At the end of his two days of dreaming he returned, flushed with his great purposes, to the realities of life. He went to Father Moran to tell him that he would not buy Durkan’s boat. He laughed to himself at the thought of doing such a thing. Was he to spend his life fishing mackerel round the rocky islands of Connemara, when he might be fighting like one of the ancient heroes, giving his strength, perhaps his life, for a great cause? The priest met him at the presbytery door.
‘Come in, Mr. Conneally—come in and sit down. I was expecting you these two days. What were you doing at all, walking away there along the rocks by yourself? The people were beginning to say that you were getting to be like your poor father, and that nobody’d ever get any good out of you. But I knew you’d come back to me here. I hope now it’s to tell me that you’ll buy the boat you’ve come.’
They entered the house, and the priest opened the door of the little sitting-room8. Hyacinth knew it well. There was the dark mahogany table with the marks burnt into it where hot dishes were set down, the shabby arm-chair, the worn cocoanut-matting on the floor, the dozen or so books in the hanging shelf, the tawdry sacred pictures round the wall. He had known it all, and it all seemed unchanged since he was a child.
‘Sit you down—sit you down,’ said the priest. ‘And now about the boat.’
‘I’m not going in for her,’ said Hyacinth. ‘I’m as thankful to you for suggesting it as if I did buy her. I hope you’ll understand that, but I’m not going to buy her.’
He found it difficult to speak of his new plan to Father Moran.
‘Do you tell me that, now? I’m sorry for it. And why wouldn’t you buy her? What’s there to hinder you?’
Hyacinth hesitated.
‘Well, now,’ said the priest, ‘I can guess. I thought the auction9 turned out well for you, but I never heard for certain, and maybe you haven’t got the money for the boat. Whisht now, my son, and let me speak. I’m thinking the thing might be managed.’
‘But, Father Moran———’
‘Ah now, will you be quiet when I bid you? I haven’t the money myself. Never a penny have I been able to save all my life, with the calls there are on me in a parish like this. Sure, you know yourself how it is. There’s one will have a cow that has died on him, and another will be wanting a lock of potatoes for seed in the springtime; and if it isn’t that, it’ll be something else. And who would the creatures go to in their trouble but the old priest that christened and married the most of them? But, indeed, thanks be to God, things is improving. The fishing brings in a lot of money to the men, and there’s a better breed of cattle in the country now, and the pigs fetch a good price since we had the railway to Clifden, and maybe the last few years I might have saved a little, but I didn’t. Indeed, I don’t know where it is the money goes at all, but someway it’s never at rest in my breeches pockets till it’s up and off somewhere. God forgive us! it’s more careful we ought to be.’
‘But, Father Moran, I don’t——’
‘Arrah then, will you cease your talking for one minute, and let me get a word in edgeways for your own good? What was I saying? Oh, I was just after telling you I hadn’t got the money to help you. But maybe I might manage to get it. The man in the bank in Clifden knows me. I borrowed a few pounds off him two years ago when the Cassidys’ house and three more beside it got blown away in the big wind. Father Joyce put his name on the back of the bill along with my own, and trouble enough I had to get him to do it, for he said I ought to put an appeal in the newspapers, and I’d get the money given to me. But I never was one to go begging round the country. I said I’d rather borrow the money and pay it back like a decent man. And so I did, every penny of it. And I think the bank will trust me now, with just your name and mine, more especially as it’s to buy a boat we want the money. What do you say to that, now?’ He looked at Hyacinth triumphantly10.
‘Father Moran, you’re too good to me—you’re too good altogether. What did ever I do to deserve such kindness from you? But you’re all wrong. I’ve got plenty of money.’
‘And why in the name of all that’s holy didn’t you tell me so at once, and not keep me standing11 here twisting my brains into hard knots with thinking out ways of getting what you don’t want? If you’ve got the money you’ll buy the boat. What better could you do with it?’
‘But I don’t want to buy the boat. I don’t want to live here always. I’m going away out into the world. I want to see things and do things.’
‘Out into the world! Will you listen to the boy? Is it America you’re thinking of? Ah, now, there’s enough gone out and left us lonely here. Isn’t the best of all the boys and girls going to work for the strangers in the strange land? and why would you be going after them?’
