Outside both parties there have always been a few men united by no ties of policy or religion, unless, as perhaps we may, we call patriotism12 a kind of religion. Other lands have been loved sincerely, devotedly13, passionately14, as mothers, wives, and mistresses are loved. Ireland alone has been loved religiously, as men are taught to love God or the saints. Her lovers have called themselves Catholic or Protestant: such distinctions have not mattered to these men. They have scarcely ever been able to form themselves into a party, never into a strong or a wise party. They have been violent, desperate, frequently ridiculous, but always sincere and unselfish. Their great weakness has lain in the fact that they have had no consistent aim. Some of their leaders have looked for a return to Ireland’s Constitution, and built upon the watchword of the volunteers, ‘The King, the Lords, and the Commons of Ireland.’ Some have dreamed of a complete independence, of an Irish republic shaping its own world policy. Some have wholly distrusted politics, and given their strength to the intellectual, spiritual, or material regeneration of the people. Among these men have been found the sanest16 practical reformers and the wildest revolutionary dreamers. On the outskirts17 of their company have hung all sorts of people. Parliamentary politicians have leaned towards them, and been driven straightway out of public life. Criminals have claimed fellowship with them, and brought discredit18 upon honourable19 men. Poets and men of letters have drawn their inspiration from their strivings, and in return have decked their patriotism with imperishable splendour. In the future, no doubt, the struggle will lie between this party and the hitherto victorious20 hierarchy21, with England for ally, and the fight seems a wholly unequal one. It was into an advanced and vehement22 group of patriots23 that Mary O’Dwyer introduced Hyacinth. He became a regular reader of the Croppy, and made the acquaintance of most of the contributors to its pages. He found them clever, enthusiastic, and agreeable men and women, but, as he was forced to admit to himself, occasionally reckless. One evening a discussion took place in Mary O’Dwyer’s room which startled and shocked him. Excitement ran high over the events of the war. The sympathies of the ‘Independent Irelanders,’ as they called themselves, fiercely assertive24 even in their name, were of course entirely25 with the Boers, and they received every report of an English reverse with unmixed satisfaction.
When Hyacinth entered the room he found four people there. Mary O’Dwyer herself was making tea at a little table near the fire. Augusta Goold—the famous Finola—was stretched in a deep chair smoking a cigarette. She was a remarkable26 woman both physically27 and intellectually. It was her delight to emphasize her splendid figure by draping it in brilliant reds and yellows. To anyone who cared to speculate on such a subject it seemed a mystery why her clothes remained on her when she walked. The laws of gravity seemed to demand that they should loosen with her movements, become detached, and finally drop down. Nothing of the sort had ever happened, so it must be presumed that she had secret and unconventional ways of fastening them. Similarly it was not easy to see why her hair stayed upon her head. It was arranged upon no recognised system, and suggested that she had perfected the art, known generally only to heroines of romances, of twisting her tresses with a single movement into a loose knot. That she affected28 white frills of immense complexity29 was frequently evident, owing to the difficulty she experienced in confining her long legs to feminine attitudes. Her complexion30 put it in the power of her enemies to accuse her of familiarity with cosmetics—a slander31, for she had been observed to turn green during an attack of sea-sickness. She had great brilliant eyes, which were capable of expressing intensity32 of enthusiasm or hatred33, but no one had ever seen them soften34 with any emotion like love. Her attitude towards social conventions was symbolized35 by her clothes. In the old days, when the houses of ‘society’ had still been open to her, she was accustomed to challenge criticism by fondling a pet monkey at tea-parties. Since she had lost caste by taking up the cause of ‘Independent Ireland’ the ape had been discarded, and the same result achieved by occasional bickerings with the police. She was an able public speaker, and could convince her audiences for a time of the reasonableness of opinions which next morning appeared to be the outcome of delirium37. She wrote, not, like Mary O’Dwyer, verse in which any sentiment may be excused, but incisive38 and vigorous prose. Occasionally even the Castle officials got glimmerings of the meaning of one of her articles, and suppressed the whole issue of the Croppy in which it appeared.
