LITTLE BLUE BOOK NO. 215
Edited by E. Haldeman-Julius
The Miraculous
Revenge
Bernard Shaw
HALDEMAN-JULIUS COMPANY
GIRARD, KANSAS
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
THE MIRACULOUS REVENGE
Bernard Shaw
THE MIRACULOUS REVENGE
I arrived in Dublin on the evening of the fifthof August, and drove to the residence of myuncle, the Cardinal Archbishop. He is likemost of my family, deficient in feeling, andconsequently averse to me personally. He livesin a dingy house, with a side-long view of theportico of his cathedral from the front windows,and of a monster national school fromthe back. My uncle maintains no retinue. Thepeople believe that he is waited upon by angels.When I knocked at the door, an old woman,his only servant, opened it, and informed methat her master was then officiating at thecathedral, and that he had directed her to preparedinner for me in his absence. An unpleasantsmell of salt fish made me ask her whatthe dinner consisted of. She assured me thatshe had cooked all that could be permitted inhis Holiness's house on Friday. On my askingher further why on Friday, she replied thatFriday was a fast day. I bade her tell HisHoliness that I had hoped to have the pleasureof calling on him shortly, and drove to thehotel in Sackville-street, where I engagedapartments and dined.
After dinner I resumed my eternal search—Iknow not for what: it drives me to and frolike another Cain. I sought in the streets withoutsuccess. I went to the theatre. The musicwas execrable, the scenery poor. I had seenthe play a month before in London with thesame beautiful artist in the chief part. Twoyears had passed since, seeing her for the first[Pg 6]time, I had hoped that she, perhaps, might bethe long-sought mystery. It had proved otherwise.On this night I looked at her and listenedto her for the sake of that bygone hope, andapplauded her generously when the curtainfell. But I went out lonely still. When I hadsupped at a restaurant, I returned to my hotel,and tried to read. In vain. The sound of feetin the corridors as the other occupants of thehotel went to bed distracted my attention frommy book. Suddenly it occurred to to me that Ihad never quite understood my uncle's character.He, father to a great flock of poor andignorant Irish; an austere and saintly man,to whom livers of hopeless lives daily appealedfor help heavenward; who was reputed neverto have sent away a troubled peasant withoutrelieving him of his burden by sharing it;whose knees were worn less by the altar stepsthan by the tears and embraces of the guiltyand wretched: he refused to humor my lightextravagances, or to find time to talk with meof books, flowers, and music. Had I not beenmad to expect it? Now that I needed sympathymyself, I did him justice. I desired to be witha true-hearted man, and mingle my tears withhis.
I looked at my watch. It was nearly an hourpast midnight. In the corridor the lights wereout, except one jet at the end. I threw a cloakupon my shoulders, put on a Spanish hat andleft my apartment, listening to the echoes ofmy measured steps retreating through thedeserted passages. A strange sight arrested meon the landing of the grand staircase. Throughan open door I saw the