The Empire Trilogy by J. G. Farrell Read Free Book Online Page A

Permanent residents “battening on the poor old Majestic like leeches, impossible to get rid of, most of them won’t even pay their wretched bills unless one gets a bit sticky with them...” That poor old blighter sitting by himself near the summerhouse, the chap with the drop on the end of his nose? “Used to be a friend of Parnell and a man of great influence with the Parliamentary Party. These days no one speaks to him, he’s a dreadful old bore...” That young fellow with the pale face lurking on the steps down to the next terrace? “The twins’ tutor...but since they don’t need a tutor (or refuse to have one, it comes to the same thing) the chap never does a stroke, always lurking around and toadying to Father. I can hardly bear to look at his neck, his collar always looks like a dirty, bloodstained bandage. Frightful fellow. Another thing, I have it on reliable authority that he has a cloven hoof; he has been observed bathing.”
    Ripon fell silent. Sarah was approaching with Angela, who wanted to know if the Major had met her “best friend in the world” ...the person without whom she didn’t know what she would do in Kilnalough, where life was so dull and the people, although kindness itself, so uncultured that one hardly knew what to say. Did the Major know that, apart from the one in the vestry at St Michael’s and perhaps one at the chapel (she didn’t know about that) and two or three broken-down old things here at the Majestic, Sarah was the only person in Kilnalough who owned a piano and that this piano had been brought down from Pigotts of Dublin? The Major, as he listened and nodded politely, began to wonder, not for the first time, whether Angela was conscious of having written him so many letters. Could it be, he wondered as Angela explained how the beast’s legs had been sawn off and reattached, that this was a case of automatic writing, that one night in every week she would throw back the bedclothes and with staring eyes and arms outstretched, clad only in a shimmering nightdress, walk mechanically to her writing-desk and set to work?
    Sarah said: “Angela, how are you these days? I see so little of you.”
    â€œMuch the same,” Angela murmured. “Much the same.” And there was silence for a moment except for the sound of scuffling feet and hard breathing from the near-by tennis court. Brightening, however, she added: “But how are
you,
Sarah? Life must be such a trial for you—yes, I know it must be—the things all the rest of us take for granted and yet you’re like a perfect angel, never a word of complaint!”
    â€œOh no, that’s not true at all. I’m evil and bad-tempered and always complaining but you’re so good yourself that you don’t even notice it.”
    â€œWell,” said Angela, “I’m sure that’s not true but, anyway, it’s so nice to be having a conversation that’s not about Home Rule and Nationalism and so forth, which is all we ever seem to talk about these days. I’m sure London’s not what it used to be before the war (everyone says it’s not) but at least there’s still conversation. Brendan, you must tell us all about it, we’re becoming hopelessly provincial although even in Kilnalough we hear the most tantalizing rumours.”
    But the Major was at a loss to find anything to tell them. The few chats he had had with his aunt, pleasant though they had been, would certainly not qualify as conversation in Angela’s eyes. And as to what the tantalizing rumours might refer to he had no idea. In any case before he had time to reveal his ignorance Edward Spencer called up from the tennis court: “See that the Major gets himself a room, Ripon, will you? Show him the ropes and...” He was interrupted by a flurry of agile volleying at the net... “and all that sort of thing,” he added lamely, picking up the