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Authors: Kalyan Ray
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court. Thedrinks arrived and Blackburn paid. What the older man had said rang fair to me: Indeed, a lifetime of service, and one wrong step; which part sat heavier?
“To Mr. Daniel O’Connell,” said Blackburn, and raised his glass.
“Mr. O’Connell!” I repeated, and bolted it down. It ran like fire through me.
But Blackburn was not done with his toast. “To Mr. O’Connell, who makes politics a trade, the master of three great establishments—in Kerry, in Dublin, and in London.”
I was aghast and I knew my face showed it. I had drunk my portion. The older man turned to me and, ignoring the whiskey altogether, said to me in Gaelic, “ Ni cuimhnightear ar an aran ataithte. Eaten bread is forgotten. All that O’Connell has done will not anymore be remembered.” Then he extended his hand. “Fergus Murphy from Donegal.” I told him my name, and we shook hands.
“You’re angry with me, I can see, my friend, so let me make amends. My name is Alexander Blackburn,” said the young man to me in a conciliatory tone. “I’ve been sitting with Murphy here, talking over this matter. I too was going to see the sport at Clontarf.”
“Ach,” I said bitterly, “you would have gone there not to hear, but to tear him down later at your linen table and fine china. You went there to laugh at us roaring Irishmen.”
“Why, Mr. Aherne,” he said, amused by my helpless vehemence, “why do you think that at all? I am myself Ireland born. Does that not give us both the right to hear and judge—not simply high rhetoric in a speech, but what is plain sense without the rise of yeasty eloquence? Why can’t we talk about it here, or on the lawns of Trinity College”—he gestured expansively—“and up and down our land?” I sensed with rising anger that he needed tohave me acknowledge the superiority of his mind, and would be persistent.
I wished bitterly I had not the hedge-schooling by our Mr. O’Flaherty, but such sharp weapons of mind as his teachers at Trinity College had given him. I had never spoken to or imagined anyone like him. He could better me in argument, and I cared not to be shown up. I flung down a shilling—an entire shilling—for his whiskey I had drunk. I felt the shame of O’Connell drench me like wretched sweat.
I stormed up the stairs, into the cool night of October, and headed towards the Ha’Penny Bridge to let my heart calm by the nocturnal flow of the Liffey. The street was deserted, its shops shut fast. The toll-man had left, so I stood on a step of the bridge and leant my head against the cool metalwork. I knew nowhere in this unfamiliar city to lay down my heavy head. How long I stayed thus, I do not rightly recall, but I was rudely brought back by Blackburn’s loud laugh as they came up the street towards me. I’ll just stay here and let them pass, I told myself, as if I were Brendan trying to calm me down. Oddly enough, I had a sure feeling that quiet Brendan, our reading Brendan, would have found words to defeat this smooth city-bred Alexander Blackburn.
I stood and stared at the dark water below. I recalled what Mr. O’Flaherty had once told us. Dublin’s name came from the Gaelic, Dubh Linn , dark pool.
“There’s our Irish Hotspur,” chirped Alexander Blackburn as he sauntered up to the bridge steps. “I was telling Fergus here, we need not be simply Irish anymore. We can dream—beyond our small Ireland. The East India Company will make us fortunes. I have this to prove it.” He took out a folded paper from his coat pocket. He waved it about, as if it gave him the right to rule theworld, then put it back. “With an empire to command, we can be the masters of destiny.” I stared at him without any idea what he was on about.
“You, my friend Padraig,” began Blackburn again, his smile appearing a grimace to my eyes. Leave me alone. You belong to a different world. Let me be , I wanted to scream, but he kept talking. As the roar in my head subsided, he said to
“To Mr. Daniel O’Connell,” said Blackburn, and raised his glass.
“Mr. O’Connell!” I repeated, and bolted it down. It ran like fire through me.
But Blackburn was not done with his toast. “To Mr. O’Connell, who makes politics a trade, the master of three great establishments—in Kerry, in Dublin, and in London.”
I was aghast and I knew my face showed it. I had drunk my portion. The older man turned to me and, ignoring the whiskey altogether, said to me in Gaelic, “ Ni cuimhnightear ar an aran ataithte. Eaten bread is forgotten. All that O’Connell has done will not anymore be remembered.” Then he extended his hand. “Fergus Murphy from Donegal.” I told him my name, and we shook hands.
“You’re angry with me, I can see, my friend, so let me make amends. My name is Alexander Blackburn,” said the young man to me in a conciliatory tone. “I’ve been sitting with Murphy here, talking over this matter. I too was going to see the sport at Clontarf.”
“Ach,” I said bitterly, “you would have gone there not to hear, but to tear him down later at your linen table and fine china. You went there to laugh at us roaring Irishmen.”
“Why, Mr. Aherne,” he said, amused by my helpless vehemence, “why do you think that at all? I am myself Ireland born. Does that not give us both the right to hear and judge—not simply high rhetoric in a speech, but what is plain sense without the rise of yeasty eloquence? Why can’t we talk about it here, or on the lawns of Trinity College”—he gestured expansively—“and up and down our land?” I sensed with rising anger that he needed tohave me acknowledge the superiority of his mind, and would be persistent.
I wished bitterly I had not the hedge-schooling by our Mr. O’Flaherty, but such sharp weapons of mind as his teachers at Trinity College had given him. I had never spoken to or imagined anyone like him. He could better me in argument, and I cared not to be shown up. I flung down a shilling—an entire shilling—for his whiskey I had drunk. I felt the shame of O’Connell drench me like wretched sweat.
I stormed up the stairs, into the cool night of October, and headed towards the Ha’Penny Bridge to let my heart calm by the nocturnal flow of the Liffey. The street was deserted, its shops shut fast. The toll-man had left, so I stood on a step of the bridge and leant my head against the cool metalwork. I knew nowhere in this unfamiliar city to lay down my heavy head. How long I stayed thus, I do not rightly recall, but I was rudely brought back by Blackburn’s loud laugh as they came up the street towards me. I’ll just stay here and let them pass, I told myself, as if I were Brendan trying to calm me down. Oddly enough, I had a sure feeling that quiet Brendan, our reading Brendan, would have found words to defeat this smooth city-bred Alexander Blackburn.
I stood and stared at the dark water below. I recalled what Mr. O’Flaherty had once told us. Dublin’s name came from the Gaelic, Dubh Linn , dark pool.
“There’s our Irish Hotspur,” chirped Alexander Blackburn as he sauntered up to the bridge steps. “I was telling Fergus here, we need not be simply Irish anymore. We can dream—beyond our small Ireland. The East India Company will make us fortunes. I have this to prove it.” He took out a folded paper from his coat pocket. He waved it about, as if it gave him the right to rule theworld, then put it back. “With an empire to command, we can be the masters of destiny.” I stared at him without any idea what he was on about.
“You, my friend Padraig,” began Blackburn again, his smile appearing a grimace to my eyes. Leave me alone. You belong to a different world. Let me be , I wanted to scream, but he kept talking. As the roar in my head subsided, he said to
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