Edward, I said, if the Irish language is to be revived, something in the way of reading must be provided for the people.

Haven't they Hyde's Folk Tales?

Yes, and these are well enough in their way, but a work is what is needed—a book.

Edward thought that as soon as the Irish people had learnt their language somebody would be sure to write a national work.

There's plenty of talent about.

But, my dear friend, there isn't sufficient application.

You're quite right. And we talked of atmosphere and literary tradition, neither of which we had, nor could have for a hundred years. And therefore are without hope of an original work in the Irish language. But we can get a translation of a masterpiece. We want a book and can't go on any further without one. I hear everybody complaining that when he has learnt Irish there is nothing for him to read.

But do you think they would deign to read a translation? Edward answered, laughing, and he agreed with me that, outside of folklore, there is no art except that which comes of great culture.

A translation of a world-wide masterpiece is what we want, and we have to decide on a work before we reach Athlone.



Athlone or Mullingar. Now, Edward, you are to give your whole mind to the question.

Nothing English, he said resolutely. Something Continental—some great Continental work. His eyes became fixed, and I saw that he was thinking. Télémaque, he said at last.

Télémaque would be quite safe, but aren't you afraid that it is a little tedious?

Gil Blast?

I never read Gil Bias, but have heard many people say that they couldn't get through it. What do you think of Don Quixote? It comes from a great Catholic country, and it was written by a Catholic; and until we remembered the story of The Curious Impertinent, and the other stories interwoven into the narrative, Don Quixote seemed to be the very thing we needed. We want short stories, I said. A selection of tales from Maupassant.

The Gaelic League might object.

It certainly would if my name were mentioned. I've got it, Edward!—The Arabian Nights. There are no stories the people would read so readily.

Edward was inclined to agree with me, and before we reached Dublin it was arranged that he should give fifty pounds and I five-and-twenty towards the publication of Taidgh O'Donoghue's translation.

And if more is wanted, Edward said, they can have it. But remember one thing. It must be sanctioned by the Gaelic League and published under its auspices; as you well know, my interests are in public life. I have no private life.

Oh yes, you have, Edward; I'm your private life.

Edward snorted and took refuge in his joke Mon ami Moore; but this time he showed himself trustworthy. He wrote to the Freeman's Journal, disclosing our project, and winding up his letter with an expression of belief that the entire cost of the work could not be much more than one hundred and fifty pounds, and that he was quite sure there were many who would like to help.

Many were willing to help us—with advice. The Freeman's Journal came out next day full up of letters signed by various Dublin literati, approving of the project, but suggesting a different book for translation. One writer thought that Plutarch's Lives would supply the people with a certain culture, which he ventured to say was needed in the country. Another was disposed to look favourably upon a translation of St Thomas Aquinas; another proposed Caesar's Commentaries; and the debate was continued until the truth leaked out that the proposed translation of The Arabian Nights was due to my suggestion. Then, of course, all the fat was in the fire. Sacerdos contributed a column and a half which may be reduced to this sentence: Mr George Moore has selected The Arabian Nights because he wishes an indecent book to be put into the hands of every Irish peasant. We do not take our ideas of love from Mohammedan countries; we are a pure race.

The paper slipped from my hand and I lay back in my chair overwhelmed, presenting a very mournful spectacle to any one coming into the room. How long I lay inert I don't know, but I remember starting out of my chair, crying, I must go and see Edward.

Well, George, you see you've got the reputation for a certain kind of writing, and you can't blame the priests if—

Edward, Edward!

After all it is their business to watch over their flocks, and to see that none is corrupted.

Ba, ba, ba! ba, ba, ba!

Mon ami Moore, mon ami Moore!

You'll drive me mad, Edward, if you continue that idiotic joke any longer. The matter is a serious one. I came over to Ireland—

You have no patience.

No patience! I cried, looking at the great man. He is the Irish Catholic people, I said, and later in the afternoon my disappointment caused me to doze away in front of my beautiful grey Manet, my exquisite mauve Monet, and my sad Pissaro. The Irish are a cantankerous, hateful race, I muttered, on awaking. And the mood of hate endured for some days, myself continually asking myself why I had ventured back into Ireland. But at the end of the week a new plan for the regeneration of the Irish race came into my head. It seemed a good thing for me to write a volume of short stories dealing with peasant life, and these would be saved from the criticism of Sacerdos and his clan if they were first published in a clerical review. One can only get the better of the clergy by setting the clergy against the clergy. In that way Louis XV ridded France of the Jesuits, and obtained possession of all their property; and in Ireland, no more than in France, are the Jesuits on the best of terms with the secular clergy ... they might be inclined to take me up.

