Liam O'Flaherty - Land

It was shortly before noon of a day in March 1879, at the village of Manister on the coast of County Mayo. Elizabeth Henry St. George was sitting at her desk in a corner of the living-room at Manister Lodge, drawing up the household weekly accounts. Being short-sighted, she was bending low over the sheet of paper that lay in front of her on the desk, touching each word with the tip of her quill pen as she read, when the sound of firearms being discharged at a distance made her start violently.

“Gracious me!” she cried, sitting rigidly erect in her chair. “Who can be fowling on a day like this?”

The shooting continued. First there had been three shots fired in rapid succession. Then there was a pause, followed by another burst of rapid firing. At least a dozen shots were fired.

“That is not fowling,” Elizabeth said to herself. “Definitely not. What on earth can it be?”

She shuddered with aversion as she got to her feet. She had just turned forty-eight during the previous month. She looked sixty. Her hair was completely grey and quite thin above her forehead. She wore it plaited stiffly, in a prim bunch, at the nape of her neck. This drew attention to the pallor and emaciation of her face. It was like the face of an old nun, worn by a life of self-imposed hardships, yet showing the calmness and strength that come from discipline. Her whole body was remarkably thin. Her bosom scarcely made any impression against the cloth of her tight-fitting brown bodice, which was buttoned stiffly up along her neck to her chin, with a narrow lace frill at the top.

She went over to the window, one hand on a bunch of household keys that hung from her waist by a chain, the other hand gripping her long, wide skirts. She walked very erect, with little mincing steps. The tips of her shoes kept appearing and disappearing. They made no audible sound on the worn carpet. Only the rustling of the dark skirts could be heard.

A single shot was fired as she reached the window. This report seemed to come from some place much nearer than the previous ones. The sound re-echoed slightly. Elizabeth shuddered. Looking at the condition of the weather, she was now entirely convinced that the shots did not come from the guns of sportsmen. The mist was so heavy that she could see no farther than the edge of the narrow terrace beyond the window.

“I’m sure something dreadful is happening,” she said to herself.

Hurrying back to her desk, she picked up a light shawl that had lain folded neatly over the back of her chair. She threw it about her head and shoulders, opened the french window and walked on to the terrace. The air was extremely mild, in spite of the heavy mist and the time of year. Indeed, the mist seemed to be a veil behind which the mighty lust of the breeding earth pricked forth to a renewal of growth. From this unseen activity a luxury of smell issued with joyful violence, invading the senses with its intoxicating power. To Elizabeth, made nervous by the shooting, this exuberance of Nature was a further incentive to alarm.

“God grant that it’s nothing unpleasant!” she prayed, walking along the terrace towards the gable of the house.

She moved slowly over the smooth flagstones, between the ivy-covered house-wall and the arched trellis vines that framed the outer rim of the terrace. The mist had covered the green vines with a lacy shroud, as if magic spiders had worked all night to make a garment for the shrubs. She halted on reaching the gable, cocked her ears and listened. There was no further sound of firing. Here the soft murmur of the sea was distinct. Its smell was fierce and invigorating, in sharp contrast with the luxurious perfume of the earth.

Suddenly she heard her niece singing near at hand.

“Lettice,” she called out eagerly, “where are you?”

The singing stopped at once and a girl’s voice answered gaily:

“Here I am, Aunt Elizabeth.”

A few moments later, Lettice came into sight between two dark-green shrubs, whose pot-bellied trunks stood guard on either side of a sharp turn in the path that led around the gable of the house. On seeing her aunt, she held out a large bunch of daffodils in her right hand.

“Daffodils, Aunt Elizabeth,” she cried excitedly.

She came forward over the gravelled path at a run, holding her skirts high up with her left hand.

“Imagine!” she cried in a musical voice on reaching Elizabeth. “Wild daffodils in March! There were thousands of them along the banks of the river. I wanted to go on picking and picking. I had no idea that daffodils bloomed so early. They have an exquisite scent.”

Elizabeth sniffed at the flowers without interest.

“Did you hear shooting just now, Lettice?” she said.

“I did hear shooting,” Lettice said. “Why?”

“Never mind,” Elizabeth said, touching the girl on the sleeve. “You’re quite wet. You shouldn’t have gone out in this mist. It’s very dangerous at this time of year. I’m sure your feet are soaking wet. Hurry into the house and change your clothes.”

“But I don’t feel in the least wet,” Lettice said gaily as she followed her aunt along the terrace. “On the contrary, I feel almost too warm after the climb uphill from the river.”

“All the more reason to be careful,” Elizabeth said. “You must change at once. The Irish climate is very treacherous. You’ll soon discover that.”

“But I’ve been here a month now,” Lettice said, “and I never felt so well in my life before, even though there has been a great deal of rain and I’ve got drenched several times. Really, I think the Irish climate is much healthier than the French climate.”

She certainly looked in radiant health, even though her face was rather thin and without colour. When she entered the living-room and took off her hat, a great cloud of red-gold hair appeared on her crown.

“Give me those flowers,” Elizabeth said after closing the window. “Take off your cloak. Let me see if your dress is wet.”

“I don’t know why you insist on thinking I’m delicate,” Lettice said as she took off her cloak. “I’m really very hardy.”

Elizabeth touched her niece’s dress in several places. Then she frowned.

“It’s quite dry, I admit,” she said grudgingly, “although I do wish you’d let me get you more suitable clothes. Even in summer, my dear, you have to wear heavy stuff here in Mayo. The peasants never distinguish between summer and winter in the matter of dress. They know best. They live closest to the wickedness of our climate. Run along now and change your shoes. Tell Annie to fetch me some water for those daffodils. I’ll grant you that their scent is quite charming.”

“You are a tyrant, Aunt Elizabeth,” Lettice cried with a gay laugh, “but I love you terribly.”

She threw her arms impulsively around Elizabeth.

“There now,” Elizabeth said stiffly as she disengaged herself. “How very demonstrative you are! You must learn to be more dignified at your age. You are over nineteen now, Lettice. You are a grown woman. You mustn’t behave like a child.”

Lettice threw back her head and laughed musically. She pinched her aunt’s cheek, threw her cloak over her arm and skipped out of the room. In her green dress, she looked almost as slender as Elizabeth. She was much taller, however, with a bust that had just assumed the voluptuous curves of blossoming womanhood. Going out of the door, she turned and blew a kiss. Her pale, bony face looked radiant and infinitely charming at that moment, with her full lips parted and her long golden lashes raised from her large blue eyes. Her eyes looked startled, as if she were having a vision of heavenly beauty.