In England at the time public opinion was roused to a fever heat of patriotic3 enthusiasm, and the Irish Protestant unionists were eager to outdo even the music-halls in Imperialist sentiment, the students of Trinity College being then, as ever, the ‘death or glory’ boys of Irish loyalty4. It is easy to imagine how Hyacinth’s name was whispered shudderingly5 in the reading-room of the library, how his sentiments were anathematized in the dining-hall at commons, how plots were hatched for the chastisement6 of his iniquity7 over the fire in the evenings, when pipes were lit and tea was brewed8.
At the end of the week Hyacinth was in an exceedingly uncomfortable position. Outside the lecture-rooms nobody would speak to him. Inside he found himself the solitary9 occupant of the bench he sat on—a position of comparative physical comfort, for the other seats were crowded, but not otherwise desirable. A great English poet had just composed a poem, which a musician, no doubt equally eminent10, had set to a noble tune11. It embodied12 an appeal for funds for purposes not clearly specified13, and hazarded the experiment of rhyming ‘cook’s son’ with ‘Duke’s son,’ which in less fervent14 times might have provoked the criticism of the captious15. It became the fashion in college to chant this martial16 ode whenever Hyacinth was seen approaching. It was thundered out by a choir17 who marched in step up and down his staircase. Bars of it were softly hummed in his ear while he tried to note the important truths which the lecturers impressed upon their classes. One night five musicians relieved each other at the task of playing the tune on a concertina outside his door. They commenced briskly at eight o’clock in the evening, and the final sleepy version only died away at six the next morning.
Dr. Henry, who either did not know or chose to ignore the state of the students’ feelings, advised Hyacinth to become a member of the Theological Debating Society. The election to membership, he said, was a mere18 form, and nobody was ever excluded. Hyacinth sent his name to the secretary, and was blackbeaned by an overwhelming majority of the members. Shortly afterwards the Lord-lieutenant paid a visit to the college, and the students seized the chance of displaying their loyalty to the Throne and Constitution. They assembled outside the library, which the representative of Queen Victoria was inspecting under the guidance of the Provost and two of the senior Fellows. It is the nature of the students of Trinity College to shout while they wait for the development of interesting events, and on this occasion even the library walls were insufficient19 to exclude the noise. The excellent nobleman inside found himself obliged to cast round for original remarks about the manuscript of the ‘Book of Kells,’ while the air was heavy with the verses which commemorate20 the departure of ‘fifty thousand fighting men’ to Table Bay. When at length he emerged on the library steps the tune changed, as was right and proper, to ‘God save the Queen.’ Strangely enough, Hyacinth had never before heard the national anthem21. It is not played or sung often by the natives of Connemara, and although the ocean certainly forms part of the British Empire, the Atlantic waves have not yet learned to beat out this particular melody. So it happened that Hyacinth, without meaning to be offensive, omitted the ceremony of removing his hat. A neighbour, joyful22 at the opportunity, snatched the offending garment, and skimmed it far over the heads of the crowd. A few hard kicks awakened23 Hyacinth more effectually to a sense of his crime, and it was with a torn coat and many bruises24 that he escaped in the end to the shelter of his rooms, less inclined to be loyal than when he left them.
After a few weeks it became clear that the British armies in South Africa were not going to reap that rich and unvarying crop of victories which the valour of the soldiers and the ability of the generals deserved. The indomitable spirit of the great nation rose to the occasion, and the position of those who entertained doubts about the justice of the original quarrel became more than ever unbearable25. Hyacinth took to wandering by himself through parts of the city in which he was unlikely to meet any of his fellow-students. His soul grew bitter within him. The course of petty persecution26 to which he was subjected hardened his original sentimental27 sympathy with the Boer cause into a clearly defined hatred28 of everything English. When he got clear of the college and the hateful sound of the ‘cook’s son, Duke’s son’ tune, he tramped along, gloating quietly over the news of the latest ‘regrettable incident.’