‘I’m not going to America. I’m going to South Africa. I’m going to join some young Irishmen to fight for the Boers and for freedom.’
‘You’re going out to fight—to fight for the Boers! What is it that’s in your head at all, Hyacinth Conneally? Tell me now.’
Again Hyacinth hesitated. Was it possible to give utterance12 to the thoughts and hopes which filled his mind? Could he tell anyone about the furious fancies of the last few days, or of that weird13 vision of his father’s which lay at the back of what he felt and dreamed? Could he even speak of the enthusiasm which moved him to devote himself to the cause of freedom and a threatened nationality? In the presence of a man of the world the very effort to express himself would have acted as some corrosive14 acid, and stained with patches of absurdity15 the whole fabric16 of his dreams. He looked at Father Moran, and saw the priest’s eyes lit with sympathy. He knew that he had a listener who would not scoff17, who might, perhaps, even understand. He began to speak, slowly and haltingly at first, then more rapidly. At last he poured out with breathless, incoherent speed the strange story of the Armageddon vision, the hopes that were in him, the fierce enthusiasm, the passionate18 love for Ireland which burnt in his soul. He was not conscious of the gaping19 inconsequences of his train of emotion. He did not recognise how ridiculous it was to connect the Boer War with the Apocalyptic20 battle of the saints, or the utter impossibility of getting either one or the other into any sort of relation with the existing condition of Ireland.
A casual observer might have supposed that Hyacinth had made a mistake in telling his story to Father Moran. A smile, threatening actual laughter, hovered21 visibly round the priest’s mouth. His eyes had a shrewd, searching expression, difficult to interpret. Still, he listened to the rhapsody without interrupting it, till Hyacinth stopped abruptly22, smitten23 with sudden self-consciousness, terrified of imminent24 ridicule25. Nor were the priest’s first words reassuring26.
‘I wouldn’t say now, Hyacinth Conneally, but there might be the makings of a fine man in you yet.’
‘I might have known,’ said Hyacinth angrily, ‘that you’d laugh at me. I was a fool to tell you at all. But I’m in earnest about what I’m going to do. Whatever you may think about the rest, there’s no laughing at that.’
‘Well, you’re just wrong then, for I wasn’t laughing nor meaning to laugh at all. God forbid that I should laugh at you, and I meant it when I said that there was the makings of a fine man in you. Laugh at you! It’s little you know me. Listen now, till I tell you something; but don’t you be repeating it. This must be between you and me, and go no further. I was very much of your way of thinking myself once.’
Hyacinth gazed at him in astonishment27. The thought of Father Moran, elderly, rotund, kindly28; of Father Moran with sugar-stick in his pocket for the school-children and a quaint29 jest on his lips for their mothers; of Father Moran in his ruffled30 silk hat and shabby black coat and baggy31 trousers—of this Father Moran mounted and armed, facing the British infantry32 in South Africa, was wholly grotesque33. He laughed aloud.
‘It’s yourself that has the bad manners to be laughing now,’ said the priest. ‘But small blame to you if it was out to the Boers I was thinking of going. The gray goose out there on the road might laugh—and she’s the solemnest mortal I know—at the notion of me charging along with maybe a pike in my hand, and the few gray hairs that’s left on the sides of my head blowing about in the breeze I’d make as I went prancing34 to and fro. But that’s not what I meant when I said that once upon a time I was something of your way of thinking. And sure enough I was, but it’s a long time ago now.’
He sighed, and for a minute or two he said no more. Hyacinth began to wonder what he meant, and whether the promised confidence would be forthcoming at all. Then the priest went on:
‘When I was a young man—and it’s hard for you to think it, but I was a fine young man; never a better lad at the hurling35 than I was, me that’s a doddering old soggarth now—when I was a boy, as I’m telling you, there was a deal of going to and fro in the country and meetings at night, and drillings too, and plenty of talk of a rising—no less. Little good came of it that ever I saw, but I’m not blaming the men that was in it. They were good men, Hyacinth Conneally—men that would have given the souls out of their bodies for the sake of Ireland. They would, sure, for they loved Ireland well. But I had my own share in the doings. Of course, it was before ever there was a word of my being a priest. That came after. Thanks be to God for His mercies’—the old man crossed himself reverently—‘He kept me from harm and the sin that might have been laid on me. But in those days there were great thoughts in me, just as there are in you to-day. Faith! I’m of opinion that my thoughts were greater than yours, for I was all for fighting here in Ireland, for the Poor Old Woman herself, and it’s out to some foreign war you’d be going to fight for people that’s not friends of yours by so much as one heart’s drop. Still, the feeling in you is the same as the feeling that was in me, not a doubt of it. But, indeed, so far as I’m concerned, it’s over and gone. I haven’t spoken to a mortal soul about such things these thirty years, and I wouldn’t be doing it now only just to show you that I’m the last man in Ireland that would laugh at you for what you’ve told me.’
