The Traveller in the Mask,

To-day I have taken out my passport once more. It is summer and time
to examine one's passport; and now, as always, I feel a queer thrill
at the sight of that little green volume, the mask under which I
travel.

It is no more than a mask, a disguise which I adopt for someone’s
pleasure, for am I not called Citizen of the Irish Free State and of
the British Commonwealth of Nations? And does not Tadhg O hEulaithe
who in the name of His Brightness of Britain (so I translate it)
requests and requires free passage for me, does not he also
masquerade? I am sure he does; I should be sorry to think otherwise.

But the masquerade is an old joke, and Tadhg O hEulaithe, Counsellor
of his Brightness of Brightness and Citizen-of-the-British
-Commonwealth-of-Nations Francis O'Connor are not the first to
appreciate it. Some little while ago I saw in a friend's house, a
passport, much more beautiful than my own (alas for the eighteenth
century!). It was magnificently headed in great black capitals DON
FRANCISCO ANTONIO DE LACY, and the titles which followed far
outnumbered those of Mr. Healy, for Don Francisco Antonio De Lacy was
_El Conde De Lacy, Caballero Gran-Cruz de la Real y distinguida Orden
de Carlos III; Consejero nato en el Supremo de Guerra_, and many other
things as well. But the gist of the passport is in these lines:


  Concedemos libre y segura pasaporte al Corh. Roche, Caballero Ingles
  al Servicio dela Gran Brataña que... pasa a francia con sus Criados
  armas y Equipage.

Alas for the eighteenth century indeed! Listen to the thunder of that
last line. Homer, Virgil, Dante or Milton could not have bettered
“_que pasa, a francia con sus Criados armas y Equipage,” and, though
Mr. Healy and I too wear the mask, we shall never “pass into
France” in just that way, “with servants, arms and equipage.”

But, look you, the mask is there. De Lacy-Roche; Healy-0'Connor. The
eighteenth century loved that joke, but, I think, it must have seen in
it much that I do not see. So, at least, I judge from the travel diary
of my eighteenth century prototype, written in the neatest of neat
hands in a notebook bound in brown-tooled leather with passport
pocket, the whole properly labelled “ Spain and France.” For it is
obvious that my prototype was not in the least like me, that having
passed the frontier he was still _al servicio dela Gran Brataña_, that
he did not chuck his hat into the air and thank God for being alive in
one of the great Latin countries.

No. my prototype wore his mask austerely, remotely, as though he had
never borne the name of Roche.

There is no particular headlong joy in this:

  _Cherilly_—Pavement all the way, and the sides too bad to go on.
  _Artenay_—A damn'd pave and a mad drunk postillion; flat country;
    numberless waggons on the road; many inns here tolerably good.
  _Orleans_—The Cathedral is very worthy observation. It is
    gothic and most curious, light and airy in its construction.

“Gothic and most curious” is excellent. It is the perfect tone of the
perfect traveller, and the mask is carefully tied about the
eyes. Listen to this (he saw the French Republic in its infancy) :

  There has been a review of the National troops here, the day
  before I came, and when they cried out “Vive le Nation a
  Monsr. Lanfondiere,” a Croix de St. Louis inhabitant, and somewhat
  rich, cried out, “Vive le Roi.” They order’d  him to say “Vive
  le Nation” also which he cou'd not be prevail'd on to do. They
  seized and imprison'd him, and some cried out “A la Lantherne,” that
  was, to hang him at a lanthorn. He was to be tried for this
  disrespect to the majesty of the people.

No posturing, no heroics! It might almost be Mr. Aldous Huxley on one
of his sight-seeing tours. And surely this is pure Huxley. It is one
of his many observations on Spain.

  Every person above a certain age must confess once a year at least,
  and to anyone they please. He is at any time liable to be call'd for
  to produce this billet or certificate of confession, and if they
  have it not they are liable to the censures of the Church and may
  have their names posted on the list of sinners on some church
  door. Some of the lower clases confess often, and sell their billets
  to those who have not confess’d and do not intend it, which billet
  they show to their Parish Priest if he demands it.

  In _Spain_ luxury takes no very gigantic strides as in other
  countries; it advances with a slow and crippled pace. It is
  incredible the number of common conveniences of life which are
  seldom met here. In _Valencia_ there were very few windows with
  glass to them. Count O’Reilly’s house, one of the best in the town,
  he was obliged to get it glaz’d and to get chimnies and fire places
  made, instead of their brasiers or pans of ashes.