My hopes in this direction were not altogether unwarranted. I had read a paper when I came over to Ireland for the performance of The Bending of the Bough, on the necessity of the revival of the Irish language, for literary as well as for national reasons, at a public luncheon given by the Irish Literary Society, and a few days after the reading of this paper, a neighbour of mine in Mayo wrote to me, saying that a friend of hers desired to make my acquaintance. It was natural to suppose that it could not be any one but some tiresome woman, and up went my nose. No, it isn't a woman; it is a priest. My nose went up still higher. Father Finlay, she said, and I was at once overjoyed, for I had long desired to make Father Tom's acquaintance. But it was not to Father Tom, but to his brother Peter that she proposed to introduce me. A much superior person, she said, a man of great learning who has lived in Rome many years and speaks Latin.

As well as he should be able to speak Irish, I clamoured.

You will like him much better than the agriculturist, she answered earnestly.

It did not seem at all sure to me that she was right; but, not wishing to lose a chance of winning friends for the Irish language, I accompanied her somewhat reluctantly to the Jesuit College in Milltown.

A curious and absurd little meeting it was; myself producing all my arguments, trying to convince the Jesuit with them, and the Jesuit taking up a different position, and the lady listening to our wearisome talk with long patience. At last it struck me that Dante must be boring her prodigiously, and getting up to go I spoke about trains.

Father Peter accompanied us to the College gate, and on the way there he asked me if I would give the paper that I had read at the luncheon for publication in their review.

But I thought your brother was the editor?

He is, Peter answered, but that doesn't make any difference.

As I did not know Tom, the paper went to Peter, and it was published in the New Ireland Review. My contribution did not, however, seem to bring me any nearer Father Tom. He did not write to me about it, nor did he write asking me to contribute again; and when I came to live in Dublin, though I heard everybody speaking of him, no one offered to introduce us—not even Peter, whom I often met in the streets and once in the house where the young lady who had introduced us lodged. No one seemed willing to undertake the risk of introducing me to Tom, and the mystery so heightened my desire of Tom's acquaintance that one day I invited Peter to walk round Stephen's Green with me, in the hope that he might say, Let's call on Tom. But at every step my aversion from Peter increased, without ever prompting the thought that I might dislike Tom equally. Peter Finlay is not an attractive name; there seems to be a little snivel in it, but Tom is a fine, robust name, and it goes well with Finlay; and all that I had heard about him had excited my curiosity. My friends were his friends, and they spoke of him as of a cryptogram which nobody could decipher, and this had set me wondering if I should succeed where others had failed, till at last the ridiculous superstition glided into my mind that Father Tom looked upon me as a dangerous person, one to be avoided—which was tantamount to the belief that Father Tom lacked courage, that he was afraid of me, as absurd a thought as ever strayed into a man's head. But human nature is such that we seek an explanation in every accident.

One day AE stopped to speak to somebody in Merrion Street. Turning suddenly, he said: Let me introduce you to Father Tom Finlay. I felt a look of pleasure come into my face, and I knew myself at once to be in sympathy with this long-bodied man, fleshy everywhere—hands, paunch, calves, thighs, forearm, and neck. I liked the russet-coloured face, withered like an apple, the small, bright, affectionate eyes, the insignificant nose, the short grey hair. I liked his speech—simple, direct, and intimate, and his rough clothes. I was whirled away into admiration of Father Tom, and for the next few days thought of nothing but when I should see him again. A few days after, seeing him coming towards me, hurrying along on his short legs (one cannot imagine Father Tom strolling), I tried to summon courage to speak to him. He passed, saluting me, lifting his hat with a smile in his little eyes—a smile which passed rapidly. One sees that his salute and his smile are a mere formality. So I nearly let him pass me, but summoning all my courage at the last moment I called to him, and he stopped at once, like one ready to render a service to whoever required one.

