Speaker 1: Story seven of Dubliner's. This is a LibriVox recording. All
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Speaker 1: Bruce Peirie. Dubliner's by James Joyce. Story seven, The boarding House.
Speaker 1: Missus Mooney was a butcher's daughter. She was a woman
Speaker 1: who was quite able to keep things to herself. A
Speaker 1: determined woman, she had married her father's foreman and opened
Speaker 1: a butcher's shop near Spring Gardens. But as soon as
Speaker 1: his father in law was dead, mister Mooney began to
Speaker 1: go to the devil. He drank, plundered the till ran
Speaker 1: headlong into debt. It was no use making him take
Speaker 1: the pledge. He was sure to break out again a
Speaker 1: few days after. By fighting his wife in the presence
Speaker 1: of customers, and by buying bad meat. He ruined his business.
Speaker 1: One night he went for his wife with the cleaver,
Speaker 1: and she had to sleep in a neighbor's house. After
Speaker 1: that they lived apart. She went to the priest and
Speaker 1: got a separation from him with care of the children.
Speaker 1: She would give him neither money, nor food nor house room,
Speaker 1: and so he was obliged to enlist himself as a
Speaker 1: sheriff's man. He was a shabby, stooped, little drunkard with
Speaker 1: a white face and a white mustache, and white eyebrows
Speaker 1: penciled above his little eyes, which were veined and raw,
Speaker 1: and all day long he sat in the bailiff's room
Speaker 1: waiting to be put on a job. Missus Mooney, who
Speaker 1: had taken what remained of her money out of the
Speaker 1: butcher business and set up a boarding house in Hardwick Street,
Speaker 1: was a big, imposing woman. Her house had a floating
Speaker 1: population made up of tourists from Liverpool and the Isle
Speaker 1: of Man and occasionally artistes from the music halls. Its
Speaker 1: resident population was made up of clerks from the city.
Speaker 1: She governed the house cunningly and firmly, knew when to
Speaker 1: give credit, when to be stern, and when to let
Speaker 1: things pass. All the resident young men spoke of her
Speaker 1: as the Madam. Missus Mooney's young men paid fifteen shillings
Speaker 1: a week for board and lodgings, beer or stout at
Speaker 1: dinner excluded. They shared in common tastes and occupations, and
Speaker 1: for this reason they were very chummy with one another.
Speaker 1: They discussed with one another the chances of favorites and outsiders.
Speaker 1: Jack Mooney, the Madam's son, who was clerk to a
Speaker 1: commission agent in Fleet Street, had the reputation of being
Speaker 1: a hard case. He was fond of using soldiers obscenities.
Speaker 1: Usually he came home in the small hours. When he
Speaker 1: met his friends, he always had a good one to
Speaker 1: tell them that he was always sure to be on
Speaker 1: to a good thing thing, that is to say, a
Speaker 1: likely horse or a likely artiste. He was also handy
Speaker 1: with the mits and sang comic songs. On Sunday nights,
Speaker 1: there would often be a reunion in Missus Mooney's front
Speaker 1: drawing room. The music hall artistes would oblige and Sheridan
Speaker 1: played waltzes and polkas and vamped accompaniments. Polly Mooney, the
Speaker 1: Madam's daughter, would also sing. She sang I'm a naughty girl.
Speaker 1: You needn't sham you know I am. Polly was a
Speaker 1: slim girl of nineteen. She had light, soft hair and
Speaker 1: small full mouth. Her eyes, which were gray with a
Speaker 1: shade of green through them, had a habit of glancing
Speaker 1: upwards when she spoke with anyone, which made her look
Speaker 1: like a little perverse madonna. Missus Mooney had first sent
Speaker 1: her daughter to be a typist in a corn factor's office,
Speaker 1: but as a disreputable sheriff Smell used to come every
Speaker 1: other day to the office asking to be allowed to
Speaker 1: say a word to his daughter. She had taken her
Speaker 1: daughter home again and set her to do housework. As
Speaker 1: Polly was very lively, the intention was to give her
Speaker 1: the run of the young men. Besides, young men like
Speaker 1: to feel that there is a young woman not very
Speaker 1: far away. Polly, of course flirted with the young men,
Speaker 1: but missus Mooney, who was a shrewd judge, knew that
Speaker 1: the young men were only passing the time away, none
Speaker 1: of them meant business. Things went on so for a
Speaker 1: long time, and missus Mooney began to think of sending
Speaker 1: Polly back to typewriting. When she noticed that something was
Speaker 1: going on between Polly and one of the young men,
Speaker 1: she watched the pair and kept her own counsel. Polly
Speaker 1: knew she was being watched, but still her mother's persistent
Speaker 1: silence could not be misunderstood. There had been no open
Speaker 1: complicity between mother and Dawe, no open understanding, But though
Speaker 1: people in the house began to talk of the affair.