‘I’m glad I told you what’s in my heart,’ said Hyacinth; ‘I’d like to think I had your blessing36 with me when I go.’
‘Well, you won’t get it,’ said Father Moran, ‘so I tell you straight. I’ll give you no blessing when you’re going away out of the country, just when there’s need of every man in it. I tell you this—and you’ll remember that I know what I’m talking about—it’s not men that ‘ll fight who will help Ireland to-day, but men that will work.’
‘Work!’ said Hyacinth—‘work! What work is there for a man like me to do in Ireland?’
‘Don’t I offer you the chance of buying Thady Durkan’s boat? Isn’t there work enough for any man in her?’
‘But that’s not the sort of work I ought to be doing. What good would it be to anyone but myself? What good would it be to Ireland if I caught boatloads of mackerel?’
‘Don’t be making light of the mackerel, now. He’s a good fish if you get him fresh, and split him down and fry him with a lump of butter in the pan. There’s worse fish than the mackerel, as you’ll discover if you go to South Africa, and find yourself living on a bit of some ancient tough beast of an ostrich37, or whatever it may happen to be that they eat out there.’
In his exalted38 mood Hyacinth felt insulted at the praise of the mackerel and the laughter in the priest’s eyes when he suggested a dinner off ostrich. He held out his hand, and said good-bye.
‘Wait, now—wait,’ said the priest; ‘don’t be in such a tearing hurry. I’ll talk as serious as you like, and not hurt your feelings, if you’ll stay for a minute or two. Listen, now. Isn’t the language dying on the people’s lips? They’re talking the English, more and more of them every day; and don’t you know as well as I do that when they lose their Irish they’ll lose half the good that’s in them? What sort will the next generation of our people be, with their own language gone from them, and their Irish ways forgotten, and all the old tales and songs and tunes39 perished away like the froth of the waves that the storm blew up across the fields the night your father died? I’ll tell you what they’ll be—just sham40 Englishmen. And the Lord knows the real thing is not the best kind of man in the world, but the copy of an Englishman! sure, that’s the poorest creature to be found anywhere on the face of God’s good earth. And that’s what we’ll be, when the Irish is gone from us. Wouldn’t there be work enough for you to do, now, if you were to buy Thady Durkan’s boat, and stay here and help to keep the people to the old tongue and the old ways?’
Hyacinth shook his head. His mood was altogether too heroic to allow him to think highly of what the priest said to him. He loved the Irish language as his native speech—loved it, too, as a symbol, and something more, perhaps—as an expression of the nationality of Ireland. But it did not seem to him to be a very essential thing, and to spend his life talking it and persuading other people to talk it was an obscure kind of patriotism41 which made no strong appeal to him—which, indeed, could not stand compared to the glory of drawing the sword.
‘You’ve listened to what I’ve told you, Father Moran, and you say that you understand what I feel, but I don’t think you really do, or else you wouldn’t fancy that I could be satisfied to stay here. What is it you ask of me? To spend my time fishing and talking Irish and dancing jigs42. Ah! it’s well enough I’d like to do it. Don’t think that such a life wouldn’t be pleasant to me. It would be too pleasant. That’s what’s the matter with it. It’s a temptation, and not a duty, that you’re setting before me.’
