Gossamer

A. Birmingham George

Description

James Owen Hannay, the Irish clergyman who wrote under the pseudonym "George A. Birmingham," began his literary career with a novel that addressed sensitive political matters in a serious manner. After that approach landed him in hot water in his native Ireland, Hannay adopted a new approach: he continued to talk about important issues, but in a humorous, lighthearted way. In Gossamer, Hannay mercilessly skewers the flimflammery of international finance in a satirical send-up that The New York Times' critic described as "brilliantly entertaining."

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 juillet 2014
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781776580354
• Langue: English

Extrait

GOSSAMER
* * *
GEORGE A. BIRMINGHAM
 
*
Gossamer First published in 1915 Epub ISBN 978-1-77658-035-4 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77658-036-1 © 2014 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
*
Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII Chapter XIV Chapter XV Chapter XVI Chapter XVII Chapter XVIII Chapter XIX
Chapter I
*
"For that mercy," said Gorman, "you may thank with brief thanksgivingwhatever gods there be." We were discussing, for perhaps the twentiethtime, the case of poor Ascher. Gorman had reminded me, as he oftendoes, that I am incapable of understanding Ascher or entering into hisfeelings, because I am a man of no country and therefore know nothingof the emotion of patriotism. This seems a curious thing to say to aman who has just had his leg mangled in a battle; but I think Gorman isquite right about his fact I went out to the fight, when the fight cameon, but only because I could not avoid going. I never supposed that Iwas fighting for my country. But Gorman is wrong in his inference. Ihave no country, but I believe I can understand Ascher quite as well asGorman does. Nor am I sure that I ought to be thankful for my immunityfrom the fever of patriotism. Ascher suffered severely because at acritical moment in his life a feeling of loyalty to his native landgripped him hard. I have also suffered, a rending of the body atleast comparable to Ascher's rending of the soul. But I have not theconsolation of feeling that I am a hero.
I have often told Gorman that if he were as thorough-going as hepretends to be he would call himself O'Gorabhain or at the very least,O'Gorman. He is an Irishman by birth, sympathy and conviction. He is aMember of Parliament, pledged to support the cause of Ireland, and thisin spite of the fact that he has brains. He might have been a brilliant,perhaps even a successful and popular novelist. He wrote twostories which critics acclaimed, which are still remembered and evenoccasionally read. He might have risen to affluence as a dramatist. Hewas the author of one single-act play which made the fortune of a verycharming actress ten years ago. He has made a name for himself as ajournalist, and his articles are the chief glory of a leading weeklypaper. But the business to which he has really devoted himself is thatof an Irish patriot. He says amazingly foolish things in public and,in private, is always quite ready to laugh at his own speeches. He isa genuine lover of Ireland, an inheritor of that curious tradition ofIrish patriotism which has survived centuries of disappointed hopes,and, a much stranger thing, has never been quite asphyxiated by its owngases.
I happen to belong to that unfortunate class of Irishmen whom neitherGorman nor any one else will recognise as being Irish at all. I owned,at one time, a small estate in Co. Cork. I sold it to my tenantsand became a man of moderate income, incumbered with a baronetcyof respectable antiquity and occupied chiefly in finding profitableinvestments for my capital. By way of recreation I interest myself in myneighbours and acquaintances, in the actual men and women rather thanin their affairs. No definition of the Irish people has yet beenframed which would include me, though I am indubitably a person—I take"person" to be the singular of people which is a noun of multitude—andcome of a family which held on to an Irish property for 300 years. Myreligion consists chiefly of a dislike of the Roman Catholic Church andan instinctive distrust of the priests of all churches. My father wasan active Unionist, and I have no political opinions of any sort. I amtherefore cut off, both by religion and politics, from any chance oftaking part in Irish affairs. On the other hand I cannot manage tofeel myself an Englishman. Even now, though I have fought in their armywithout incurring the reproach of cowardice, I cannot get out of thehabit of looking at Englishmen from a distance. This convinces me that Iam not one of them.
I am thus—Gorman is quite right about this—a man of no country. But Iunderstand Ascher as well as Gorman does; though I take a different viewof Ascher's ultimate decision.
I met Gorman first on board a Cunard steamer in the autumn of 1913.
