Liam O'Flaherty - Land

Looking at this scene, which he had grown to hate intensely, Fenton’s ill temper turned to apathy. He withdrew from the window, sighed and threw himself once more into the chair. He grasped the arms, no longer sensitive to contact with the foul stuffing that lay exposed. He closed his eyes, let his head loll to one side and drew in a deep breath. For a moment, as he exhaled slowly, he had the feeling of being pleasantly tired and sleepy. This pleasant feeling ended abruptly and he jumped to his feet in a state of panic. His mind had recalled with devilish clarity, in that instant of pleasant relaxation, his shameful experience at the hamlet of Sram.

“I must go to her,” he cried aloud. “Otherwise I’ll go mad.”

Relieved by having decided on a course of action, he quickly regained control of himself. He carefully brushed his hair and his uniform, put a clove in his mouth to neutralize the smell of alcohol, locked the whisky in the cupboard and went downstairs. His eyes were blurred and his legs felt somewhat unsteady, but his handsome face gave no sign of the commotion within him. If anything, he looked more cold and contemptuous than usual.

While he waited downstairs for his horse to be brought around, he was accosted by two men of his acquaintance. One of them was a barrister called James Stagg. The other was Fintan Corbett, owner and editor of the local government newspaper. Both of these men were noted in the district for their drunken and lascivious practices. Stagg was still young and attractive, with laughing blue eyes and a splendid body. Corbett was short and corpulent, with a repulsive face. When they halted before Fenton in the hall and invited him hilariously to drink with them, the District Inspector saluted coldly and stepped aside to let them pass. He had scrupulously avoided the company of the more dissolute among the supporters of the British Government since his arrival in Clash. He knew very well that failure to follow that rule was fatal for English officials in Ireland.

Seeing that Fenton was intent on snubbing their friendly approaches, Stagg and Corbett became hostile.

“Look here, Fenton,” Corbett said, “you’re not in a position to lord it over anybody.”

“Damned if he is,” Stagg said.

“As editor of the Clash Sentinel,” Corbett said, “I hold you in the hollow of my hand.”

“And that’s putting it mildly,” Stagg said.

“This morning’s affair at Sram …” Corbett continued.

“Now run along, you two,” Fenton interrupted haughtily.

“I don’t like your attitude, Fenton,” said Stagg. “It’s not that I want your company. Far from it. It’s simply that I refuse to take insults from an Englishman.”

Stagg was an Englishman himself, having come to Ireland as a child. In his sober moments, which were not frequent, he was a loyal subject of the Queen. In drink, however, he became perverse and invariably abused his own race.

“I can break you like that,” Corbett said in a vindictive tone, as he slowly closed his small fist before Fenton’s mouth. “You bungled the Manister outrage. Even the town dogs know the criminal, yet you can’t lay hands on him.”

“True and even too true,” said Stagg.

“There was a leading article in The Times,” Corbett continued, “asking why there were no arrests in Manister. I’ll give you the answer. Fear, sir, is the answer. We have a coward in charge of our Constabulary.”

“Enough of that,” Fenton snapped, losing his self-control. “Run along at once, or you’ll regret your insolence.”

“Indeed!” cried Stagg, assuming a belligerent pose. “Is the hero of Sram threatening us with violence?”

“Sram will go down in history,” said Corbett, raising his voice, “as the scene of a most gross insult to the honour of Her Majesty’s forces. The humble village of Sram, hitherto the most obscure hamlet in our county, if not in the whole world …”

“I’m giving you a last warning, Corbett,” cried Fenton.

“Take care, Fenton,” Stagg shouted. “I don’t like threats. You’re behaving like a cad.”

Corbett, who had been pushed to the rear by the gesticulating Stagg, now plunged forward and tapped Fenton sharply on the uniform with his knuckles.

“Can you deny having struck an old man?” he shouted. “A feeble old man in his dotage. One word from me in the Sentinel and you are a ruined man. I’m read in influential quarters.”

One of the hotel servants, a powerful man with prominent upper teeth, now seized Corbett by both arms from behind and rushed him smartly off towards the bar.

“A feeble old man in his dotage,” Corbett shouted furiously as he was being frog-marched, with his feet barely touching the ground. “You struck him on the top of his head with your whip-handle.”

“Hey! You!” cried Stagg, dashing after the servant. “Let go my friend, you insolent dolt.”

With a drunken shout of glee, he thrust out his foot and tripped the fellow who frog-marched Corbett. Both Corbett and the servant rolled to the floor. A group of English commercial travellers, attracted by the commotion, came from the bar at that moment. Seeing Corbett on the floor beneath the hotel servant, they mistook the nature of the struggle. They came to grips with the servant before the fellow was able to explain. Stagg now took sides with the man he had tripped. He began to address the commercial travellers in most offensive language.

“You are a gang of ruffians,” he cried, “spreading like a rash over the world, carriers of shoddy goods and vulgarity. You are microbes, bearing the foul disease of capitalism. You are the personal enemies of good taste.”

Fenton’s horse having arrived, he mounted the animal and rode away in haste, in order to escape from this unfortunate adventure. The rain had now ceased, leaving the ground in a very muddy state. As he crossed the bridge, he rode close to the two women that had been quarrelling. They were now seated on the pavement, with the basket between them, sharing the fish that had been the cause of their struggle. The horse threw mud on them as he passed close to the pavement. One of them cursed him with vigour. This slight incident, coming immediately after the scandalous scene at the hotel, made him lash his horse at a breakneck gallop through the town, much to the astonishment of those who chanced to recognise him. He did not draw rein until he had gone half a mile along the Manister road. After a brief spell he again spurred the animal, seeking escape from his thoughts in violent movement. Both the horse and himself were perspiring heavily when they reached the police barracks at Manister.

He inspected the garrison hurriedly, in order to give his journey the appearance of a routine visit. Then he rode on to Manister House. He now let the tired horse walk slowly up the rising ground. He sat with his head drooping, in a melancholy stupor, rolling from side to side in the saddle.

Six weeks had passed since he was last in the demesne. The trees on either side of the smooth drive were now in full leaf. They made a closed arch with their branches over the road.

Everything was very different from that other day. Now there was no feeling of exaltation in the air. The earth no longer gave forth a disturbing scent. The sky had remained overcast after the rain. It looked sinister. A sharp wind came whispering down from the hills.

Barbara stood by a bay window that gave on to the lawn. With her head turned a little to one side, she listened in passionate absorption to a song that came from the direction of the stables. She was dressed in black. She did not turn round at once when the butler announced Fenton’s entrance.

Agitated by the sensual effect that her presence always had on him, Fenton almost tripped over the carpet several times as he marched down the drawing-room.