I thought of writing to you, Father Tom, about a matter which has been troubling me; but refrained. On consideration it seemed too absurd.

Father Tom waited for me to continue, but my courage forsook me suddenly, and I began to speak about other things. Father Tom listened to Gaelic League propaganda with kindness and deference; and it was not till I was about to bid him goodbye that he said:

But what was the matter to which you alluded in the beginning of our conversation? You said you wished to consult me upon something.

Well, it is so stupid that I am afraid to tell you.

I shall be glad if you will tell me, he answered, taking me into his confidence; and I told him that I had been down at the Freeman office to ask the editor if he would publish a letter from me.

But, Father Tom, what I'm going to say is absurd.

Father Tom smiled encouragingly; his smile seemed to say, Nothing you can say is absurd.

Well, it doesn't seem to me that people are dancing enough in Ireland.

You mean there isn't enough amusement in Ireland? I quite agree with you.

It's a relief to find oneself in agreement with somebody, especially with you, Father Tom. Father Tom smiled amiably, and then, becoming suddenly serious, I said, Ever since I've been here I find myself up against somebody or something, and I told him about the touring company, admitting that perhaps the League did not find itself justified in incurring any further expenses. But our project for The Arabian Nights translation—could anything be more inoffensive—yet the Freeman—What is one to do?

One mustn't pay any attention to criticism. The best way is to go on doing what one has to do. In these words Father Tom seemed to reveal himself a little, and we talked about the cross-road dances. He said he would speak on the subject; and he did, astonishing the editor of the Freeman, and, when I next ran across Father Tom, he told me he had just come back from his holidays in Donegal, where he had attended a gathering of young people—the young girls came with their mothers and went home with them after the dance. These words were spoken with a certain fat unction, a certain gross moral satisfaction which did not seem like Father Tom, and I was much inclined to tell him that to dance under the eye of a priest and be taken home by one's mother must seem a somewhat trite amusement to a healthy country girl, unless, indeed, the Irish people experience little passion in their courtships or their marriages. These opinions were, however, not vented, and we walked on side by side till the silence became painful, and, to interrupt it, Father Tom asked if I had seen Peter lately.

Peter? I answered. What Peter? For I had completely forgotten him. Father Tom answered, My brother, and I said, No, I haven't seen him this long while, and we walked on, I listening to Tom with half my mind, the other half meditating on the difference between the two brothers. Whereas Peter seemed to me to be sunk in the Order, Father Tom seemed to have struck out and saved himself. It was possible to imagine Peter reading the Exercises of St Ignatius, and by their help quelling all original speculation regarding the value of life and death; for he that reads often of the beatific faces in Heaven, and the flames that lick up the entrails of the damned without ever consuming them, is not troubled with doubt that perhaps, after all, the flower in the grass, the cloud in the sky, and his own beating heart may be parcel of Divinity. Tom must have studied these Exercises too, but it would seem that they had influenced Peter more deeply, and, thinking of Peter again, it seemed to me that to them might be fairly attributed the dryness and the angularity of mind that I observed in him. But how was it that these Exercises passed so lightly over Tom's mind? For it was difficult to think he had ever been tempted by pantheism. He has had his temptations, like all of us, but pantheism was not one of them, and, on thinking the matter out, the conclusion was forced upon me that he had escaped from the influences of the Exercises by throwing himself into all manners and kinds of work. He is the busiest man in Ireland—on every Board, pushing the wheel of education and industry, the editor of a review, the author of innumerable text-books, a friend to those who need a friend, finding time somehow for everybody and everything, and himself full of good humour and kindness, outspoken and impetuous, a keen intellect, a ready and incisive speaker, a politician at heart, who, if he had been one actually, would have led his own party and not been led by it.

