The Miraculous Revenge

The Miraculous Revenge, by
Bernard Shaw

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Title: The Miraculous Revenge Little Blue Book #215
Author: Bernard Shaw
Editor: E. Haldeman-Julius
Release Date: January 11, 2007 [EBook #20336]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
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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
[Illustration: BERNARD SHAW]

THE MIRACULOUS REVENGE
I arrived in Dublin on the evening of the fifth of August, and drove to
the residence of my uncle, the Cardinal Archbishop. He is like most of
my family, deficient in feeling, and consequently averse to me
personally. He lives in a dingy house, with a side-long view of the
portico of his cathedral from the front windows, and of a monster
national school from the back. My uncle maintains no retinue. The
people believe that he is waited upon by angels. When I knocked at the
door, an old woman, his only servant, opened it, and informed me that
her master was then officiating at the cathedral, and that he had directed
her to prepare dinner for me in his absence. An unpleasant smell of salt
fish made me ask her what the dinner consisted of. She assured me that
she had cooked all that could be permitted in his Holiness's house on
Friday. On my asking her further why on Friday, she replied that Friday
was a fast day. I bade her tell His Holiness that I had hoped to have the
pleasure of calling on him shortly, and drove to the hotel in
Sackville-street, where I engaged apartments and dined.
After dinner I resumed my eternal search--I know not for what: it

drives me to and fro like another Cain. I sought in the streets without
success. I went to the theatre. The music was execrable, the scenery
poor. I had seen the play a month before in London with the same
beautiful artist in the chief part. Two years had passed since, seeing her
for the first time, I had hoped that she, perhaps, might be the
long-sought mystery. It had proved otherwise. On this night I looked at
her and listened to her for the sake of that bygone hope, and applauded
her generously when the curtain fell. But I went out lonely still. When I
had supped at a restaurant, I returned to my hotel, and tried to read. In
vain. The sound of feet in the corridors as the other occupants of the
hotel went to bed distracted my attention from my book. Suddenly it
occurred to to me that I had never quite understood my uncle's
character. He, father to a great flock of poor and ignorant Irish; an
austere and saintly man, to whom livers of hopeless lives daily
appealed for help heavenward; who was reputed never to have sent
away a troubled peasant without relieving him of his burden by sharing
it; whose knees were worn less by the altar steps than by the tears and
embraces of the guilty and wretched: he refused to humor my light
extravagances, or to find time to talk with me of books, flowers, and
music. Had I not been mad to expect it? Now that I needed sympathy
myself, I did him justice. I desired to be with a true-hearted man, and
mingle my tears with his.
I looked at my watch. It was nearly an hour past midnight. In the
corridor the lights were out, except one jet at the end. I threw a cloak
upon my shoulders, put on a Spanish hat and left my apartment,
listening to the echoes of my measured steps retreating through the
deserted passages. A strange sight arrested me on the landing of the
grand staircase. Through an open door I saw the moonlight shining
through the windows of a saloon in which some entertainment had
recently taken place. I looked at my watch again: it was but one o'clock;
and yet the guests had departed. I entered the room, my boots ringing
loudly on the waxed boards. On a chair lay a child's cloak and a broken
toy. The entertainment had been a children's party. I stood for a time
looking at the shadow of my cloaked figure on the floor,