A Mother Page #2

"A Mother" is a short story, not a book, by James Joyce that appears in his collection called "Dubliners". The story revolves around Mrs. Kearney, a socially ambitious mother who aims to give her daughter a career in music in an attempt to boost her family's social standing. However, her drive and reputation create conflicts, eventually leading to her own downfall. This story underlines the societal expectations, moral values and social justice of 20th-century Irish society.

• Children

								

concerts: four was too many.

“And the artistes!” said Mrs Kearney. “Of course they are doing their
best, but really they are not good.”

Mr Holohan admitted that the artistes were no good but the Committee,
he said, had decided to let the first three concerts go as they pleased
and reserve all the talent for Saturday night. Mrs Kearney said
nothing, but, as the mediocre items followed one another on the
platform and the few people in the hall grew fewer and fewer, she began
to regret that she had put herself to any expense for such a concert.
There was something she didn’t like in the look of things and Mr
Fitzpatrick’s vacant smile irritated her very much. However, she said
nothing and waited to see how it would end. The concert expired shortly
before ten, and everyone went home quickly.

The concert on Thursday night was better attended, but Mrs Kearney saw
at once that the house was filled with paper. The audience behaved
indecorously, as if the concert were an informal dress rehearsal. Mr
Fitzpatrick seemed to enjoy himself; he was quite unconscious that Mrs
Kearney was taking angry note of his conduct. He stood at the edge of
the screen, from time to time jutting out his head and exchanging a
laugh with two friends in the corner of the balcony. In the course of
the evening, Mrs Kearney learned that the Friday concert was to be
abandoned and that the Committee was going to move heaven and earth to
secure a bumper house on Saturday night. When she heard this, she
sought out Mr Holohan. She buttonholed him as he was limping out
quickly with a glass of lemonade for a young lady and asked him was it
true. Yes, it was true.

“But, of course, that doesn’t alter the contract,” she said. “The
contract was for four concerts.”

Mr Holohan seemed to be in a hurry; he advised her to speak to Mr
Fitzpatrick. Mrs Kearney was now beginning to be alarmed. She called Mr
Fitzpatrick away from his screen and told him that her daughter had
signed for four concerts and that, of course, according to the terms of
the contract, she should receive the sum originally stipulated for,
whether the society gave the four concerts or not. Mr Fitzpatrick, who
did not catch the point at issue very quickly, seemed unable to resolve
the difficulty and said that he would bring the matter before the
Committee. Mrs Kearney’s anger began to flutter in her cheek and she
had all she could do to keep from asking:

“And who is the Cometty pray?”

But she knew that it would not be ladylike to do that: so she was
silent.

Little boys were sent out into the principal streets of Dublin early on
Friday morning with bundles of handbills. Special puffs appeared in all
the evening papers, reminding the music-loving public of the treat
which was in store for it on the following evening. Mrs Kearney was
somewhat reassured, but she thought well to tell her husband part of
her suspicions. He listened carefully and said that perhaps it would be
better if he went with her on Saturday night. She agreed. She respected
her husband in the same way as she respected the General Post Office,
as something large, secure and fixed; and though she knew the small
number of his talents she appreciated his abstract value as a male. She
was glad that he had suggested coming with her. She thought her plans
over.

The night of the grand concert came. Mrs Kearney, with her husband and
daughter, arrived at the Antient Concert Rooms three-quarters of an
hour before the time at which the concert was to begin. By ill luck it
was a rainy evening. Mrs Kearney placed her daughter’s clothes and
music in charge of her husband and went all over the building looking
for Mr Holohan or Mr Fitzpatrick. She could find neither. She asked the
stewards was any member of the Committee in the hall and, after a great
deal of trouble, a steward brought out a little woman named Miss Beirne
to whom Mrs Kearney explained that she wanted to see one of the
secretaries. Miss Beirne expected them any minute and asked could she
do anything. Mrs Kearney looked searchingly at the oldish face which
was screwed into an expression of trustfulness and enthusiasm and
answered:

“No, thank you!”

The little woman hoped they would have a good house. She looked out at
the rain until the melancholy of the wet street effaced all the
trustfulness and enthusiasm from her twisted features. Then she gave a
little sigh and said:

“Ah, well! We did our best, the dear knows.”

Mrs Kearney had to go back to the dressing-room.

The artistes were arriving. The bass and the second tenor had already
come. The bass, Mr Duggan, was a slender young man with a scattered
black moustache. He was the son of a hall porter in an office in the
city and, as a boy, he had sung prolonged bass notes in the resounding
hall. From this humble state he had raised himself until he had become
a first-rate artiste. He had appeared in grand opera. One night, when
an operatic artiste had fallen ill, he had undertaken the part of the
king in the opera of Maritana at the Queen’s Theatre. He sang his
music with great feeling and volume and was warmly welcomed by the
gallery; but, unfortunately, he marred the good impression by wiping
his nose in his gloved hand once or twice out of thoughtlessness. He
was unassuming and spoke little. He said yous so softly that it
passed unnoticed and he never drank anything stronger than milk for his
voice’s sake. Mr Bell, the second tenor, was a fair-haired little man
who competed every year for prizes at the Feis Ceoil. On his fourth
trial he had been awarded a bronze medal. He was extremely nervous and
extremely jealous of other tenors and he covered his nervous jealousy
with an ebullient friendliness. It was his humour to have people know
what an ordeal a concert was to him. Therefore when he saw Mr Duggan he
went over to him and asked:

“Are you in it too?”

“Yes,” said Mr Duggan.

Mr Bell laughed at his fellow-sufferer, held out his hand and said:

“Shake!”

Mrs Kearney passed by these two young men and went to the edge of the
screen to view the house. The seats were being filled up rapidly and a
pleasant noise circulated in the auditorium. She came back and spoke to
her husband privately. Their conversation was evidently about Kathleen
for they both glanced at her often as she stood chatting to one of her
Nationalist friends, Miss Healy, the contralto. An unknown solitary
woman with a pale face walked through the room. The women followed with
keen eyes the faded blue dress which was stretched upon a meagre body.
Someone said that she was Madam Glynn, the soprano.

“I wonder where did they dig her up,” said Kathleen to Miss Healy. “I’m
sure I never heard of her.”

Miss Healy had to smile. Mr Holohan limped into the dressing-room at
that moment and the two young ladies asked him who was the unknown
woman. Mr Holohan said that she was Madam Glynn from London. Madam
Glynn took her stand in a corner of the room, holding a roll of music
stiffly before her and from time to time changing the direction of her
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