One has to think for a while to discover some trace of the discipline of the Order in him. If he were a secular priest he would not bow so elaborately perhaps, nor wear so enigmatic a smile in his eyes. Father Tom is a little conscious of his intellectual superiority, I think. He is looked upon as a mystery by many people, and perhaps is a little eccentric. Intelligence and moral courage are eccentricities in the Irish character, and one would not look for them in a Jesuit priest. It seems to me that I understand him, but one may understand without being able to interpret, and to write Father Tom's Apology would require the genius of Robert Browning. He could write his own Apology, and if he set himself to the task he would produce a book much more interesting than Newman's. But Father Tom would not care to write about himself unless he wrote quite sincerely, and it would be necessary to tell the waverings that preceded his decision to become a Jesuit. He must have known that by joining the Order he risked losing his personality, the chief business of the Order being to blot out personality. Now, how was this problem solved by Father Tom? Did the Order present such an irresistible attraction to his imagination that he resolved to risk himself in the Order? Or did he know himself to be so strong that he would be able to survive the discipline to which he would have to submit? If he wrote his Apology he would have to tell us whether he does things because he likes to do things efficiently, or because he thinks it right they should be done. This chapter should be especially interesting, and the one in which Father Tom would speculate on the relation of his soul to his intelligence! He values his intelligence—indeed, I think he prides himself on it. As a priest he would have to place his soul above his intelligence, and he would do this very skilfully.... But oneself is a dangerous subject for a priest to write about, and perhaps Father Tom avoids the subject, foreseeing the several difficulties that would confront him before he had gone very far. Once his pen was set going, however, he would not abandon his work, and any misunderstanding which might arise out of his Apology would revert to the co-operative movement of which he is so able an advocate. All the same, I reflected, it's a pity that so delightful an intelligence should be wasted on agriculture, and I thought how I might ensnare Father Tom's literary instincts.

I've been thinking, Father Tom, I said, in our next walk, about the book you told me you once wished to write—The Psychology of Religion. A more interesting subject I cannot imagine, or one more suited to your genius, and I am full of hope that you will write that book.

Father Tom muttered a little to himself, and I think I heard him say that there was more important work to be done in Ireland.

What work?

Father Tom did not seem to like being questioned, and when I pressed him for an answer, he spoke of the regeneration of the countryside.

Mere agriculture, that anybody can do; but this book would be yourself, and Ireland is without ideas and literary ideals. We would prefer your book to agriculture, and you must write it. And ... I wonder how it is that you have never written a book; you are full of literary interests.

Then, very coquettishly, Father Tom admitted that he had once written a novel.

A novel! You must let me see it. And I stared at him nervously, frightened lest he might refuse.

I don't think it would interest you.

Oh, but it would. I was afraid to say how much it would interest me—more it seemed to me than any novel by Balzac or Turgenev, for it would reveal Father Tom to me. However inadequate the words might be, I should be able to see the man behind them; and I pleaded for the book all the way to the College in Stephen's Green.

I shall have to go upstairs to my bedroom to fetch it.

I'll wait. And I waited in the hall, saying to myself, Something will prevent him from giving it to me. He may stop to think on the stairs, or, overtaken by a sudden scruple, he may go to Father Delany's room to ask his advice. Father Delany may say, Perhaps it will be better not to lend him the book. If that happens he will have to obey his Superior. So did my thoughts wander till he appeared on the staircase with the book in his hand—a repellent-looking book, bound in red boards, which I grasped eagerly, and stopped under a lamp to examine. The print seemed as uninviting as tin-tacks, but a book cannot be read under a street lamp and in the rain, so I slipped the volume into my overcoat and hurried home.

AE, I've discovered a novel by a well-known Irishman—a friend of yours.

Have I read it?

I don't think so; you'd have spoken about it to me if you had. You'll never guess—the most unlikely man in Ireland.

The most unlikely man in Ireland to have written a novel? AE answered. Then it must be Plunkett.

You're near it.

Anderson?

No.



I nodded, very proud of myself at having found out something about Father Tom that AE did not know.

If Father Tom has written a novel I think I shall be able to read the man behind the words.

Just what I said to myself as I came along the Green, and I watched AE reading.

With a cast-iron style like that, a man has nothing to fear from the prying eyes, and he handed the book back to me.

But let us, I replied, discover the story that he has to tell.

AE looked through some pages and said, There seems to be an insurrection going on somewhere; the soldiers have arrived, and are surrounding a castle in the moonlight. AE always finds something to say about a book, even if it be in cast-iron, and I loved him better than before, when he said, Father Tom loves Ireland. That Father Tom's love of Ireland should have penetrated his cast-iron style mitigated my disappointment.

I wonder why he lent me the book?

Possibly to prevent you worrying him any more to write The Psychology of Religion.

