Irish Journal Read Free Page B

Westland Row, from there onto the street: a young woman was just lifting an orange milk jug into the room from the window sill of a black house; she smiled at me, and I smiled back.
    Now I had no idea, although I soon began to suspect, that the hours between seven and ten in the morning are the only ones during which the Irish incline toward taciturnity, for whoever I asked, and whatever I asked about, I received the brief answer: “Sorry.” Like the German apprentice in Amsterdam in the old tale who supposed that everything he asked about belonged to Mr. Kannitverstan, since that was the only word he ever heard in answer to his questions, so I would have liked to ask: Who owns the big ships in the harbor? “Sorry.” Who is that standing up there all by himself in the morning mist on a pedestal? “Sorry.” Who do these ragged, barefoot children belong to? “Sorry.” Who is this mysterious young man standing on the back platform of the bus so skillfully imitating a machine gun—tok tok tok tok? “Sorry.” And who is that riding by with his crop and his gray top hat? “Sorry.” But I decided not to try and apply my meager knowledge of the language and to rely more on my eyes than my tongue or the ears of other people, and to study the shop signs instead. And there they all came rushing to meet me as bookkeepers, innkeepers, greengrocers—Joyce and Yeats, McCarthy and Molloy, O’Neill and O’Connor, even Jackie Coogan’s footsteps seemed to lead here, and I was forced to admit that the man up there on the pedestal, still looking so forlorn in the chill of the morning, was of course not Mr. Sorry but Nelson.
    I bought a paper, something called The Irish Digest , and, drawn by a sign promising “Bed and Breakfast Reasonable,” decided on a reasonable breakfast.
    If Continental tea is like a faded yellow telegraph form, in these islands to the west of Ostend it has the dark, glimmering tones of Russian icons, before the milk gives it a color similar to the complexion of an overfed baby; on the Continent weak tea is served in fragile porcelain, here it is casually poured into thick earthenware cups from battered metal teapots, a heavenly brew to restore the traveler, dirt cheap too.
    The breakfast was good, the tea worthy of renown, and thrown in for free was the smile of the young Irish girl who served it.
    I glanced through the paper and the first thing I saw was a letter demanding that Nelson be brought down from his high perch and replaced by a statue of the Virgin Mary. Another letter demanding Nelson’s downfall, then another.…
    It was now eight o’clock, tongues were loosened, I was engulfed in words of which I only understood one: Germany. I decided to strike back, in friendly but determined fashion, with the weapon of the country, “Sorry,” and to enjoy the free smiles of the tousled tea goddess, when a sudden roar, a sound almost like thunder, startled me. Could there be so many trains on this strange island? The thunder continued, became articulate, the powerful opening bars of the Tantum ergo beginning with Sacramentum—veneremur cernui became distinguishable, and sung clear and true to the last syllable it pealed out over Westland Row from St. Andrew’s Church opposite, and just as the first cups of tea were as good as all the others I would drink—in desolate, dirty little hamlets, in hotels and by firesides—so I was left with the impression of an overwhelming piety as it flooded Westland Row after the Tantum ergo: in Germany you would only see that many people coming out of church after Easter Mass or at Christmas; but I had not forgotten the confession of the unbeliever with the sharp profile.
    It was still only eight in the morning, Sunday, too early to wake my host: but the tea was cold, the café smelled of mutton fat, the customers were gathering up their boxes and suitcases and heading for their buses. Listlessly I turned the pages of The Irish Digest , haltingly translated the