Near her sat a much less remarkable person—Thomas Grealy, historian and archaeologist. He had been engaged for many years on a history of Ireland, but no volume of it had as yet appeared. His friends suspected that he had got permanently39 stuck somewhere about the period of the introduction of Christianity into the island. His essays, published in the Croppy, dwelt with passionate15 regret on the departed glories of Tara. He held strong views about the historical reality of the Tuath-de-Danaan, and got irritated at the most casual mention of Dr. Petrie’s theory of the round towers. He had proved that King Arthur was an Irishman, with whose reputation Malory and Tennyson had taken unwarrantable liberties. The name of Dante brought a smile of contempt to his lips, for he knew that the ‘Purgatorio’ was stolen shamelessly from the works of a monk36 of Cong. He nourished a secret passion for Finola. He never ventured to declare it, but his imagination endowed every heroine, from Queen Maev down to the foster daughter of the Leinster farmer who married King Cormac, with Miss Goold’s figure, eyes and hair. It was perhaps the burning of this passion which rendered him so cadaverous that his clothes—in other respects also they looked as if they had been bought in far-off happier days—hung round him like the covering of a broken-ribbed umbrella.
The fourth person present was Timothy Halloran, who hovered40 about Mary O’Dwyer’s tea-table. He was what the country people call a ‘spoilt priest.’ Destined41 by simple and pious42 parents to take Holy Orders, he got as far as the inside of Maynooth College. While there he had kicked a fellow-student down the whole length of a long corridor for telling tales to the authorities. A committee of ecclesiastics considered the case, and having come to the conclusion that he lacked vocation43 for the priesthood, sent him home. Timothy was accustomed to say that his violence might have been passed over, but that his failure to appreciate the devotion to duty which inspired the tale-bearer marked him decisively as unfit for ordination44. He never regretted his expulsion, although he complained bitterly that he had been nearly choked before they cast him out. He meant, it is to be supposed, that the effort to instil45 a proper reverence46 for dogma had almost destroyed his capacity for thought, not that the fingers of the reverend professors had actually closed around his windpipe. His subsequent experiences had included a period of teaching in an English Board School, a brief, but not wholly unsatisfactory, career as a political organizer in New York, and a return to Ireland, where he earned a precarious47 living as a journalist.
All four greeted Hyacinth warmly as he entered the room.
‘We were just discussing,’ said Mary O’Dwyer, ‘the failure of our attempt to organize a field hospital and a staff of nurses for the Boers. It is a shame to have to admit that the English garrison48 in Ireland can raise thousands of pounds for their war funds, and the Irish can’t be got to subscribe49 a few hundreds.’
‘The wealth of the country,’ said Grealy, ‘is in the hands of a minority—the so-called Loyalists.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Finola sharply. ‘If you ever gave a thought to anything more recent than the High-King’s Court at Tara you would know that the landlords are not the wealthy part of the community any longer. There’s many a provincial50 publican calling himself a Nationalist who could buy up the nearest landlord and every Protestant in the parish along with him. I’m a Protestant myself, born and bred among the class you speak of, and I know.’
‘You’re quite right, Miss Goold,’ said Tim. ‘The people could have given the money if they liked. I attribute the failure of the fund to the apathy51 or treachery of the priests, call it which you like. There isn’t a Protestant church in the country where the parsons don’t preach “Give give, give” to their people Sunday after Sunday. And what’s the result? Why, they have raised thousands of pounds.’
‘After the poem you published in last week’s Croppy,’ said Hyacinth to Mary O’Dwyer, ‘I made sure the subscriptions52 would have come in. Your appeal was one of the most beautiful things I ever read. It would have touched the heart of a stone.’
‘Poetry is all well enough,’ said Tim. ‘I admire your verses, Mary, as much as anyone, but we want a collection at every church door after Mass. That’s what we ought to have, but it’s exactly what we won’t get, because the priests are West Britons at heart. They would pray for the Queen and the army to-morrow, like Cardinal53 Vaughan, if they weren’t afraid.’
‘I believe,’ said Finola, ‘that we went the wrong way about the thing altogether. We asked for a hospital, and we appealed to the people’s pity for the wounded Boers. Nobody in Ireland cares a pin about the Boers. Why on earth should we? From all I can hear they are a narrow-minded, intolerant set of hypocrites. I’d just as soon read the stuff some fool of an English newspaper man wrote about “our brother the Boer” as listen to the maudlin54 sentiment our people talk. We don’t want to help the Boers. We want to hurt the English.’