Every time I go for a bicycle ride with him, or a walk, I am at him about that book—but it's no use.

A cloud appeared in AE's face. He suspects Father Tom, I said to myself, of angling for my soul; and, to tease AE, I told him that I often spent my evenings talking to Father Tom, in his bedroom, on literary subjects, and that I had arranged with him for the publication of several short stories in the New Ireland Review.

These stories are to be translated into Irish by Taidgh O'Donoghue, and Father Tom will probably get the book accepted as a text-book by the Intermediate Board of Education.

But do you think that it was to write these stories that you came from England?

Well, for what other purpose do you think I came? And to what better purpose can a man's energy be devoted, and his talents, than the resuscitation of his country's language? What do you think I came for?

I hoped that you would do in Ireland what Voltaire did in France, that, whenever Walsh or Logue said something stupid in the papers, you would just reply to them in some sharp cutting letter, showing them up in the most ridiculous light, terrifying them into silence.

I'm afraid you were mistaken if you thought that I came to Ireland on any enterprise so trivial. I came to give back to Ireland her language.

But what use will her language be to Ireland if she is not granted the right to think?



Oh, Moore, Moore, Moore! he muttered, in his chimney-corner. And then, seeing him disappointed, the temptation to tread on his corns overcame me.

Of what avail, I asked, are our ideas if they be expressed in a worn-out language? Moreover, it is not ideas that we are seeking. An idea is so impersonal; it is yours today and the whole world's tomorrow. We would isolate Ireland from what you call ideas, from all European influence; we believe that art will arise in Ireland if we segregate Ireland, and the language will enable us to do that.

However fast the language movement might progress, AE answered, Ireland will not be an Irish-speaking country for the next fifty or sixty years, and a hundred years will have to pass before literature will begin in Ireland; besides, you can't have literature without ideas.

The only time Ireland had a literature was when she had no ideas—in the eighth and ninth centuries.

Oh, Moore, Moore, Moore!

The bell rang, and we wondered who the visitor might be. Walter Osborne? John Eglinton? Hughes? Which of our friends? Edward, by all that's holy! We were surprised and pleased to see him, for Edward lives outside my ring of friends; they meet him in the streets, and he is glad to stand and talk with them at the kerb, if the wind be not blowing too sharply. Thinking, therefore, that he had for a wonder yielded to a desire to go out to talk to somebody, my welcome was affectionate. But, alas! he had come to speak to me on some Gaelic League business, an opera that somebody had written, and hoped he was not interrupting our conversation.

I cried, Good Heaven! and handed him the cigar-box, and we began to talk about Yeats, and when we could find nothing more to say about either his mistakes or his genius, AE spoke to us about Plunkett's ideas, and when these were exhausted Hyde's mistakes were discussed with passion by Edward and me. We wanted a forward policy.

If the Boers, I said, had only pressed forward after their first victories—

I beg your pardon, Edward suddenly interrupted, but have either of you heard the news? The Boers seem to have brought it off this time, and he told us that Lord Methuen and fifteen hundred troops had been captured by the Boers.

But what you say can't be true. Edward. You are joking.

No, I'm not. It is all in the evening papers.

And you come here to talk Gaelic League business, forgetful of the greatest event that has happened since Thermopylae. If the Boers should win after all!



His words shocked me, and immediately the conviction overpowered me that nothing would be the same again, and I was lifted suddenly out of my ordinary senses. The walls about me seemed to recede, and myself to be transported ineffably above a dim plain rolling on and on till it mingled with the sky. An encampment was there in a hallowed light, and one face, stern and strong, yet gentle, was taken by me for the face of the Eternal Good, upreared after combat with the Eternal Evil. What I saw was a symbol of a guiding Providence in the world. There is one, there is one! I exclaimed. It is about me and in me. And all the night long I heard as the deaf hear, and answered as the dumb answer. A night of fierce exultations and prolonged joys murmuring through the darkness like a river. For how can it be otherwise? I cried, starting up in bed. Yet I believed this many a year that all was blind chance. And I fell back and lay like one consumed by a secret fire. Life seemed to have no more for giving, and I cried out: It is terrible to feel things so violently. It were better to pass through life quietly like Edward; and on these words, or soon after, I must have dropped away into sleep.