I was on my way to Canada. My excuse, the reason I gave to myself forthe journey, was the necessity of looking into the affairs of certainCanadian companies in which I had invested money. There were rumourscurrent in England at that time which led me to suspect that the boom inCanadian securities had reached its height and was about to subside. Idid not really believe that I was likely to find out anything ofvalue by stopping in an hotel at Montreal or travelling in a trainto Vancouver. But I was tired of London and thought the trip might bepleasant. I went to Canada by way of New York, partly because the bigCunarders are comfortable steamers, partly because I find New York anagreeable city. I have several friends there and I like the life of theplace—for a fortnight at a time. I do not know whether I should like itfor a longer time because I have never had money enough to live in NewYork for more than a fortnight. As a regular place of residence it mightbe too stimulating for me; but I shall probably never know how I shouldfeel about it at the end of six weeks.
It was Gorman who took the initiative on board the steamer. I do notthink that I should ever have made his acquaintance if he had notforced himself on me. He accosted me, introduced himself, carried theacquaintance through to an intimacy by sheer force of personality, andended by inducing me to like him. He began his attack on me during thatvery uncomfortable time just before the ship actually starts. It isnever possible to settle down to the ordinary routine of life at seauntil the screw begins to revolve. There is an hour or two, after thepassengers have embarked, which is disquieting and fussy. Mail bags, soI understand, are being put on board. Stewards, carrying cabin trunks,swarm in the corridors. Passengers wander restlessly about or hurry,with futile energy, from place to place. Pushing men hustle each otherat the windows of the purser's office, under pretence of expectingletters or despatching telegrams. Women passengers eye other womenpassengers with suspicion and distrust. It is very interesting to noticehow people who scowl at each other on the first day of a voyage exchangecards and promise to pay each other visits after six days as fellowtravellers. At the end of another six days—such is the usualunfortunate experience—the cards are lost and the promises forgotten.A poet and, following him, a novelist have compared human intercourse tothe "speaking" of ships that pass in the night. They would have found amore forcible, though perhaps less poetic, illustration of their ideain the friendships formed by passengers in the same steamer. They areintimate, but they are as a rule utterly transitory. However I have noright to complain. The friendship which Gorman forced on me has lastedeighteen months and shows no sign yet of wearing thin.
He caught me in the smoking room. I had settled down quietly in acomfortable chair, and was wondering, as I always do in that smokingroom, at the grain of the wood in the panel above the fireplace. Therewas no one else in the room except a steward who hovered near the doorwhich leads to the bar. Experience has taught me that the smoking room,the most populous part of the ship during the voyage, is generally emptyduring the two hours before the start. I thought I should have the placeto myself. I was half way through my cigar and had failed to decidewhether the panel is a fake or a natural curiosity when Gorman entered.He is a big man and fat. He is clean shaved and has bushy grey eyebrows.Heavy rolls of skin hang down from his jaws. He wears an unusually largegold signet ring. His appearance is not attractive. He sat down besideme and addressed me at once.
"Sir James Digby?" he said.
That is my name. I admitted it by nodding.
"I was glancing over the passenger list," he said, "and saw you were onboard. The purser told me you were up here somewhere. My name's Gorman,Michael Gorman."
The name gave me no information beyond the fact that the speaker was anIrishman. There must be several thousand Gormans in Ireland and I couldnot remember that I was acquainted with any one of them. I nodded again.
"I don't suppose you remember me," said Gorman, "but you used to see mepretty frequently once, about twenty-five years ago. My father kept theonly shop in Curraghbeg, and you used to come in and buy sweets, a pennyworth at a time. You were a small boy then. I was a bit older, fifteenor sixteen perhaps."
Curraghbeg is a miserable village standing in the middle of the tractof land which used to be my property. It is close to Curraghbeg House,where my father kept up such state as befitted an Irish gentleman of hisday. I believe I was born there. If I thought of any place in the worldas home I suppose it would be Curraghbeg; but I have no feeling forthe place except a mild dislike. The House is now a nunnery, in betterrepair, but almost certainly more gauntly hideous than when I ownedit. The village, I expect, is still as sordid as when I saw it last. Iremembered Gorman's shop, a dirty little public house, where sacks offlour, tea and sugar