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John McGahern

By the Lake

To Madeline

The morning was clear. There was no wind on the lake. There was also a great stillness. When the bells rang out for Mass, the strokes trembling on the water, they had the entire world to themselves.

The doors of the house were open. Jamesie entered without knocking and came in noiselessly until he stood in the doorway of the large room where the Ruttledges were sitting. He stood as still as if waiting under trees for returning wildfowl. He expected his discovery to be quick. There would be a cry of surprise and reproach; he would counter by accusing them of not being watchful enough. There would be welcome and laughter. When the Ruttledges continued to converse calmly about a visit they were expecting that same afternoon, he could contain himself no longer. Such was his continual expectation of discovery that in his eavesdropping he was nearly always disappointed by the innocence he came upon.

“Hel-lo. Hel-lo. Hel-lo,” he called out softly, in some exasperation.

“Jamesie!” They turned to the voice with great friendliness. As he often stole silently in, they showed no surprise. “You are welcome. ”

“Ye are no good. I have been standing here for several minutes and haven’t heard a bad word said about anybody yet. Not a bad word,” he repeated with mocking slowness as he came forward.

“We never speak badly about people. It’s too dangerous. It can get you into trouble. ”

“Then ye never speak or if you do the pair of yous are not worth listening to. ”

In his dark Sunday suit, white shirt, red tie, polished black shoes, the fine silver hair brushed back from the high forehead and sharp clean features, he was shining and handsome. An intense vividness and sweetness of nature showed in every quick, expressive movement.

“Kate.

” He held out an enormous hand. She pretended to be afraid to trust her hand to such strength. It was a game he played regularly. For him all forms of social intercourse were merely different kinds of play. “God hates a coward, Kate,” he demanded, and she took his hand.

Not until she cried, “Easy there, Jamesie,” did he release his gently tightening grip with a low crow of triumph. “You are one of God’s troopers, Kate. Mister Ruttledge,” he bowed solemnly.

“Mister Murphy. ”

“No misters here,” he protested. “No misters in this part of the world. Nothing but broken-down gentlemen. ”

“There are no misters in this house either. He that is down can fear no fall. ”

“Why don’t you go to Mass, then, if you are that low?” Jamesie changed the attack lightly.

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“You’d be like everybody else round here by now if you went to Mass. ”

“I’d like to attend Mass. I miss going. ”

“What’s keeping you, then?”

“I don’t believe. ”

“I don’t believe,” he mimicked. “None of us believes and we go. That’s no bar. ”

“I’d feel a hypocrite. Why do you go if you don’t believe?”

“To look at the girls. To see the whole performance,” he cried out, and started to shake with laughter. “We go to see all the other hypocrites. Kate, what do you think about all this? You’ve hardly said a word. ”