Máirtín Ó Cadhain - Graveyard Clay - Cré na Cille

— Since the news reached home every man is off to England. I reckon that the “autumn of the faint women,” as my uncle called it, is quite close now. The women of Mangy Field won’t be able to get men to marry them, nor will the women of Donagh’s Village or Sive’s Rocks. Isn’t that the reason I wanted so much to go to England myself: the women would tear me apart between them … I’d be like Billyboy the Post …

— Listen here, son of Pádraig Labhráis, yourself and your uncle have brought the women of Ireland into disrepute …

— Doesn’t the Big Master do that every minute of the day!

— Listen here, son of Pádraig Labhráis, yourself and your uncle have insulted the faith. Black heretics …

— Everybody says those who are leaving the country are the best of men. The reason for that, I think, is that we’re approaching the Antichrist and the end of the world, and if it happens that the road down to hell is in this part of the country there will be no end to the number of blackguards visiting us from Brightcity, from Dublin, and of course from all over England. I fear for our sisters …

— Hold your tongue you, Pádraig Labhráis’s brat! …

— Hold your tongue, you brat! …

— Arrah, I think it won’t be long now till England will be shovelled away to hell altogether. Hitler …

— It’s in the prophecy of Caitríona Pháidín that her son’s wife will be here on her next childbirth …

— Ababúna!

— I’d believe in prophecies myself. I wouldn’t like any misunderstanding about this. I don’t say I believe in any particular prophecy, but I can see that people could have that gift. There are gifts that material science knows nothing about because they cannot be demonstrated by experiment. The poet is the same as the prophet in many ways. “Vates” is what the Romans called the poet: a person who would have a vision or an insight. I discussed that point in the “Guiding Star” in my poetry collection, The Golden Stars …

— May the devil pierce you! The only thing you ever did above ground was your useless verses …

— Hold your tongue, you brat. It would be hard for you to do any good above ground, when your father and mother didn’t nurture any good in you. They allowed you to stay in the house, herding the embers and daydreaming, while they killed themselves working …

— … The way it was promised in the prophecy is that the Foreigners would come ashore in the West Headland, and would drive on eastwards …

— There’ll be plenty of men then for the women of Mangy Field, Donagh’s Village and Sive’s Rocks …

— You’re insulting the faith …

— A big General in charge of them will go down to the river at Wood of the Lake bridge to water his horse. An Irishman will shoot at him and the horse will be killed …

— That big General will immediately go looking for another horse! Do you think if he should see a fine big colt he would take it away with him? …

— This is the War of the Two Foreigners. I was up in the bog-hollow footing turf 7when Peaits Sheáinín came up to me. “Did you hear the news?” says he.

“Devil the news,” says I.

“The Kaiser attacked the poor Belgies yesterday,” says he.

“They’re much to be pitied,” says I. “Do you think it’s the War of the Two Foreigners?”

— Wake up, man. That war ended a long time ago …

— … The Big Master said the other day this must be the World War, as the women are so fickle …

— Tomás Inside said it too. “By the docks, dear,” he said, “it’s the end of the world, the way people have lost their good nature. Look at my little shack full of leaks …”

— When the Insurance Man got started here there wasn’t a house he went into without saying it was the War of the Prophecy.

“Now or never,” he used to say, “you must take out a bit of insurance on yourself. There’s no fear of them killing someone who’s insured, for if they did they’d have to pay out too much money at the end of the War. All you have to do is to carry your insurance paper with you at all times, and to show it if …”

— Oh! Didn’t the little good-for-nothing fool me …

— Tricks of the trade …

— Caitríona herself said the other day it must be the War of the Territories. “The Island limestone is used up,” she said, “and it was in the prophecy that when the Island limestone was used up you’d be very close to the end of the world.”

— Ababúna! The Island limestone. The Island limestone. The Island limestone! I’ll explode! …

4

— … Patience, Cóilí. Patience …

— Allow me to finish my story, my good man:

“I laid an egg! I laid an egg! Red hot on the dunghill …”

— Yes, Cóilí. Even though there’s no artistry in it, I think it has some deep and obscure meaning. Stories of this type always do. You know what Frazer said in The Golden Bough … I beg your pardon, Cóilí. I forgot you weren’t able to read … Now Cóilí, allow me to speak … Cóilí, allow me to speak. I’m a writer …

— … Honest , Dotie. Máirín failed. If she had taken after me or after my daughter she wouldn’t have failed. But she took after the Páidín clan and the Loideáin. The nuns in the convent completely failed to drive anything into her head. Would you believe, Dotie, that she began to call her teachers “pussface” and “bitch”! … Honest Engine , Dotie. It was impossible to stop her using rude words. What would you expect, after listening to them since she was born, in the same house as Caitríona Pháidín …

— Ababúna! Nóirín …

— Let on you don’t hear her at all, Dotie dear. Don’t you see for yourself now that Máirín was “destined to be afflicted,” as Blinks says in The Red-Hot Kiss … You’re right, Dotie. He’s a cousin of Máirín’s. It’s no wonder he’s going to be a priest, Dotie. He was surrounded by a good deal of culture since he was born. The priest used to call to the house every time he came fowling. Fowlers and hunters from Brightcity and Dublin and from England came there regularly too. Of course, Nell is his grandmother and he’s still with her. Nell is a cultured woman …

— Oh! … Oh! …

— His mother, Big Brian’s daughter, was in America, and she met cultured people there. America is a great place for culture, Dotie. The grandfather, Big Brian, used to visit the house from time to time, and though you wouldn’t think it, Dotie, Big Brian is a cultured man in his own way … He is as you say he is, Dotie, but at least he had enough culture not to marry Caitríona Pháidín. Honest …

— Oh! … Oh! … You honeycomb of fleas …

— Let on you don’t hear her at all, Nóra …

— Yep , Dotie … Nevertheless, isn’t it amazing how different two families can be! … My grandson in Mangy Field is another first cousin of Máirín’s: the young man the Big Master talks about. He got to be a ship’s petty officer, Dotie. Lucky him! Marseilles, Port Said, Singapore, Batavia, Honolulu, San Francisco … Sun. Oranges. Blue seas …

— But it’s very dangerous at sea since the war began …

—“The valiant youth doesn’t measure the blind leap of danger,” as Frix said in Two Men and a Powder-puff . Happy, happy the life of the sailor, Dotie. Beautiful romantic clothes on him that are every woman’s heart’s desire.

— I told you before, Nóra, I’m an old-fashioned rustic myself …

— Romance, Dotie. Romance … I fell head-over-heels in love with him, Dotie. Honest! But don’t say a word about it. You know, Dotie dear, that you’re my friend. Caitríona Pháidín would love to have something to gossip about. Having no culture herself she’d have a very unsophisticated attitude to a matter like that …