L'escalier

But as the moon brightens I see, some fifteen feet above me, a staircase – a secret staircase ascending through the enormous thickness of the walls. What were these strange ways used for? who were they who trod them centuries ago? Slender women in clinging and trailing garments, bearded chieftains, their iron heels clanging, and as I evoke the past, rich fancies come to me, and the nostalgia of those distant days, strong days that were better and happier than ours, comes upon me swiftly, as a bitter poison pulsing in blood and brain; and regardless of my friend’s counsels, I climb towards the strange stairway, as if I would pass backwards out of this fitful and febrile age to one bigger and healthier and simpler. These walls have been touched by hands that trembled not as mine, and I shall never touch those hands, and the eyes that looked down through this loophole on wild foes will never be known to mine. Ah! I should have known those men, should have fought out my life with them, and not grown sick with grief in this querulous age. And those women of early Ireland I should have seen holding their robes from their feet as they ascended this stair to the battlements, to watch for their husbands and brothers coming back fresh from border forays with beeves and prisoners . . .

George Moore. Parnell and His Island. 62