He was very lonely and friendless, for not even the discomfiture29 of his enemies can make up to a young man for the want of a friend to speak to. An inexpressible longing30 for home came over him. There was a shop in a by-street which exposed photographs of Galway scenery in its windows for a time. Hyacinth used to go day by day to gaze at them. The modest front of the Gaelic League Hyce was another haunt of his. He used to stand Debating his eyes on the Irish titles of the books in the window, and repeating the words he read aloud to himself until the passers-by turned to look at him. Once he entered a low-browed, dingy31 shop merely because the owner’s name was posted over the door in Gaelic characters. It was one of those shops to be found in the back streets of most large towns which devote themselves to a composite business, displaying newspapers, apples, tobacco, and sweets for sale. The afternoon light, already growing feeble in the open air, had almost deserted32 the interior of the shop. At first Hyacinth saw nothing but an untidy red-haired girl reading in a corner by the light of a candle. He asked her for cigarettes. She rose, and laid her book and the candle on the counter. It was one of O’Growney’s Irish primers, dirty and pencilled. Hyacinth’s heart warmed to her at once. Was she not trying to learn the dear Irish which the barefooted girls far away at home shouted to each other as they dragged the seaweed up from the shore? Then from the far end of the shop he heard a man’s voice speaking Irish. It was not the soft liquid tongue of the Connaught peasants, but a language more regular and formal. The man spoke33 it as if it were a language he had learned, comparatively slowly and with effort. Yet the sound of it seemed to Hyacinth one of the sweetest things he had ever heard. Not even the shrinking self-distrust which he had been taught by repeated snubbings and protracted34 ostracism35 could prevent him from making himself known to this stranger.
‘The blessing36 of God upon Ireland!’ he said.
There was not a moment’s hesitation37 on the part of the stranger. The sound of the Gaelic was enough for him. He stretched out both hands to Hyacinth.
‘Is it that you also are one of us—one of the Gaels?’ he asked. Hyacinth seized the outstretched hands and held them tight. The feeling of offered friendship and companionship warmed him with a sudden glow. He felt that his eyes were filling with tears, and that his voice would break if he tried to speak, but he did not care at all. He poured out a long Gaelic greeting, scarcely knowing what he said. Perhaps neither the man whose hands he held nor the owner of the shop behind the counter fully38 understood him, but they guessed at his feelings.
‘Is it that you are a stranger here and lonely? Where is your home? What name is there on you?’
‘Maiseadh, I am a stranger indeed and lonely too,’ said Hyacinth.
‘You are a stranger no longer, then. We are all of us friends with each other. You speak our own dear tongue, and that is enough to make us friends.’
The tobacconist, it appeared, also spoke Irish of a kind. He cast occasional remarks into the conversation which followed, less, it seemed to Hyacinth, with a view of giving expression to any thought than for the sake of airing some phrases which he had somewhat inadequately39 learned. Indeed, it struck Hyacinth very soon that his new friend was getting rather out of his depth in his ‘own dear tongue.’ At last the tobacconist said with a smile:
‘I’m afraid we must ask Mr. Conneally—didn’t you say that Conneally was your name?—to speak the Beurla. I’m clean beaten with the Gaelic, and you can’t go much further yourself, Cahal. Isn’t that the truth, now.’
‘And small blame to me,’ said Cahal—in English, Charles—Maguire. ‘After all, what am I but a learner? And it’s clear that Mr. Conneally has spoken it since ever he spoke at all.’
Hyacinth smiled and nodded. Maguire went on:
‘What are you doing this afternoon? What do you say to coming round with me to see Mary O’Dwyer? It’s her “at home” day, and I’m just on my way there.’
‘But,’ said Hyacinth, ‘I don’t know her. I can hardly go to her house, can I?’
‘Oh, I’ll introduce you,’ said Maguire cheerfully. ‘She allows me to bring anyone I like to see her. She likes to know anyone who loves Ireland and speaks Gaelic. Perhaps we’ll meet Finola too; she’s often there.’
‘Meet who?’
‘Finola. That’s what we call Miss Goold—Augusta Goold, you know. We call her Finola because she shelters the rest of us under her wings when the Moyle gets tempestuous40. You remember the story?’
‘Of course I do,’ said Hyacinth, who had learnt the tale of Lir’s daughter as other children do Jack41 the Giant-Killer. ‘And who is Miss O’Dwyer?’
‘Oh, she writes verses. Surely you know them?’
Hyacinth shook his head.
‘What a pity! We all admire them immensely. She has something nearly every week in the Croppy. She has just brought out a volume of lyrics42. Her brother worked the publishing of it in New York. He is mixed up with literary people there. You must have heard of him at all events. He’s Patrick O’Dwyer, one of the few who stood by O’Neill when he fought the priests. He gave up the Parliamentary people after that. No honest man could do anything else.’