‘And you think——’ said Grealy.
‘I think,’ went on Finola, ‘that we ought to have asked for volunteers to go out and fight, instead of nurses to cocker up the men who are fools enough to get themselves shot. We’d have got them.’
‘You would not,’ said Tim. ‘The clergy55 would have been dead against you. They would have nipped the whole project in the bud without so much as making a noise in doing it.’
‘That’s true,’ said Grealy. ‘Remember, Miss Goold, it was the priests who cursed Tara, and the monks56 who broke the power of the Irish Kings. I haven’t worked the thing out yet, but I mean to show——’
Finola interrupted the poor man ruthlessly:
‘Let’s try it, anyway. Let’s preach a crusade.’
‘Not the least bit of good,’ said Tim. ‘Every blackguard in the country is enlisted57 already in the Connaught Bangers or the Dublin Fusiliers, or some confounded Militia58 regiment59. There’s nobody left but the nice, respectable, goody-goody boys who wouldn’t leave their mothers or miss going to confession60 if you went down on your knees to them.’
‘Well, then, the Irish troops ought to shoot their officers, and walk over to the Boer camp,’ said Finola savagely61.
Hyacinth half smiled at what seemed to him a monstrous62 jest. Then, when he perceived that she was actually in earnest, the smile froze into a kind of grin. His hands trembled with the violence of his indignation.
‘It would be devilish treachery,’ he blurted63 out. ‘The name of Irishman will never be disgraced by such an act.’
Augusta Goold flung her cigarette into the grate, and rose from her chair. She stood over Hyacinth, her hands clenched64 and her bosom65 heaving rapidly. Her eyes blazed down into his until their scorn cowed him.
‘There is no treachery possible for an Irishman,’ she said, ‘except the one of fighting for England. Any deed against England—yes, any deed—is glorious, and not shameful66.’
Hyacinth was utterly67 quelled68. He ventured upon no reply. Indeed, not only did her violence render argument undesirable—and it seemed for the moment that he would find himself in actual grips with a furious Amazon—but her words carried with them a certain conviction. It actually seemed to him while she spoke69 as if a good defence might be made for Irish soldiers who murdered their officers and deserted70 to an enemy in the field. It was not until hours afterwards, when the vivid impression of Finola’s face had faded from his recollection, when he had begun to forget the flash of her eyes, the poise71 of her figure, and the glow of her draperies, that his moral sense was able to reassert itself. Then he knew that she had spoken wickedly. It might be right for an Irishman to fight against England when he could. It might be justifiable72 to seize the opportunity of England’s embarrassment73 to make a bid for freedom by striking a blow at the Empire. So far his conscience went willingly, but that treachery and murder could ever be anything but horrible he refused altogether to believe.
Another conversation in which he took part about this time helped Hyacinth still further to understand the position of his new friends. Tim Halloran and he were smoking and chatting together over the fire when Maguire joined them.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked Halloran. ‘You look as if you’d been at your mother’s funeral.’
‘You’re not so far out in your guess,’ said Maguire grimly. ‘I spent the morning at my sister’s wedding. Would you like a bit of the cake?’ He produced from his pocket a paper containing crushed fragments of white sugar and a shapeless mass of citron and currants. ‘With the compliments of the Reverend Mother,’ he said. ‘Try a bit.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’ said Hyacinth.
‘Oh, I assure you the Sisters of Pity do these things in style,’ said Maguire. ‘It’s a pretty fancy, that of the wedding-cake, isn’t it? But you’re a Protestant, Conneally; you don’t understand this delicate playfulness. I was present to-day at the reception of my only sister into the Institute of the Catholic Sisters of Pity, founded by Honoria Kavanagh. I’ve lost Birdie Maguire, that’s all, the little girl that used to climb on to my knee and kiss me, and instead of her there’s a Sister Monica Mary, who will no doubt pray for my soul when she’s let.’
‘What was the figure in her case?’ asked Tim in a perfectly74 matter-of-fact tone.
