Liam O'Flaherty: Land

Elizabeth’s upper lip quivered as the door closed after her niece. She blinked and her brown eyes became tender almost to the point of tears.

“She is very beautiful,” she said to herself. “May God protect her. This is no fit place for such a rare creature.”

She glanced around the living-room with disapproval. It certainly looked shabby and gloomy on a day like this. The wains-cotting was darkened by age. The carpet was worn to its threads here and there. The leather-covered sofa, the chairs, the turf fire on the hearth looked sordid in contrast with the radiant charm that the young girl had brought with her from Paris.

Elizabeth shuddered as she had done on hearing the shooting. Her eyes got hard. She pursed up her lips and went to a flower vase that lay on a small table near the window. She was growing afraid that her mode of life, which had been so static and peaceful for a great many years, was now confronted with violence and a destruction of intimate values.

While she was arranging the daffodils in the empty vase, the house servant came into the room with a large jug of water.

“Here is the water, Miss Elizabeth,” the servant said.

“Did you hear the shooting, Annie?” said Elizabeth without looking at the servant.

Annie Fitzpatrick halted halfway across the floor on hearing this question. She was a stout and red-faced person of thirty-five, with flaxen hair that lay matted against her brick-red cheeks. She was perspiring freely from her work in the kitchen.

“God between us and harm,” she said, “I didn’t hear a sound in the kitchen.”

She stood still for two or three seconds with her mouth wide open, like a person badly frightened. Yet her little blue eyes did not look at all afraid. On the contrary, they had a very cunning expression as they looked at Elizabeth. Then she approached her employer, walking on tip-toe and with her neck thrust forward, like a goose in hurried movement.

“Was it on the grounds of Manister House the shooting was?” she said in an awed whisper as she handed over the jug.

“It was,” said Elizabeth.

“Glory be to God!” Annie said. “Then it was Captain Butcher they were after, God forgive them.”

Elizabeth looked sharply at the woman.

“What do you mean, Annie?” she said in a low voice. “Did you hear something in the village?”

Annie put her cupped hands in front of her mouth and rolled her eyes upwards. It was the gesture of a person who is mortified at having unintentionally disclosed a secret.

“What on earth is the matter with you?” Elizabeth said severely. “Why don’t you answer my question?”

Annie’s face became hostile. She hid her hands behind her apron, stepped back two paces and assumed an arrogant pose.

“Arrah! What would I hear?” she cried in an insolent tone. “These are no times to be asking for that class of information, Miss Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth closed her thin lips very tightly.

“I just asked you a civil question,” she said.

Annie curtsied and said:

“Sorry, miss. I heard nothing at all in the village.”

She had become humble again, just as suddenly as she had become arrogant.

“You may go,” Elizabeth said haughtily.

She watched the servant go out of the room. Then she poured water on the flowers, went to the hearth and threw some sods of turf from a willow basket on to the fire. The fresh sods began to smoke almost at once. An acrid smell of peat pervaded the room. She brought a chair to the front of the fire and sat down. She began to brood on the peculiar intensity with which the serving woman had become hostile to her on being asked a simple question.

“How depressing it all is!” she said to herself bitterly. “Even though I have become a Catholic, Annie still looks on me as an enemy. It really is very depressing.”

At that moment, a horrid sound came to her ears. It was the melancholy howl of a bloodhound. She got to her feet at once and looked towards the window with her lips parted.

“You see, Aunt,” Lettice cried as she came bounding into the room, “that I have changed my shoes like an obedient child.”

She closed the door, held up her skirts on either side and exposed her shoes for inspection. Finding that Elizabeth paid no heed to her, she dropped her skirts once more and hurried forward to the fireplace.

“Is there something the matter?” she said softly.

“It’s that dog again,” Elizabeth said. “I just heard him howl.”

“I did hear howling as I came downstairs,” Lettice said. “Does it upset you terribly?”

“It’s that dreadful Cuban bloodhound belonging to Captain Butcher,” said Elizabeth. “Last winter he nearly drove me insane. Ever since Lord Leitrim was murdered last April, Captain Butcher has been in deadly fear of his life. The curse has fallen on him. Night and day, he goes about with that slavering creature. He has …”

She interrupted herself, shuddered and sat down abruptly. Lettice glanced towards the window and frowned. Then she shrugged her shoulders, as if casting aside the evil influence of the brute. She smiled and crouched on the floor at her aunt’s feet.

“It’s only a dog,” she whispered gently, caressing Elizabeth’s knees with her arms. “One shouldn’t allow oneself to be disturbed by such an ordinary creature.”

“It’s not the dog, but what it means,” said Elizabeth, staring fixedly into the fire. “Captain Butcher, even though he is so bucolic and English, is just as nervous as the rest of us. The curse has fallen on him.”

“What curse?” Lettice said.

Elizabeth looked at her niece intently.

“Did your father tell you nothing about the history of our family?” she said.

“Not very much,” Lettice said. “In fact, he hardly ever mentioned Ireland until he suddenly announced that we were coming here. Then he told me quite a lot, but nothing at all about his ancestors. I always felt that …”

The dog began to howl once more. Elizabeth uttered an exclamation of terror and gripped Lettice by the shoulders. They both listened intently until the howling ended on a weird note of despair.

“It’s really aggravating,” Lettice said, becoming affected by her aunt’s nervousness. “May I get you a glass of water?”

Before Elizabeth could answer, the door opened and her brother Raoul came into the room.

“What is the meaning of this infernal howling?” Raoul cried angrily as he shut the door behind him with violence. “I had just got over the depression caused by the beastly fog when …”

“Hush, Father,” Lettice said gently. “Aunt Elizabeth is not feeling well.”

Raoul looked from his daughter to his sister and back again. Then he made a gesture of hopelessness with his outstretched hands.

“It’s all very primitive,” he said. “I can’t cope with it.”

He was in his fifty-first year, but time had dealt far more leniently with him than with his sister. His appearance was remarkably youthful. There was hardly a trace of grey in his reddish hair and his face was without lines. He wore a small Vandyke beard, neatly trimmed. His features were handsome and showed breeding. His eyes were particularly attractive, light-blue in colour, mobile and intelligent. His nose was long and aquiline. He gave an impression of great haughtiness with his body held erect and tense, like an actor poised for the delivery of a choice speech. The oddity of his dress gave force to this impression of conceit. He wore a black velvet jacket, girdled by a cord of purple silk that hung far down his side, with thick tassels at the end. Black trousers and black patent-leather shoes, together with a soft white shirt that was open at the throat in poetic style, completed his costume.