He conducted Hyacinth to one of the old squares on the north side of the city. When the tide of fashion set southwards, spreading terraces and villas44 from Leeson Street to Killiney, it left behind some of the finest houses in Dublin. Nowadays for a comparatively low rent it is possible to live in a splendid house if you do not aspire45 to the glory of a smart address. Miss O’Dwyer’s house, for instance, boasted a spacious46 hall and lofty sitting-rooms, with impressive ceilings and handsome fireplaces; yet she paid for it little more than half the rent which a cramped47 villa43 in Clyde Road would have cost her. Even so, it was somewhat of a mystery to her friends how Miss O’Dwyer managed to live there. A solicitor48 who had his offices on the ground-floor probably paid the rent of the whole house; but the profits of verse-making are small, and a poetess, like meaner women, requires food, clothes, and fire. Indeed, Miss O’Dwyer, no longer ‘M. O’D.,’ whose verses adorned49 the Croppy, but ‘Miranda,’ served an English paper as Irish correspondent. It was a pity that a pen certainly capable of better things should have been employed in describing the newest costume of the Lord Lieutenant’s wife at Punchestown, or the confection of pale-blue tulle which, draped round Mrs. Chesney, adorned a Castle ball. Miss O’Dwyer herself was heartily50 ashamed of the work, but it was, or appeared to her to be, necessary to live, and even with the aid of occasional remittances51 from Patrick in New York, she could scarcely have afforded her friends a cup of tea without the guineas earned by torturing the English language in a weekly chronicle of Irish society’s clothes. Even with the help of such earnings52, poverty was for ever tapping her on the shoulder, and no one except Mary herself and her one maid-servant knew how carefully fire and light had to be economized53 in the splendid rooms where an extinct aristocracy had held revels54 a century before.
Hyacinth and his friend advanced past the solicitor’s doors, and up the broad staircase as far as the drawing-room. For a time they got no further than the threshold. The opening of the door was greeted with a long-drawn and emphatic55 ‘Hush!’ from the company within. Maguire laid his hand on Hyacinth’s arm, and the two stood still looking into the room. What was left of the feeble autumn twilight56 was almost excluded by half-drawn curtains. No lamp was lit, and the fire cast only fitful rays here and there through the room. It was with difficulty that Hyacinth discerned figures in a semicircle, and a slim woman in a white dress standing57 apart from the others near the fire. Then he heard a voice, a singularly sweet voice, as it seemed to him, reciting with steady emphasis on the syllables58 which marked the rhythm of the poem:
‘Out there in the West, where the heavy gray clouds are
insistent59,
Where the sky stoops to gather the earth into mournful
embraces,
Where the country lies saturate60, sodden61, round saturate
hamlets—
‘Out there in the sunset where rages and surges Atlantic,
And the salt is commingled62 with rain over desolate63 beaches,
Thy heart, O beloved, is still beating—fitfully, feebly.
‘Is beating—ah! not as it beat in the squadrons of Sarafield,
Exultantly64, joyously65, gladly, expectant of battle,
With throbs67 like the notes of the drums when men gather for
fighting.
‘Beats still; but, ah! not as it beat in the latest Fitzgerald,
Nobly devote to his race’s most noble tradition;
Or in Emmet or Davis, or, last on their list, in O’Brien.
‘Beats fitfully, feebly. O desolate mother! O Erin!
When shall the pulse of thy life, which but flutters in
Connaucht,
Throb66 through thy meadows and boglands, and mountains and
cities?’
A subdued68 murmur69 of applause greeted the close of the recitation, and praise more sincere than that with which politeness generally greets the drawing-room performances of minor70 poets. Hyacinth joined in neither. It seemed to him that the verses were too beautiful to speak about, so sacred that praise was a kind of sacrilege. Perhaps some excuse may be found for his emotion in the fact that for weeks he had heard no poetry except the ode about ‘wiping something off a slate71.’ The violence of the contrast benumbed his critical faculty72. So a man who was obliged to gaze for a long time at the new churches erected73 in Belfast might afterwards catch himself in the act of admiring the houses which the Congested Districts Board builds in Connaught.
