Bram Stoker: Bram Stoker: The Complete Novels

“Do not answer. He will be angry, and there will only be a quarrel.”

And so the subject dropped.

The men mixed punch, all except Mr. Muldoon, who took his whisky cold, and Parnell, who took none. The former looked at the latter with a sort of semi-sneer, and said — “Do you mean to say you don’t take either punch or grog?”

“Well,” said Parnell, “I didn’t mean to say it, but now that you ask me I do say it. I never touch any kind of spirit, and, please God, I never will.”

“Don’t you think,” said Muldoon, “that that is setting yourself above the rest of us a good deal. We’re not too good for our liquor, but you are. That’s about the long and the short of it.”

“No, no, my friend, I say nothing of the kind. Any man is too good for liquor.”

Jerry thought the conversation was getting entirely too argumentative, so he cut in — “But a little liquor needn’t be bad for a chap if he doesn’t take too much?”

“Ay, there it is,” said Parnell, “if he doesn’t take too much. But he does take too much, and the end is that it works his ruin, body and soul.”

“Whose?”

It was Miss M’Anaspie who asked the question, and it fell like a bombshell.

Parnell, however, was equal to the emergency.

“Whose?” he repeated. “Whose? Everyone’s who begins and doesn’t know where he may leave off.” Miss M’Anaspie felt that she was answered, and looked appealingly at Mr. Muldoon, who at once came to the rescue.

“Everyone is a big word. Do you mean to tell me that every man that drinks a pint of beer or a glass of whisky, goes straight to the devil?”

“No, no; indeed I do not. God forbid that I should say any such thing. But look how many men that mean only to take one glass, are persuaded to take two, and then the wits begin to go, and they take three or four, and five, ay, and more, sometimes. Why, men and women” — he rose from his chair as he spoke, with his face all aglow, with earnestness and belief in his words, “look around you and see the misery that everywhere throngs the streets. See the pale, drunken, wasted-looking men, with sunken eyes, and slouching gait. Men that were once as strong and hard-working, and upright as any here, ay, and could look you in the face as boldly as any here. Look at them now! Afraid to meet your eyes, trembling at every sound; mad with passion one moment and with despair the next.”

The tide of his thought was pouring forth with such energy that no one spoke; even Mr. Muldoon was afraid at the time to interrupt him. He went on:

“And the women, too, God help us all. Look at them and see what part drink plays in their wretched lives. Listen to the laughter and the cries that wake the echoes in the streets at night. You that have wives, and mothers and,” (this with a glance at Tom and Pat) “sweethearts, can you hear such laughter and cries and not shudder? If you can, then when next you hear it think of what it would be for you to hear some voice that you love raised like that.”

Mr. Muldoon could not stand it any longer and spoke out:

“But come now, I can’t see how all the misery and wretchedness of the world is to be laid on a simple glass of beer.”

“Hear, hear,” said Miss M’Anaspie.

Parnell’s reply was allegorical. “Do you see how the oak springs from the acorn — the bird from the egg? I tell you that if there were no spirits there would be less sin, and shame, and sorrow than there is.”

“Oh, yes,” said Muldoon. “It would be a beautiful world entirely, and everybody would have everything, and nobody would want nothing, and we’d all be grand fellows. Eh, Miss Margaret, what do you think?”

“Hear, hear,” said Miss M’Anaspie, more timidly than before, however, at the same time looking over at Mrs. O’Sullivan, who was looking not too well pleased at her.

“Ah, sir,” said Parnell, sadly, “God knows that we, men and women, are not what we ought to be, and sin will be in the world, I suppose, till the time that is told. But this I say, that drink is the greatest enemy that man has on earth.”

“Why, you’re quite an enthusiast,” said Mr. Muldoon; “one would think you were inspired.”

“I would I were inspired. I wish my voice was of gold, and that I could make men hear me all over the world, and that I could make the stars ring again with cries against the madness that men bring upon themselves.”

“Upon my life,” said Mr. Muldoon, “you should be on the stage. You have missed your vocation. By the way, what is your vocation?”

“I am a hatter.”

Miss M’Anaspie blurted out suddenly, “Mad as a hatter,” and then suddenly got red in the face, and shut up completely as she saw her employer’s eye fixed on her with a glare almost baleful in its intensity.

Mr. Muldoon laughed loudly, and slapped his fat knees as he ejaculated — “Brayvo, brayvo. One for his nob — mad as a hatter. That accounts for the enthusiasm.” Then, seeing a look of such genuine pain on Katey’s face that even his obtuseness could not hide from him how deeply he was hurting her, added — “Of course, Mr. Parnell, I am only joking; but still it is not bad — mad as a hatter. Ha, ha!”

No one said anything more, and no one laughed; and so the matter was dropped.

Jerry felt that a gloom had fallen on the assemblage, and tried to lift it by starting a new topic.

“Do you know,” said he, “I had a letter from John Sebright the other day, and he tells me if you want to make money England’s the place.”

“Indeed,” said his mother, satirically.

Going to England was an old “fad” of Jerry’s, and one which had caused his mother many an anxious hour of thought, and many a sleepless night.

“Yes,” answered Jerry, “he says there is more work there than here, and better paid; and that a man has ten chances for gettin’ on for one he has here.”

“The one chance often wins when the ten fail,” said Parnell.

“And it’s worse losing ten pounds than one,” added Margaret.

“And some girls’ tongues are as long as ten,” said Mrs. O’Sullivan, who could not bear anything which tended to make light of her wishes with regard to Jerry, and so determined to put a stop to Miss M’Anaspie’s volubility.

Mr. Muldoon, however, came to the rescue.

“And some girls who have been for ten years in misery and discomfort find sometimes that one year brings them all they want.”

Miss M’Anaspie put her handkerchief before her face, and again dead silence fell on the assembly. Parnell broke it.

“Jerry, put the idea out of your head. You know that you couldn’t go now even if you wanted, and there is no use sighing for what can’t be.”

“I don’t know that,” said Jerry argumentatively. “I could go now with Katey and the young ones, just as well as if I was a boy still; ay, and better, for she would keep me out of harm.”

Parnell said with great feeling, “That’s right, Jerry; stick up for the wife and stick to her too, for she’s worth it. Do you but keep to your wife, and the home that she will always make for you, as long as you let her, and you may go when and where you will, and your hands will find work.”

Katey began to cry. She was still a little delicate, and anything which touched her feelings upset her very much. There was an immediate rush of all the women in the room to comfort her.

Jerry offered her some of his punch, but she put the glass aside, saying —

“No, no, dear, I never take it.”

“Come, come,” said Mr. Muldoon, “Mrs. Katey, this will never do, you must take it. It is good for you.”

“No, it is good for no one.”

“Come now, Mr. Parnell,” said Mr. Muldoon, “don’t you know a sup of liquor would do her good? Tell her so.”