Ireland -- Emigration and Immigration -- Fiction; Ireland -- Social life and customs -- Fiction
It was comfortable to sit by the mild peat fire watching the smoke of
their pipes drifting up the chimney, and all Bryden wanted was to be
let alone; he did not want to hear of anyone's misfortunes, but about
nine o'clock a number of villagers came in, and their appearance was
depressing. Bryden remembered one or two of them--he used to know them
very well when he was a boy; their talk was as depressing as their
appearance, and he could feel no interest whatever in them. He was not
moved when he heard that Higgins the stone-mason was dead; he was not
affected when he heard that Mary Kelly, who used to go to do the
laundry at the Big House, had married; he was only interested when he
heard she had gone to America. No, he had not met her there, America is
a big place. Then one of the peasants asked him if he remembered Patsy
Carabine, who used to do the gardening at the Big House. Yes, he
remembered Patsy well. Patsy was in the poor-house. He had not been
able to do any work on account of his arm; his house had fallen in; he
had given up his holding and gone into the poor-house. All this was
very sad, and to avoid hearing any further unpleasantness, Bryden began
to tell them about America. And they sat round listening to him; but
all the talking was on his side; he wearied of it; and looking round
the group he recognised a ragged hunchback with grey hair; twenty years
ago he was a young hunchback, and, turning to him, Bryden asked him if
he were doing well with his five acres.
"Ah, not much. This has been a bad season. The potatoes failed; they
were watery--there is no diet in them."
These peasants were all agreed that they could make nothing out of
their farms. Their regret was that they had not gone to America when
they were young; and after striving to take an interest in the fact
that O'Connor had lost a mare and foal worth forty pounds Bryden began
to wish himself back in the slum. And when they left the house he
wondered if every evening would be like the present one. Mike piled
fresh sods on the fire, and he hoped it would show enough light in the
loft for Bryden to undress himself by.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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