‘I am afraid I must have bored you.’ It was Miss O’Dwyer who greeted him. ‘I didn’t see you and Mr. Maguire come in until I had commenced my poor little poem. I ought to have given you some tea before I inflicted74 it on you.’
‘Oh,’ said Hyacinth, ‘it was beautiful. Is it really your own? Did you write it?’
Miss O’Dwyer flushed. The vehement75 sincerity76 of his tone embarrassed her, though she was accustomed to praise.
‘You are very kind,’ she said. ‘All my friends here are far too kind to me. But come now, I must give you some tea.’
The tea was nearly stone cold and weak with frequent waterings. The saucer and spoon, possibly even the cup, had been used by someone else before. Mr. Maguire secured for himself the last remaining morsel77 of cake, leaving Hyacinth the choice between a gingerbread biscuit and a torn slice of bread and butter. None of these things appeared to embarrass Miss O’Dwyer. They did not matter in the least to Hyacinth.
‘Do you know the West well?’ he asked.
‘Indeed, I do not. I’ve always longed to go and spend a whole long summer there, but I’ve never had the chance.’
‘Then how did you know it was like that? I mean, how did you catch the spirit of it in your poem?’
‘Did I?’ she said. ‘I am so glad. But I don’t deserve any credit for it. I wrote those verses after I had been looking at one of Jim Tynan’s pictures. You know them, of course? No? Oh, but you must go and see them at once if you love the West. And you do, don’t you?’
‘It is my home,’ said Hyacinth.
When he had finished his tea she introduced him to some of the people who were in the room. Afterwards he came to know them, but the memories which Miss O’Dwyer’s verses called up in him made him absent and preoccupied78. He scarcely heard the names she spoke. Soon the party broke up, and Hyacinth turned to look for Maguire.
‘I’m afraid Mr. Maguire has gone,’ said Miss O’Dwyer. ‘He has a lecture to attend this afternoon. You must come here again, Mr. Conneally. Come next Wednesday—every Wednesday, if you like. We can have a talk about the West. I shall want you to tell me all sorts of things. Perhaps Finola will be here next week. She very often comes. I shall look forward to introducing you to her. You are sure to admire her immensely. We all do.’
‘Yes, I’ve heard of her,’ said Hyacinth. ‘Mr. Maguire told me who she was.’
‘Oh, but he couldn’t have told you half. She is magnificent. All the rest of us are only little children compared to her. Now be sure you come and meet her.’
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收听单词发音
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1
repudiated
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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shudderingly
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chastisement
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| n.惩罚 | |
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iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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8
brewed
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| 调制( brew的过去式和过去分词 )； 酝酿； 沏（茶）； 煮（咖啡） | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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13
specified
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| adj.特定的 | |
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14
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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15
captious
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| adj.难讨好的，吹毛求疵的 | |
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martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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17
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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18
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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19
insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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commemorate
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| vt.纪念，庆祝 | |
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anthem
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| n.圣歌，赞美诗，颂歌 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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23
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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24
bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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25
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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26
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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27
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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28
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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29
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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30
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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31
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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32
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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33
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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34
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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35
ostracism
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| n.放逐；排斥 | |
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36
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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37
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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38
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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39
inadequately
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| ad.不够地；不够好地 | |
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40
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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41
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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42
lyrics
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| n.歌词 | |
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43
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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44
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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45
aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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46
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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47
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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48
solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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49
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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50
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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51
remittances
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| n.汇寄( remittance的名词复数 )；汇款，汇款额 | |
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52
earnings
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| n.工资收人；利润，利益，所得 | |
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53
economized
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| v.节省，减少开支( economize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
revels
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| n.作乐( revel的名词复数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉v.作乐( revel的第三人称单数 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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55
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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56
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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57
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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58
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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59
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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60
saturate
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| vt.使湿透，浸透；使充满，使饱和 | |
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61
sodden
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| adj.浑身湿透的；v.使浸透；使呆头呆脑 | |
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62
commingled
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| v.混合，掺和，合并( commingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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64
exultantly
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| adv.狂欢地，欢欣鼓舞地 | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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66
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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67
throbs
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| 体内的跳动( throb的名词复数 ) | |
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68
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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69
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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70
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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71
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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72
faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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73
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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76
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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77
morsel
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| n.一口，一点点 | |
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78
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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