not that there’ve been too many of those—visitors, I mean.
“Oh: here, Mary, I’ll have to go … I can hear the master’s car on the gravel. I hadn’t thought he’d be so quick. In his current humour, I wouldn’t want to be caught using the telephone. Yes, I will, surely, next free day I get. And good-bye to you, too, Mary.”
Emily’s Diary: October 12, 1913
I WAS GLAD, VERY glad, to be leaving the Fitzwilliam Square Clinic, the atmosphere in Dublin has grown sour and suspicious. On every side groups of men are taking names and arms and banners to march beneath: Irish Volunteers, Irish Citizens’ Army, Fianna, Cumann na Mban, Sinn Fein, as well as the locked out workers. The streets are angry, the climate discontented. How far this autumn of disease is from impatient swallows flocking about Craigdarragh, woods full of the voice of the rooks. It makes me all the more eager to return. In the mornings the gardeners in the square sweep the paths and set fire to their little piles of leaves and the smell is enough to transport me, instantly: I am there. Blackthorn walking sticks in the hall stand; from the kitchen wafts of vinegar and pickling spice, baking pies and apples stewing with cloves; a particular golden light that shines into parts of the house it somehow never reaches in any other season; the hot stone jar down the bed and the equinoxial gales rattling the roof slates.
The sadness of the romantic imagination is to be ever disappointed that the reality never matches the imagining of it. Always in reality there are the shadows where the light will never reach, the wallpaper peeling by the skirting board, the hall stand missing a cherub and with a cracked tulip tile.
I have said I was glad to be leaving Dublin; I did not say I was glad to be home.
They did not even come to welcome me. Their only daughter, and they sent Mrs. O’Carolan in a trap with Paddy-Joe. Oh, yes, it was good to see Mrs. O’C and Paddy-Joe again, and their delight in seeing me was honestly transparent—Mrs. O’C could hardly speak a word; she must have wrung out an entire
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