“Chaos,” said he, “is the first condition. Order is the first law. Continuity is the first reflection. Quietude is the first happiness. Our brother is dead—bury him.” So saying, he returned his eyes to his nose, and his mind to his maxim, and lapsed to a profound reflection wherein nothing sat perched on insubstantiality, and the Spirit of Artifice goggled at the puzzle.
The Grey Woman of Dun Gortin took a pinch of snuff from her box and raised the keen over her husband:
“You were my husband and you are dead.
It is wisdom that has killed you.
If you had listened to my wisdom instead of to your own you would still be a trouble to me and I would still be happy.
Women are stronger than men—they do not die of wisdom.
They are better than men because they do not seek wisdom.
They are wiser than men because they know less and understand more.
I had fourteen hundred maledictions, my little store, and by a trick you stole them and left me empty.
You stole my wisdom and it has broken your neck.
I lost my knowledge and I am yet alive raising the keen over your body, but it was too heavy for you, my little knowledge.
You will never go out into the pine wood in the morning, or wander abroad on a night of stars.
You will not sit in the chimney corner on the hard nights, or go to bed, or rise again, or do anything at all from this day out.
Who will gather pine cones now when the fire is going down, or call my name in the empty house, or be angry when the kettle is not boiling?
Now I am desolate indeed. I have no knowledge, I have no husband, I have no more to say.”
“If I had anything better you should have it,” said she politely to the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath.
“Thank you,” said the Thin Woman, “it was very nice. Shall I begin now? My husband is meditating and we may be able to annoy him.”
“Don’t trouble yourself,” replied the other, “I am past enjoyment and am, moreover, a respectable woman.”
“That is no more than the truth, indeed.”
“I have always done the right thing at the right time.”
“I’d be the last body in the world to deny that,” was the warm response.
“Very well, then,” said the Grey Woman, and she commenced to take off her boots. She stood in the centre of the room and balanced herself on her toe.
“You are a decent, respectable lady,” said the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath, and then the Grey Woman began to gyrate rapidly and more rapidly until she was a very fervour of motion, and in three-quarters of an hour (for she was very tough) she began to slacken, grew visible, wobbled, and fell beside her dead husband, and on her face was a beatitude almost surpassing his.
The Thin Woman of Inis Magrath smacked the children and put them to bed, next she buried the two bodies under the hearthstone, and then, with some trouble, detached her husband from his meditations. When he became capable of ordinary occurrences she detailed all that had happened, and said that he alone was to blame for the sad bereavement. He replied:
“The toxin generates the antitoxin. The end lies concealed in the beginning. All bodies grow around a skeleton. Life is a petticoat about death. I will not go to bed.”
III
On the day following this melancholy occurrence Meehawl MacMurrachu, a small farmer in the neighbourhood, came through the pine trees with tangled brows. At the door of the little house he said, “God be with all here,” and marched in.
The Philosopher removed his pipe from his lips—
“God be with yourself,” said he, and he replaced his pipe.
Meehawl MacMurrachu crooked his thumb at space—
“Where is the other one?” said he.
“Ah!” said the Philosopher.
“He might be outside, maybe?”
“He might, indeed,” said the Philosopher gravely.
“Well, it doesn’t matter,” said the visitor, “for you have enough knowledge by yourself to stock a shop. The reason I came here today was to ask your honoured advice about my wife’s washing board. She only has it a couple of years, and the last time she used it was when she washed out my Sunday shirt and her black skirt with the red things on it—you know the one?”
“I do not,” said the Philosopher.
“Well, anyhow, the washboard is gone, and my wife says it was either taken by the fairies or by Bessie Hannigan—you know Bessie Hannigan? She has whiskers like a goat and a lame leg!”—
“I do not,” said the Philosopher.
“No matter,” said Meehawl MacMurrachu. “She didn’t take it, because my wife got her out yesterday and kept her talking for two hours while I went through everything in her bit of a house—the washboard wasn’t there.”
“It wouldn’t be,” said the Philosopher.
“Maybe your honour could tell a body where it is then?”
“Maybe I could,” said the Philosopher; “are you listening?”
“I am,” said Meehawl MacMurrachu.
The Philosopher drew his chair closer to the visitor until their knees were jammed together. He laid both his hands on Meehawl MacMurrachu’s knees—
“Washing is an extraordinary custom,” said he. “We are washed both on coming into the world and on going out of it, and we take no pleasure from the first washing nor any profit from the last.”
“True for you, sir,” said Meehawl MacMurrachu.
“Many people consider that scourings supplementary to these are only due to habit. Now, habit is continuity of action, it is a most detestable thing and is very difficult to get away from. A proverb will run where a writ will not,