Speaker 1: Still Missus Mooney did not intervene. Polly began to grow
Speaker 1: a little strange in her manner, and the young man
Speaker 1: was evidently perturbed. At last, when she judged it to
Speaker 1: be the right moment, Missus Mooney intervened. She dealt with
Speaker 1: moral problems as a cleaver deals with meat, and in
Speaker 1: this case she had made up her mind. It was
Speaker 1: a bright Sunday morning of early summer, promising heat, but
Speaker 1: with a fresh breeze blowing. All the windows of the
Speaker 1: boarding house were open, and the lace curtains ballooned gently
Speaker 1: towards the street beneath the raised sashes. The belfry of
Speaker 1: George's Church sent out constant peals and worshippers, sinkly or
Speaker 1: in groups, traversed the little circus before the church, revealing
Speaker 1: their purpose by their self contained demeanor, no less than
Speaker 1: by the little volumes in their gloved hands. Breakfast was
Speaker 1: over in the boarding house, and the table of the
Speaker 1: breakfast room was covered with plates on which lay yellow
Speaker 1: streaks of eggs, with morsels of bacon fat and bacon rind.
Speaker 1: Missus Mooney sat in the straw arm chair and watched
Speaker 1: the servant Mary remove the breakfast things. She made Mary
Speaker 1: collect the crusts and pieces of broken bread to help
Speaker 1: make Tuesday's bread pudding. When the table was cleared the
Speaker 1: broken bread, collected, the sugar and butter safe under lock
Speaker 1: and key, she began to reconstruct the interview which she
Speaker 1: had had the night before with Polly. Things were as
Speaker 1: she had suspected. She had been frank in her questions,
Speaker 1: and Polly had been frank in her answers. Both had
Speaker 1: been somewhat awkward. Of course, she had been made awkward
Speaker 1: by her not wishing to receive the news in too
Speaker 1: cavalier a fashion, or to seem to have connived, And
Speaker 1: Polly had been made awkward, not merely because a usions
Speaker 1: of that kind always made her awkward, but also because
Speaker 1: she did not wish it to be thought that, in
Speaker 1: her wise innocence, she had divined the intention behind her
Speaker 1: mother's tolerance. Missus Mooney glanced instinctively at the little gilt
Speaker 1: clock on the mantelpiece as soon as she became aware
Speaker 1: through her reverie that the bells of George's Church had
Speaker 1: stopped ringing it was seventeen minutes past eleven. She would
Speaker 1: have lots of time to have the matter out with
Speaker 1: mister Darrin and then catch short twelve at Marlborough Street.
Speaker 1: She was sure she would win. To begin with, she
Speaker 1: had all the weight of social opinion on her side.
Speaker 1: She was an outraged mother. She had allowed him to
Speaker 1: live beneath her roof, assuming that he was a man
Speaker 1: of honor, and he had simply abused her hospitality. He
Speaker 1: was thirty four or thirty five years of age, so
Speaker 1: that youth could not be pleaded as his excuse, nor
Speaker 1: could ignorance be his excuse. Since he was a man
Speaker 1: who had seen something of the world. He had simply
Speaker 1: taken advantage of Polly's youth and inexperience. That was evident.
Speaker 1: The question was what reparation would he make. There must
Speaker 1: be reparation made in such a case. It is all
Speaker 1: very well for the man. He can go his ways
Speaker 1: as if nothing had happened, having had his moment of pleasure.
Speaker 1: But the girl has to bear the brunt. Some mothers
Speaker 1: would be content to patch up such an affair for
Speaker 1: a sum of money. She had known cases of it,
Speaker 1: but she would not do so. For her. Only one
Speaker 1: reparation could make up for the loss of her daughter's
Speaker 1: honor marriage. She counted all her cards again before sending
Speaker 1: Mary up to mister Dorn's room to say that she
Speaker 1: wished to speak with him. She felt sure she would win.