‘Six hundred pounds,’ said Maguire. ‘It must have put the old man to the pin of his collar to pay it. The only time he ever talked to me about his affairs he told me he had got four hundred pounds put by for Birdie’s fortune, and that I was to have my medical course and whatever the old shop would fetch when he was gone. They must have put the screw on pretty tight to make him spring the extra two hundred. I dare say I shall suffer for it in the end. He must have borrowed the money.’
Hyacinth felt intensely curious about this young nun11. Like most Protestants he had grown up to regard monasticism in all its forms as something remote, partly horrible, wholly unintelligible75.
‘Why did she do it?’ he asked. ‘What sort of a girl was she? Do you mind telling me?’
‘Not in the least,’ said Maguire. ‘Only I’m not sure that I know. Three years ago—that is, when I left home—she was the last sort of girl you could imagine going into a convent. She was pretty, fond of nice clothes and admiration76, as keen as every girl ought to be on a dance. I never supposed she had a thought of religion in her head—I mean, beyond the usual confessions77 and attendances at Mass.’
‘I suppose,’ said Hyacinth, ‘your people wanted it.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Maguire. ‘Perhaps my mother did. I don’t know.’
‘You see, Conneally,’ said Tim Halloran, ‘it is a sort of hall-mark of respectability among people like Maguire’s to have a girl in a good convent. A little lower down in the social scale, in the class I come from, the boys are made priests. A doctor is a more expensive article to manufacture, so Maguire’s father selected that line of life for him. Not that they could have made a priest of you, Maguire, in any case. You’d have disgraced Maynooth, as I did.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Hyacinth. ‘I thought a vocation for the life was necessary.’
‘Oh, so it is,’ said Tim Halloran, ‘but, you see, there’s the period of the novitiate. Given a girl at an impressionable age, the proper convent atmosphere, and a prize of six hundred pounds for the Order, and it will go hard with the Reverend Mother if she can’t work the girl up to a vocation. It takes a man a lifetime to make six hundred pounds in a country shop, but there’s many a one who does it by hard work and self-denial; then down come the nuns and sweep it away, and it’s wasted. It ought to be invested in a local factory or in waterworks, or gas-works, or fifty other things that would benefit the town it’s made in. It ought to be fructifying78 and bearing interest; instead of which off it goes to Munich for stained glass, or to Italy for a marble altar. Is it any wonder Ireland is crying out with poverty?’
‘Yes,’ said Maguire, ‘and that’s not the worst of it. I’d be content to let them take the damned money and deck their churches with it, but the girls—there are hundreds of them caught every year for nuns, and swept out of life. It isn’t the Irish convents alone that get them. American nuns come over and Australian nuns, and they go round and round the country picking up girls here and there, and carry them off. There, I don’t want to talk too much about it. The money is nothing, but the girls and boys——’
‘It seems strange to me,’ said Hyacinth, ‘that when you think that way you should go on belonging to your Church.’
‘Desert the Church!’ said Maguire. ‘We’ll never do that. How could we live without religion? And what other religion is there? I grant you that your priests wouldn’t rob us, but—but think of the cold of it. You can’t realize it, Conneally, but think what it would mean to a Catholic—a religion without saints, without absolution, without sacrifice. Besides, what we complain of is not Catholicism. It’s a parasitic79 growth destroying the true faith, defiling80 the Church.’
‘Yes,’ said Tim Halloran, ‘and even from my point of view how should we be the better of a change? Your Church is ruled by old women who think the name of Englishman the most glorious in the world. You preach loyalty81, and I believe you pray for the Queen in your services. A nice fool I would feel praying that the Queen should have victory over her enemies.’
For a long time afterwards this conversation dwelt in Hyacinth’s mind. Tim Halloran he knew to be practically a freethinker, but Maguire regularly heard Mass on Sundays, and often went to confession. It was a puzzle how he could do so, feeling as he did about the religious Orders. So insistent82 did the problem become to his mind that he found himself continually leading the conversation round to it from one side or another. Mary O’Dwyer told him that she also had a sister in a nunnery.