‘Maybe it is now—maybe it is. And if it’s that way you think of it, you’re right enough to say no to me. But for all that I understand you well enough. Who’s this now coming up to the house to see me?’ He went over to the window and looked out. ‘Isn’t it a queer life a priest lives in a place like this, with never a minute of quiet peace from morning to night but somebody will be coming interrupting and destroying it? First it’s you, Hyacinth Conneally—not that I grudge44 the time to you when you’re going off so soon—and now it’s Michael Kavanagh. Indeed, he’s a decent man too, like yourself. Come in, Michael—come in. Don’t be standing there pulling at the old door-bell. You know as well as myself it’s broken these two years. It’s heartbroken the thing is ever since that congested engineer put up the electric bell for me, and little use that was, seeing that Biddy O’Halloran—that’s my housekeeper45, Mr. Conneally; you remember her—poured a jug46 of hot water into its inside the way it wouldn’t annoy her with ringing so loud. And why the noise of it vexed47 her I couldn’t say, for she’s as deaf as a post every time I speak to her. Ah, you’re there, Michael, are you? Now, what do you want?’
A young farmer, black-haired, tall and straight, stood in the doorway48 with his hat in his hand. He had brought a paper for Father Moran’s signature. It related to a bull which the Congested Districts Board proposed to lend to the parish, and of which Kavanagh had been chosen to be custodian49. A long conversation followed, conducted in Irish. The newly-erected habitation for the animal was discussed; then the best method of bringing him home from Clifden Station; then the kind of beast he was likely to turn out to be, and the suitability of particular breeds of cattle to the coarse, brine-soaked land of Carrowkeel. Kavanagh related a fearful tale of a lot of ‘foreign’ fowls50 which had been planted in the neighbourhood by the Board. They were particularly nice to look at, and settings of their eggs were eagerly booked long beforehand. Then one by one they sickened and died. Some people thought they died out of spite, being angered at the way they had been treated in the train. Kavanagh himself did not think so badly of them. He was of opinion that their spirits were desolated51 in them with the way the rain came through the roof of their house, and that their feet got sore with walking on the unaccustomed sea-sand. However their death was to be explained, he hoped that the bull would turn out to be hardier52. Father Moran, on his part, hoped that the roof of the bull’s house would turn out to be sounder. In the end the paper was signed, and Kavanagh departed.
‘Now, there,’ said the priest, ‘is a fine young man. Only for him, I don’t know how I’d get on in the parish at all. He’s got a head on his shoulders, and a notion of improving himself and his neighbours, and it would do you good to see him dance a jig43. But why need I tell you that when you’ve seen him yourself? He is to be the secretary of the Gaelic League when we get a branch of it started in Carrowkeel. And a good secretary he’ll make, for his heart will be in the work. I dare say, now, you’ve heard of the League when you were up in Dublin. Well, you’ll hear more of it. By the time you’re back here again—— Now, don’t be saying that you’ll not come back. I’ll give you a year to get sick of fighting for the Boers, and then there’ll be a hunger on you for the old place that will bring you back to it in spite of yourself.’
‘Good-bye, Father Moran. Whatever happens to me, I’ll not forget Carrowkeel nor you either. You’ve been good to me, and if I don’t take your advice and stay where I am, it’s not through want of gratitude53.’
The priest wrung54 his hand.
‘You’ll come back. It may be after I’m dead and gone, but back you’ll come. Here or somewhere else in the old country you’ll spend your days working for Ireland, because you’ll have learnt that working is better than fighting.’
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1
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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scouting
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| 守候活动，童子军的活动 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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auction
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| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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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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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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corrosive
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| adj.腐蚀性的；有害的；恶毒的 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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scoff
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| n.嘲笑，笑柄，愚弄；v.嘲笑，嘲弄，愚弄，狼吞虎咽 | |
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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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gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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apocalyptic
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| adj.预示灾祸的，启示的 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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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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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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baggy
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| adj.膨胀如袋的，宽松下垂的 | |
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infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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prancing
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的现在分词 ) | |
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hurling
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| n.爱尔兰式曲棍球v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的现在分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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ostrich
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| n.鸵鸟 | |
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exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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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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jigs
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| n.快步舞（曲）极快地( jig的名词复数 )；夹具v.（使）上下急动( jig的第三人称单数 ) | |
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jig
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| n.快步舞（曲）；v.上下晃动；用夹具辅助加工；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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46
jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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47
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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48
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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49
custodian
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| n.保管人，监护人；公共建筑看守 | |
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50
fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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51
desolated
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| adj.荒凉的，荒废的 | |
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52
hardier
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| 能吃苦耐劳的，坚强的( hardy的比较级 )； （植物等）耐寒的 | |
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53
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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54
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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