Speaker 1: He was a serious young man, not rakish or loud
Speaker 1: voiced life like the others. If it had been mister
Speaker 1: Sheridan or mister Mead or Bantam Lyons, her task would
Speaker 1: have been much harder. She did not think he would
Speaker 1: face publicity. All the lodgers in the house knew something
Speaker 1: of the affair. Details had been invented by some. Besides,
Speaker 1: he had been employed for thirteen years in a great
Speaker 1: Catholic wine merchant's office, and publicity would mean for him
Speaker 1: perhaps the loss of his job, Whereas if he agreed,
Speaker 1: all might be well. She knew he had a good screw,
Speaker 1: for one thing, and she suspected he had a bit
Speaker 1: of stuff put By nearly the half hour, she stood
Speaker 1: up and surveyed herself in the pier glass. The decisive
Speaker 1: expression of her great florid face satisfied her, and she
Speaker 1: thought of some mothers she knew who could not get
Speaker 1: their daughters off their hands. Mister Doran was very anxious, indeed,
Speaker 1: this Sunday morning. He had made two attempts to shave,
Speaker 1: but his hand had been so unsteady that he had
Speaker 1: been obliged to desist three days. Reddish beard fringed his jaws,
Speaker 1: and every two or three minutes a mist gathered on
Speaker 1: his glasses, so that he had to take them off
Speaker 1: and polish them with his pocket handkerchief. The recollection of
Speaker 1: his confession of the night before was a cause of
Speaker 1: acute pain to him. The priest had drawn out every
Speaker 1: ridiculous detail of the affair, and in the end had
Speaker 1: so magnified his sin that he was almost thankful at
Speaker 1: being afforded a loophole of reparation. The harm was done.
Speaker 1: What could he do now but marry her or run away.
Speaker 1: He could not brazen it out. The affair would be
Speaker 1: sure to be talked of, and his employer would be
Speaker 1: certain to hear of it. Dublin is such a small city.
Speaker 1: Every one knows every one else's business. He felt his
Speaker 1: heart leap warmly in his throat as he heard in
Speaker 1: his excited imagination old mister Leonard calling out in his
Speaker 1: rasping voice, send mister Darrin here, please. All his long
Speaker 1: years of service gone for nothing, all his industry and
Speaker 1: diligence thrown away. As a young man, he had sown
Speaker 1: his wild oats. Of course, he had boasted of his
Speaker 1: free thinking and denied the existence of God to his
Speaker 1: companions in public houses. But that was all past and
Speaker 1: done with. Nearly he still bought a copy of Reynold's
Speaker 1: newspaper every week, but he attended to his religious duties,
Speaker 1: and for nine tenths of the year lived a regular life.
Speaker 1: He had money enough to settle down on. It was
Speaker 1: not that but the family would look down on her.
Speaker 1: First of all, there was her disreputable father, and then
Speaker 1: her mother's boarding house was beginning to get a certain fame.
Speaker 1: He had a notion that he was being had. He
Speaker 1: could imagine his friends talking of the affair and laughing.
Speaker 1: She was a little vulgar sometimes, she said, I seen,
Speaker 1: and if I had of known. But what would grammar matter?
Speaker 1: If you really loved her. He could not make up
Speaker 1: his mind whether to like her or despise her for
Speaker 1: what she had done. Of course, he had done it too.
Speaker 1: His instinct urged him to remain free, not to marry.
Speaker 1: Once you are married, you are done for it said.
Speaker 1: While he was sitting helplessly on the side of the
Speaker 1: bed in shirt and trousers. She tapped lightly at his
Speaker 1: door and entered. She told him all that she had
Speaker 1: made a clean breast of it to her mother, and
Speaker 1: that her mother would speak with him. That morning. She
Speaker 1: cried and threw her arms round his neck, saying, Oh, Bob, bob,
Speaker 1: what am I to do? What am I to do?
Speaker 1: At all? She would put an end to herself, she said.
Speaker 1: He comforted her, feebly, telling her not to cry, that
Speaker 1: it would be all right. Never fear. He felt against
Speaker 1: his shirt the agitation of her bosom. It was not
Speaker 1: altogether his fault that it had happened, he remembered well
Speaker 1: with the curious patient memory of the sulibate. The first
Speaker 1: casual caresses, her dress, her breath, her fingers had given him. Then,
Speaker 1: late one night, as he was undressing for bed, she
Speaker 1: had tapped at his door timidly. She wanted to relight
Speaker 1: her candle at his, for hers had been blown out
Speaker 1: by a gust. It was her bath night. She wore
Speaker 1: a loose, open combing jacket of printed flannel. Her white
Speaker 1: in step shone in the opening of her slippers, and
Speaker 1: the blood glowed warmly behind her. Perfumed skin from her
Speaker 1: hands and wrists too, as she lit and steadied her candle,
Speaker 1: a faint perfume arose. On nights when he came in
Speaker 1: very late, it was she who warmed up his dinner.