Have you noticed, oh, dear reader, have you noticed that “Count
O'Reilly's house”? Betray himself? Never. He is as though he had
been born deaf, dumb, and blind.

I shall quote one more descriptive passage from the perfect
traveller. He is describing the Catholic Office of Tenebrae, and the
Catholic Church can always bring out the best that is in him. You are
particularly requested to notice the exquisite irony of “these we may
call true _Dilettanti_”; “a _species_ of silence” and “every man brings
his own instrument of pleasure.”

  On Wednesday at nightfall I went to San Felipe Neri Church. There
  were but a very few candles lighted. All was dark, solemn and
  dismal. Silence reign'd and was only now and then interrupted by
  sighs and hems of men evidently agitated. I fancied myself in a
  Quakers' meeting and the spirit stirring up the Brethren. At length
  a Fryar began some prayers, which in a little time ceased, and many
  people made a show of quitting the church, but slip'd into the
  corridores. These we may call true _Dilettanti_. Then the doors were
  all locked and all external communication cut off. On the clapping
  of a man's hands the lights were put out and we were left in
  darkness, total darkness, “fit for deeds that can not bear the
  light.” After a _species_ of silence for five minutes, on a signal
  there commenced a noise like the patting of hands on fleshy parts,
  and then followed the _Miserere_, from the commencement of which to
  the latter end the people never ceased whipping themselves. I was up
  in the gallery, and a Fryar who was about two yards from me kept
  flagellating himself all the time in a most unmerciful manner, and
  always join'd in singing the stave. He had a most delightful, deep,
  clear, bass voice. I cou'd hear him constantly sighing and hemming
  and panting for breath. Every man brings his own instrument of
  pleasure, therefore one must imagine they are of various species,
  but I take the most of them to be rods, by the sound. The general
  noise is most exactly that of heavy rain falling on a flag'd court,
  with occasional drops falling from a spout, with a greater force and
  weight. It finished in a most frightful and shocking manner. For the
  last five minutes it was as if all the unfortunate Bedlamites of
  England were united in one hall and in their greatest paroxysms of
  rage. All discrimination of sound was lost in one frightful yell and
  horrid shriek. They informed me afterwards that these enthusiasts
  call'd out “Misericordia!  Misericordia!” And I am sure they could
  not have done it with more vehemence, anxiety and rage, had it been
  the final day of judgment, and they precipitating into an abyss of
  eternal fire and torment. Really, one must not only be prepared for
  it, but have strong nerves to be able to endure this shock.

That our perfect traveller had strong nerves I have no reason to
doubt, for reading those perfect lines I feel like Whitman looking at
the Louisiana oak, growing by itself; I realise that I could not do
it.

But even those strong nerves broke down at last; only for a
moment, it is true, but even that moment betrayed him as utterly as I
(quite joyfully, and of my own free will) betray myself when the mask,
the _Citizen-of-the-British-Commonwealth-of-Nations mask has
brought me past the frontiers of France. To him it happened quite
unexpectedly, as he set down the heading “Barcelona Acquaintances.”

Under this heading are those he met, beginning (without comment) on
the name of El Conde De Lacy, and continuing (also without comment)
with that of Don Antonio O'More, Captn. of the Walloon Guards. But
listen to some of the others:

  Monsr. and Madame de Vic (pretty), of the Walloon Guards; Don Pedro
  de Vos, Captn. of the Caletrava Reg. Cavalry; Doña Manuela de
  Palleja, his wife (very pretty); Made. de Torres (pretty), wife to a
  Col. Inspector of Cavalry; Las Señoras de Burgo, 3 sisters
  (very pretty and sinfull); La Seña. — Loipin (very pretty), no
  acquaintance; Made. Novell (pretty, squints and is capricious).

It is a crescendo of self-betrayal. Of what avail the elaborate
caution over the names of O'Reilly, of O'More and De Lacy? Of what
avail the pure Huxleyan irony? Nothing. With Madame de Vic we begin
to be suspicious; with Las Señoras de Burgo, the pretty and
sinful, suspicion becomes almost certainty; but that last, that
unforgettable, that perfect “pretty, squints and is capricious”
has made the Roche who travelled “_al servicio dela Gran Brataña_”
forever and forever ours.

Frank O’Connor
Irish Statesman, 1928-09-22, pp.53,54,