‘She teaches girls to make lace, and wonderful work they do. She is perfectly happy. I think her face is the sweetest and most beautiful thing I have ever seen. There is not a line on it of care or of fretfulness. It seems to me as if her whole life might be described as a quiet smile. I always feel better by the mere83 recollection of her face for a long time after I have visited her. Oh, I know it wouldn’t do for me. I couldn’t stand it for a week. I should go mad with the quiet restraint of it all. But my sister is happy. I can’t forget that. I suppose she has a vocation.’
‘Vocation,’ said Hyacinth thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I can understand how that would make all the difference. But how many of them have the vocation?’
‘Don’t you think vocation might be learnt? I mean mightn’t one grow into it, if one wished to very much, and if the life was constantly before one’s eyes, beautiful and calm?’
It was almost the same thought which Timothy Halloran had suggested. Mary O’Dwyer spoke of growing into vocation, Tim of the working of it up. Was there any difference except a verbal one?
On another occasion he spoke to Dr. Henry about the position of the Church of Ireland in the country.
‘We have proved,’ said the professor, ‘that the Roman claims have no support in Scripture84, history, or reason. Our books remain unanswered, because they are unanswerable. We can do no more.’
‘We might offer the Irish people a Church which they could join,’ said Hyacinth.
‘We do. We offer them the Church of St. Patrick, the ancient, historic Church of Ireland. We offer them the two Sacraments of the Gospel, administered by priests duly ordained85 at the hands of an Episcopate which goes back in an unbroken line to the Apostles. We present them the three great creeds86 for their assent87. We use a liturgy88 that is at once ancient and pure. The Church of Ireland has all this, is beyond dispute a branch of the great Catholic Church of Christ.’
‘It may be all you say,’ said Hyacinth, ‘but it is not national. In sentiment and sympathy it is English and not Irish.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Dr. Henry. ‘I think I understand how you feel, but I cannot consent to the conclusion you want to draw. There is no real meaning in the cry for nationality. It is a sentiment, a fashion, and will pass. Even if it were genuine and enduring, I hold it to be better for Ireland to be an integral part of a great Empire than a contemptible89 and helpless item among the nations of the world, a prey90 to the intrigues91 of ambitious foreign statesmen.’
Hyacinth sighed and turned to go, but Dr. Henry laid a hand upon his shoulder and detained him.
‘Conneally,’ he said kindly92, ‘let me give you a word of advice. Don’t mix yourself up with your new friends too much. You will ruin your own prospects93 in life if you do. There is nothing more fatal to a man among the people with whom you and I are to live and work than the suspicion of being tainted94 with Nationalist ideas. You can’t be both a rebel and a clergyman. You see,’ he added with a smile, ‘I take enough interest in you to know who your friends are, and what you are thinking about.’
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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filched
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| v.偷（尤指小的或不贵重的物品）( filch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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ecclesiastics
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| n.神职者，教会，牧师( ecclesiastic的名词复数 ) | |
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strings
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bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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nuns
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| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
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nun
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patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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devotedly
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passionately
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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sanest
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outskirts
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discredit
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honourable
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victorious
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hierarchy
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vehement
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patriots
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assertive
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entirely
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remarkable
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physically
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affected
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complexity
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complexion
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slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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intensity
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hatred
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soften
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symbolized
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monk
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delirium
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incisive
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permanently
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hovered
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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ordination
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instil
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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48
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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49
subscribe
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| vi.(to)订阅，订购；同意；vt.捐助，赞助 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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52
subscriptions
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| n.（报刊等的）订阅费( subscription的名词复数 )；捐款；（俱乐部的）会员费；捐助 | |
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53
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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58
militia
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| n.民兵，民兵组织 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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quelled
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| v.（用武力）制止，结束，镇压( quell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
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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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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fructifying
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| v.结果实( fructify的现在分词 )；使结果实，使多产，使土地肥沃 | |
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parasitic
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| adj.寄生的 | |
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80
defiling
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| v.玷污( defile的现在分词 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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84
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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ordained
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| v.任命（某人）为牧师( ordain的过去式和过去分词 )；授予（某人）圣职；（上帝、法律等）命令；判定 | |
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86
creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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88
liturgy
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| n.礼拜仪式 | |
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89
contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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92
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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94
tainted
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| adj.腐坏的；污染的；沾污的；感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 )；使污染；败坏；被污染，腐坏，败坏 | |
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