Speaker 1: He scarcely knew what he was eating, feeling her beside
Speaker 1: him alone at night in the sleeping house, and her thoughtfulness.
Speaker 1: If the night was anyway cold or wet or windy,
Speaker 1: there was sure to be a little tumbler of punch
Speaker 1: ready for him. Perhaps they could be happy together. They
Speaker 1: used to go upstairs together on tiptoe, each with a candle,
Speaker 1: and on the third landing exchange reluctant good nights. They
Speaker 1: used to kiss. He remembered well her eyes, the touch
Speaker 1: of her hand, and his delirium. But delirium passes. He
Speaker 1: echoed her phrase, applying it to himself. What am I
Speaker 1: to do? The instinct of the celibate warned him to
Speaker 1: hold back, But the sin was there. Even his sense
Speaker 1: of honor told him that reparation must be made for
Speaker 1: such a sin. While he was sitting with her on
Speaker 1: the side of the bed, Mary came to the door
Speaker 1: and said that the misses wanted to see him in
Speaker 1: the parlor. He stood up to put on his coat
Speaker 1: and waistcoat, more helpless than ever. When he was dressed,
Speaker 1: he went over to her to comfort her. It would
Speaker 1: be all right. Never fear. He left her crying on
Speaker 1: the bed and moaning softly, Oh my God. Going down
Speaker 1: the stairs, his glasses became so dimmed with moisture that
Speaker 1: he had to take them off and polished them. He
Speaker 1: longed to ascend through the roof and fly away to
Speaker 1: another country where he would never hear again of his trouble.
Speaker 1: And yet a force pushed him downstairs, step by step.
Speaker 1: The implacable faces of his employer and of the madam
Speaker 1: stared upon his discomfiture. On the last flight of stairs,
Speaker 1: he passed Jack Mooney, who was coming up from the
Speaker 1: pantry nursing two bottles of bath. They saluted coldly, and
Speaker 1: the lover's eyes rested for a second or two on
Speaker 1: a thick bulldog face and a pair of thick short arms.
Speaker 1: When he reached the foot of the staircase, he glanced
Speaker 1: up and saw Jack regarding him from the door of
Speaker 1: the return room. Suddenly, he remembered the night when one
Speaker 1: of the music hall artistes, a little blonde Londoner, had
Speaker 1: made a rather free allusion to Polly. The reunion had
Speaker 1: been almost broken up on account of Jack's violence. Everyone
Speaker 1: tried to quiet him. The music hall artiste, a little
Speaker 1: paler than usual, kept smiling and saying that there was
Speaker 1: no harm meant. But Jack kept shouting at him that
Speaker 1: if any fellow tried that sort of game on with
Speaker 1: his sister, he'd bloody well put his teeth down his
Speaker 1: throat so he would. Polly sat for a little time
Speaker 1: on the side of the bed, crying. Then she dried
Speaker 1: her eyes and went over to the looking glass. She
Speaker 1: dipped the end of the towel in the water jug
Speaker 1: and refreshed her eyes with the cool water. She looked
Speaker 1: at herself in profile and readjusted a hairpin above her ear.
Speaker 1: Then she went back to the bed again and sat
Speaker 1: at the foot. She regarded the pillows for a long time,
Speaker 1: and the sight of them awakened in her mind secret,
Speaker 1: amiable memories. She rested the nape of her neck against
Speaker 1: the cool iron bed rail and fell into a reverie.
Speaker 1: There was no longer any perturbation visible on her face.
Speaker 1: She waited on patiently, almost cheerfully without alarm, her memories
Speaker 1: gradually giving place to hopes and visions of the future.
Speaker 1: Her hopes and visions were so intricate that she no
Speaker 1: longer saw the white pillows on which her gaze was fixed,
Speaker 1: or remembered that she was waiting for anything. At last,
Speaker 1: she heard her mother calling. She started to her feet
Speaker 1: and ran to the banisters. Polly, Polly, yes, Mamma, come down,
Speaker 1: dear mister Doran wants to speak to you. Then she
Speaker 1: remembered what she had been waiting for. End of the
Speaker 1: boarding house,