Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Maeve Brennan left Ireland for American in 1934, when she was seventeen. In 1949, she joined the staff of The New Yorker, to which she contributed reviews, essays, and short stories. Her acclaimed works The Rose Garden, The Visitor, and The Springs of Affection are also available from Counterpoint. Maeve Brennan died in 1993 at the age of seventy–six.

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The Visitor

Counterpoint Press

Chapter One

The mail train rushed along toward Dublin, and allthe passengers swayed and nodded with the unevenrhythm of it and kept their eyes fixed firmly in front ofthem as though the least movement would bring them to the endof their patience. Luggage had been piled hastily out in the corridor,and some people left their seats and stood there, leaningagainst windows all cloudy with breath and smoke.

    Anastasia King rubbed a clear spot in her window and staredout, but in the rushing darkness only a few stray lights were discernible,blurred by the rain. She turned back into the corridorand took out a cigarette.

    Around her in the garish yellow trainlight faces were shadowedand withdrawn, indifference heightened by the deafeningclatter of the train. The din automatically raised a barrier of hostileirritation to daunt the chummy souls. She was glad of this.

    A man spoke to her, standing very close because of the noise,startling her.

    "May I borrow a match?"

    "Of course."

    She frowned nervously. It occurred to her that he might haveasked some other person, and she looked along the corridor. Hecaught the direction of her glance. He smiled a little.

    "They all looked half-asleep," he said, "but I saw you look outthrough the window there."

    "I looked out but I didn't see much. It's raining hard and it'svery dark."

    "It was raining when I left here. That was nearly two yearsago." His voice was idle and friendly. "Have you been awaylong?"

    "Oh, yes, a long time. Six years last month."

    "That is a long time. You haven't been back at all?"

    "No."

    After a moment she said, "I've been living in Pads, with mymother. We moved there, six years ago."

    "I see." He rubbed a place in the window and peered out."Well, it's raining all right. You know, if I wasn't sure I'd beenaway I might think I hadn't gone at all. It was exactly like this theday I left."

    He continued to stare out and Anastasia looked at her suitcasesagain.

    I might be leaving too, she thought, instead of coming back.

    She rocked with the train, her back to the window, and feltonce again that she was remembering a long dream.

    The future is wearisome too. I can't imagine it now. It's verylate in the evening.

    Her thoughts went back to Pads; dwindling uncertain picturesformed in her mind. Again she was saying goodbye to herfather There he was in miniature, and she also, in a clear coldminiature room. He turned and faded out through the hotel doorthat opened inward. He looked a bit like a tortoise, all bent andcurving in on himself, carrying his hat in his hand. For the firsttime she had wanted to say she was sorry, at last to say how sorryshe was, but he was already down the corridor and around thecorner and gone.

    He was alone and sad. Behind her in this tiny hotel room ofmemory her mother sat in a chair near the window. Her mother'sface was soft from crying, her hands were clasped upturned inher lap, and she met her daughter's gaze with a glance of passiverecognition and that was all ...

    The man beside her turned suddenly from the window to faceher.

    "Ah, I'm glad to be back again," he said with a contented sigh."I suppose you are too. People to visit, places to see. But you'llfind a lot of changes too, and so will I, I suppose. Even two yearsis a long time, these days."

    He smiled and she nodded at him and smiled too. Hestraightened himself and looked at his watch.

    "Well, I'll run along and get my stuff together. We'll soon bepulling in. Thanks for the match. Goodbye now."

    A few steps away he turned.

    "Have a nice holiday now," he yelled above the train noise.

    "It isn't a holiday."

    "Oh, well." He was uncertain. "Have a good time. Goodbye."

    "Goodbye."

    Bags were tumbling down from racks and coats were beingpulled on. She looked out again into the darkness, but now therewas nothing to be seen but the distorted reflection of the excitedscene behind her.

    "Here we are in Dublin," said an English voice close to her.

    Her eyes filled with tears. She bent to her suitcases. Somewherein her mind a voice was saying clearly, "Ireland is mydwelling place, Dublin is my station."

    Then the porter had found her a taxi and was putting her bagsin. She thanked him and tipped him and climbed in alongsidethe luggage.

    She put one hand out to balance the smaller bag, which was indanger of falling, and then suddenly they had left the dim taxicablane and were in the street, and there were many people, ordinarypeople, not travelers, walking along the rainy streets. The faceslooked just as self-intent and serious as the faces in the strangecities she had seen; they seemed no different.

    In a moment the windows were blurred with running waterand the streets slid by unnamed and unrecognized. The rain fellslantwise on rows and rows of blank-faced houses, over the slateroofs, past their many windows. Anastasia slumped lower intoher seat, trying not to recognize the sudden melancholy that wason her. The cabman drove without a word and his silenceseemed sullen. She felt rebuffed for no reason.

    It seemed too long to her grandmother's house, but she wasstartled when the car drew up at last, and she looked up apprehensivelyand saw the familiar door of years ago. The lights wereon in the front hall. They had been waiting for her, her grandmotherand Katharine. The door opened wide and lighted thesteps for the cab driver, who was struggling up to the door withher bags.

    She kissed her grandmother hastily, avoiding her eyes. Thegrandmother did not move from the door of the sitting room.She stood in the doorway, having just got up from the firesideand her reading, and contemplated Anastasia and Anastasia'sluggage crowding the hall. She was still the same, with her delicateand ruminative and ladylike face, and her hands clasped formallyin front of her. Anastasia thought, She is waiting for me tomake some mistake. Katharine stood as ever in the background,anxious and smiling in her big white apron, her scrubbed handsalready reaching to help with the luggage, her eyes lively withpleasure and curiosity.

    Anastasia said rapidly, "Did he bring all the bags? I was afraidhe'd forget one. It's the little one I'm worried about. It's alwaysgetting lost, it's so small. He was an idiot, that man. He talked thehead off me, all the way from the station, really—"

    The grandmother waited for her to finish.

    She said, "It is nice to see you again, Anastasia. You are lookingwell. Isn't she,...