THE BOARDING HOUSE
MRS. 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 a butcher's shop near
Spring Gardens. But as soon as his father-in-law was dead Mr.
Mooney began to go to the devil. He drank, plundered the till, ran
headlong into debt. It was 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 wife with the cleaver and she
had to sleep a neighbour'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 stooped little
drunkard with a white face and a white moustache white eyebrows,
pencilled above his little eyes, which were veined and raw; and all
day long he sat in the bailiff's room, waiting to be put on a job.
Mrs. Mooney, who had taken what remained of her money out of
the butcher business and set up a boarding house in Hardwicke
Street, was a big imposing woman. 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 the
house cunningly and firmly, knew when to give credit, when to be
stern and when to let things pass. All the resident young men spoke
of her as The Madam.
Mrs. 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 favourites and outsiders. Jack Mooney, the Madam's
son, who was 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. He was also handy with the mits and sang comic
songs. On Sunday nights there would often be a reunion in Mrs.
Mooney's front drawing-room. The music-hall artistes would
oblige; and Sheridan played waltzes and polkas and vamped
accompaniments. Polly Mooney, the Madam's daughter, would
also sing. She sang:
I'm a ... naughty girl.
You needn't sham:
You know I am.
Polly was a slim girl of nineteen; she had light soft hair and a
small full mouth. Her eyes, which were grey with a shade of green
through them, had a habit of glancing upwards when she spoke
with anyone, which made her look like a little perverse madonna.
Mrs. Mooney 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 young men like to
feel that there is a young woman not very far away. Polly, of
course, flirted with the young men but Mrs. Mooney, who was a
shrewd judge, knew that the young men were only passing the time
away: none of them meant business. Things went on so for a long
time and Mrs. Mooney began to think of sending Polly back to
typewriting when she noticed that something 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 had been no
open complicity between mother and daughter, no open
understanding but, though people in the house began to talk of the
affair, still Mrs. 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, Mrs.
Mooney intervened. She dealt with moral problems as a cleaver
deals with meat: and in 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 ballooned gently towards
the street beneath the raised sashes. The belfry of George's Church
sent out constant peals and worshippers, singly or in groups,
traversed the little circus before the church, revealing their purpose
by their self-contained demeanour 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. Mrs. Mooney sat in the straw arm-chair and watched
the servant Mary remove the breakfast things. She mad 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 she 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 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
Mrs. Mooney glanced instinctively at the little gilt clock on the
mantelpiece as soon as she had become aware through her revery
that the bells of George's Church had stopped ringing. It was
seventeen minutes past eleven: she would have lots of time to have
the matter out with Mr. 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 honour and he had simply abused
her hospitality. He was thirty-four or thirty-five years of age, 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 be reparation made in such case. 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 known cases of it. But she would not do so.
For her only one reparation could make up for the loss of her
daughter's honour: marriage.
She counted all her cards again before sending Mary up to 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-voiced
like the others. If it had been Mr. Sheridan or Mr. Meade or
Bantam Lyons her task would have 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. 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
pier-glass. The decisive expression of her great florid face satisfied
her and she thought of some mothers she knew who could not get
their daughters off their hands.
Mr. Doran was very anxious indeed this Sunday 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
jaws and every two or three minutes 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 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 to
hear of it. Dublin is such a small city: everyone knows everyone
else's business. He felt his heart leap warmly in his throat as he
heard in his excited imagination old Mr. Leonard calling out in his
rasping voice: "Send Mr. Doran here, please."
All his long years of service gone for nothing! All his industry and
diligence thrown away! As a young man he had sown his wild oats,
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 passed and done with... nearly. He still bought a copy of
Reynolds'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 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 friends talking of the affair and laughing. She was a
little vulgar; some times she said "I seen" and "If I had've 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 urged 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 in shirt and
trousers she tapped lightly at 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:
"O Bob! Bob! What am I to do? What am I to do at all?"
She would put an end to herself, she said.
He comforted her feebly, telling her not to cry, that it would be all
right, never fear. He felt against his shirt the agitation of her
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 late one night as he was undressing for she had tapped
at his door, timidly. She wanted to relight her 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 instep
shone in the opening of her furry slippers and the blood glowed
warmly behind her perfumed skin. From 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 tumbler of punch ready for him. Perhaps they could be
They used to go upstairs together on tiptoe, each with a candle,
and on the third landing exchange reluctant goodnights. They used
to kiss. He remembered well her eyes, the touch of her hand and
But delirium passes. He echoed her phrase, applying it to himself:
"What am I to do?" The instinct of the celibate warned him to hold
back. But the sin was there; even his sense of honour 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 parlour.
He stood up to put on his coat and waistcoat, more helpless than
ever. When 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: "O 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 his trouble, and yet a force pushed
him downstairs step by step. The implacable faces of his employer
and of the Madam stared upon his discomfiture. On the last flight
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 or two on a thick bulldog face and
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 musichall
artistes, a little blond Londoner, had made a rather free allusion to
Polly. The reunion had been almost broken up on account of Jack's
violence. Everyone tried to quiet him. The music-hall artiste, a
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 a game on with his sister he'd bloody well put his teeth
down his throat, so he would.
Polly sat for a 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 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
She waited on patiently, almost cheerfully, without alarm. 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.
"Come down, dear. Mr. Doran wants to speak to you."
Then she remembered what she had been waiting for.