Liam O'Flaherty: Land

He came over to his sister, took her hand and kissed it.

“Poor Lizzie!” he said. “It was very inconsiderate of me. I have lived too long apart from my own people. I’ve got into the habit of behaving like a boor as a result.”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk such nonsense, Raoul,” Elizabeth said irritably.

She turned to Lettice and added:

“Would you please take that jug into the kitchen?”

Lettice took the jug from the table by the window and left the room.

“Did you hear the shooting, Raoul?” Elizabeth said when the door had closed behind her niece.

“Shooting?” Raoul said. “Why do you ask?”

“There was a good deal of firing in the direction of Manister House a little while ago,” Elizabeth said.

“What of it?” Raoul said. “Surely, that’s nothing odd. I’ve heard almost enough gunfire to suggest a major battle from that direction every day since my return. Our unspeakable neighbour evidently worships firearms.”

“I’m afraid there has been an attempt on his life,” said Elizabeth, peering upwards at her brother.

“On Captain Butcher’s life?” said Raoul, becoming interested. “What makes you think that?”

“I’ve been expecting it for some time,” Elizabeth said. “A remark that Annie let drop a few minutes ago convinces me. …”

“Very interesting,” Raoul interrupted excitedly.

“Raoul, I’m very worried,” Elizabeth continued, raising her voice a little. “The whole county is on the verge of revolt. The people are afraid that there is going to be another famine. They are in an ugly mood.”

“You think so?” Raoul said, caressing his beard gently with the tips of his fingers.

He looked out the window with his head a little to one side. There was a brooding look in his eyes for a few moments. Then he laughed suddenly, showing a perfect set of little white teeth. His face looked boyish and irresponsible when he laughed.

“Why must you always be so frivolous, Raoul?” said Elizabeth irritably.

“I don’t feel in the least frivolous, Lizzie,” Raoul said as he began to pace the floor with his hands behind his back. “It’s just that the sound of certain words intensely affects me. Revolt, for instance, strikes me as being comic. It has a peculiarly frustrated sound, and frustration, of course, is the basis of all clowning.”

“You have a very peculiar sense of humour,” Elizabeth said, “but it’s not going to be very amusing if there is a revolt of the peasants.”

“You think not?” said Raoul. “I grant you that it’s not going to be very amusing for the landlords. For us, though, it might be quite amusing. It would certainly be very amusing to see how our loathsome neighbour dealt with the situation.”

“You don’t seem to realize,” Elizabeth said, “that the people hate us just as violently as they hate Captain Butcher, Lord Mongoole, Miss Piggott and the rest.”

“Nonsense,” said Raoul.

“I assure you that it’s not,” Elizabeth said heatedly. “A few minutes ago, the servant turned on me savagely when I asked her a simple question. I could see in her eyes that she hated me bitterly at that moment. It was nothing personal; of that I feel sure. However, it was something far worse than a personal hatred. One can deal with that, but not with a blind and stupid resentment of one’s class and of one’s breeding.”

“I repeat that it’s nonsense,” Raoul said imperturbably. “We are déclassés, my dear Lizzie. The people may despise us, as they probably do, but they don’t hate us. Only the strong are ever hated. Our people came here at the end of the twelfth century. They were Norman adventurers that settled in the country by force, appropriated the land and assumed the privileges of feudal lords. In those days there was nothing criminal about being a feudal lord. It was the best means that the human species had, in this part of the world at least, for maintaining order. Our ancestors, on the whole, were good feudal lords. They owned a barony of land. They built Killuragh Castle. They built the town of Clash and developed a very important commerce with the Spanish Empire. They were the first people in Ireland, according to the records, to introduce the wearing of silk underwear and the waxing of the moustaches …”

“Stop it, Raoul,” Elizabeth interrupted, just as Lettice entered the room on tip-toe. “Your daughter is present. She is now old enough to be misguided by a frivolous attitude towards life on your part.”

Raoul halted and put his hands to his ears. He twisted his features into an expression of acute pain.

“Again you use that ridiculous word,” he said. “It grates on my ears.”

“Is there something the matter, Lettice?” Elizabeth said.

Lettice appeared to have been frightened. She had closed the door after her so gently that it made no sound at all. She was moving over to the window when her aunt addressed her. She turned towards Elizabeth and smiled with an effort. Her face did not now look radiant when she smiled. There were vertical lines between her eyes.

“There is nothing the matter, Aunt,” she said in a tone of forced gaiety.

“Are you sure you didn’t catch cold gathering those flowers?” said Elizabeth.

“Not in the least,” Lettice said.

She went over to the vase of flowers and began to rearrange them, with her back to her aunt.

“On the whole,” Raoul said, with one hand under his armpit and the other hand caressing his beard, “I feel rather pleased with my ancestors, come to think of it.”

He had stood motionless for a little while, staring at the floor. Now he shrugged his shoulders, put his hands behind his back and walked the length of the floor, back and forth, rapidly.

“They were remarkably clever,” he said. “Otherwise, they could not have maintained their property intact until the eighteenth century. It was quite a feat, you know, subtly changing their religious and political beliefs with every shift of history. Then, of course, the process of decay that is the fate of all ruling classes caught up with them. They had to make way for their successors, the English merchants and manufacturers. Lord Mongoole took possession of Killuragh Castle and the township of Clash. Grandfather was left with Manister House and three thousand acres of mountain land, inhabited by miserable cottiers whom he was forced to bleed mercilessly in order to survive. That was, of course, feudalism gone to seed. The institution had become criminal and was ready for its overthrow. Why blame our ancestors for being human? Father was the most exacting of them all, until the famine came and made it impossible for his tenants to pay anything at all. Then the bank foreclosed on the mortgage. Manister House became the property of Captain Butcher. The St. George family, after six hundred and fifty years of power, ceased to be Irish landlords. Their cycle was completed. They returned to the bosom of the earth.”

He halted, put his left hand under his armpit and caressed the tip of his head.

“It’s rather beautiful,” he said dreamily, looking towards the ceiling. “If there is really such a thing as the poetry of history, this must be an example of it. Here we are, the three of us, in this little house. We still bear a name that was hated and feared in this district for many centuries. Now we are despised and ignored. Our importance is no more than that of this decaying house in which we live. When we die, our name …”

He was interrupted by a wild tumult from out of doors. There was angry shouting, the clatter of horses in movement and the savage yelping of a bloodhound, which somebody was trying to restrain in a shrill voice.

“Confound it!” cried Raoul angrily. “This is becoming unbearable.”