The cold air stung us and we played till our

bodies glowed. Our shouts echoed in the silent street. The career

of our play brought us through the dark muddy lanes behind the

houses where we ran the gauntlet of the rough tribes from the

cottages, to the back doors of the dark dripping gardens where

odours arose from the ashpits, to the dark odorous stables where a

coachman smoothed and combed the horse or shook music from

the buckled harness. When we returned to the street light from the

kitchen windows had filled the areas. If my uncle was seen turning

the corner we hid in the shadow until we had seen him safely

housed. Or if Mangan's sister came out on the doorstep to call her

brother in to his tea we watched her from our shadow peer up and

down the street. We waited to see whether she would remain or go

in and, if she remained, we left our shadow and walked up to

Mangan's steps resignedly. She was waiting for us, her figure

defined by the light from the half-opened door. Her brother always

teased her before he obeyed and I stood by the railings looking at

her. Her dress swung as she moved her body and the soft rope of

her hair tossed from side to side.


Every morning I lay on the floor in the front parlour watching her

door. The blind was pulled down to within an inch of the sash so

that I could not be seen. When she came out on the doorstep my

heart leaped. I ran to the hall, seized my books and followed her. I

kept her brown figure always in my eye and, when we came near

the point at which our ways diverged, I quickened my pace and

passed her. This happened morning after morning. I had never

spoken to her, except for a few casual words, and yet her name

was like a summons to all my foolish blood.


Her image accompanied me even in places the most hostile to

romance. On Saturday evenings when my aunt went marketing I

had to go to carry some of the parcels. We walked through the

flaring streets, jostled by drunken men and bargaining women,

amid the curses of labourers, the shrill litanies of shop-boys who

stood on guard by the barrels of pigs' cheeks, the nasal chanting of

street-singers, who sang a come-all-you about O'Donovan Rossa,

or a ballad about the troubles in our native land. These noises

converged in a single sensation of life for me: I imagined that I

bore my chalice safely through a throng of foes. Her name sprang

to my lips at moments in strange prayers and praises which I

myself did not understand. My eyes were often full of tears (I

could not tell why) and at times a flood from my heart seemed to

pour itself out into my bosom. I thought little of the future. I did

not know whether I would ever speak to her or not or, if I spoke to

her, how I could tell her of my confused adoration. But my body

was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers

running upon the wires.


One evening I went into the back drawing-room in which the priest

had died. It was a dark rainy evening and there was no sound in the

house. Through one of the broken panes I heard the rain impinge

upon the earth, the fine incessant needles of water playing in the

sodden beds. Some distant lamp or lighted window gleamed below

me. I was thankful that I could see so little. All my senses seemed

to desire to veil themselves and, feeling that I was about to slip

from them, I pressed the palms of my hands together until they

trembled, murmuring: "O love! O love!" many times.


At last she spoke to me. When she addressed the first words to me

I was so confused that I did not know what to answer.