Chapter 13
They sat down beside the boy. "I suppose you'll be leaving school soon, Jamesey?" Marsh asked.
"Aye, I will in a while," Jamesey answered.
"What cla.s.s are you in?"
"I'm a monitor, Mr. Marsh. I'm in my first year!..."
Henry sat up and joined in the conversation. "Then you're going to be a teacher?" he said.
"No, I'm not," Jamesey replied. "My ma put me in for the monitor to get the bit of extra education. That's all!"
"What are you going to be, Jamesey? A farmer?" said Marsh.
"No. I wouldn't be a farmer for the world!..."
"But why?"
The boy changed his position and faced round to them. "Sure, there's nothin' to do but work from the dawn till the dark," he said, "an' you never get no diversion at all. I'm quaren tired of this place, I can tell you, an' my ma's tired of it too. She wudden be here if she could help it, but sure she can't. It's terrible in the winter, an' the win'
fit to blow the head off you, an' you with nothin' to do on'y look after a lot of oul' cows an' pigs an' things. I'm goin' to a town as soon as I'm oul' enough!..."
They talked to him of the beauty of the country....
"Och, it's all right for a holiday in the summer," he said.
... and they talked to him of the fineness of a farmer's life, but he would not agree with them. A farmer's life was too hard and too dull. He was set on joining his brother in Glasgow....
"What does your brother do, Jamesey?" Marsh asked.
"He's a barman."
"A barman!" they repeated, a little blankly.
"Aye. That's what I'm goin' to be... in the same place as him!"
They did not speak for a while. It seemed to both of them to be incredible that any one could wish to exchange the loveliness of the Antrim country for a Glasgow bar....
"What hours does your brother work?" Marsh asked drily.
"He works from eight in the mornin' till eight at night, an' it's later on Sat.u.r.days, but he has a half-day a week til himself, an' he has all day Sunday. They don't drink on Sunday in Glasgow!"
Marsh smiled. "Don't they?" he said.
"It's long hours," Jamesey admitted, "but he has great diversion. D'ye know this, Mr. Mars.h.!.+" he continued, rolling over on his side and speaking more quickly, "he can go to a music-hall twice on the one night an' hear all the latest songs for tuppence. That's all it costs him. He goes to the gallery an' he hears gran', an' he can go to two music-halls in the one night... _in the one night_, mind you... for fourpence!
Where would you bate that? You never get no diversion of that sort in this place... only an oul' magic-lantern an odd time, or the Band of Hope singin' songs about teetotallers!..."
That was the princ.i.p.al burden of Jamesey's complaint, that there was no diversion in Ballymartin. "If you were to
"You never hear noan of the latest songs here," he complained again. "I got a quare cut from my brother once, me singin' a song that I thought was new, an' he toul' me it was as oul' as the hills. It was more nor a year oul', anyway!..."
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They came away from the hill in a mood of depression. It seemed to Henry that the Gaelic Movement could never take root in that soil. What was the good of asking Jamesey McKeown to sing Gaelic songs and till the land when his heart was hungering for the tuppeny excitements of a Glasgow music-hall? What would Jamesey McKeown make of Galway's translations? Would
O woman of the gleaming hair (Wild hair that won men's gaze to thee), Weary thou turnest from the common stare, For the Shuiler Christ is calling thee.
bind him to the nurture of the earth when
What ho! she b.u.mps
called him to Glasgow?
"We must think of something!" Marsh was saying, but Henry was busy with his own thoughts and paid no heed to him.
What, after all, had a farm to offer a quick-witted man or woman? That girl, Lizzie McCamley of whom his father had spoken once, she had preferred to go to Belfast and work in a linen mill and live in a slum rather than continue in the country; and Jamesey McKeown, who was so quick and eager and anxious to succeed, had weighed farms and fields and hills and valleys in the balance and found them of less weight and value than a Glasgow bar and a Glasgow music-hall. Henry remembered that his father was more interested in the land than most men--and he resolved to ask for his opinion. What was the good of all this co-operation, this struggle to discover the best way of making the earth yield up the means of life, this effort to increase and multiply, when nothing they could do seemed to make the work attractive to those who did it?...
Marsh was still murmuring to him. "I see," he was saying, "that something must be done. That girl... what's her name?... Sheila something?..."
"Sheila Morgan!" Henry said.
"Yes. Sheila Morgan... she said something about dancing cla.s.ses, didn't she? We'll start a dancing cla.s.s... we'll teach them the Gaelic dances!..."
It suddenly seemed funny to Henry that Marsh should propose to solve the Land Problem... the real Land Problem... by means of dancing cla.s.ses.
"They'll want more than that," he said. "They can't always be dancing!"
"No," Marsh answered, "but we can begin with that!"
Marsh's depression swiftly left him. He began to speculate on the future of the countryside when the Gaelic revival was complete. There would be Gaelic games, Gaelic songs, Gaelic dances and a Gaelic literature. "I don't see why we shouldn't have a theatre in every village, with village actors and village plays.... There must be a great deal of talent hidden away in these houses that never comes out because there is no one to bring it out.... I wish you were older, Henry, and were quit of Trinity.
You and I... and Galway... of course, we must have Galway... might start the Movement on a swifter course than it has now!..." He broke off and made a gesture of impatience. "Oh, my G.o.d, why can't a man do more!"
he said.
5
Henry put the question to his father, and Mr. Quinn considered it for a while.
"I don't know," he answered, "what to say. You'd think people would find more to interest them in the land than in anything else... but they don't. There's so much to do, an' it's so varied, an' you have it all under your own eye... you begin it an' carry it on and you end it...
an' yet somehow!... An' then the whole family understands it and can take an interest in it. You'd think that that would hold them. There isn't any other trade in the world that'll take up a whole family an'
give them all somethin' to talk about an' think over an' join in. But I've never known a bright boy or girl on a farm that wasn't itchin' to get away from it to a town!"
"But something'll have to be done, father!" Henry urged. "We must have farmers!..."
"Aye, something'll have to be done, but I'm d.a.m.ned if I know what. I suppose when they've developed machinery more an' can make transit easier... but sometimes I half think we'll have to breed people for the land... thick people, slow-witted people, clods... an' just let them root an' dig and grub an'... an' breed!" He got up as he spoke, and paced about the room. "No, Henry, I've got no remedy for you! The Almighty G.o.d'll have to think of a plan, _I_ can't!"
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