To describe Ballymoy, therefore, mountains, rivers, and such like natural eccentricities7 being left out of the count, is to describe fifty other West of Ireland towns. There is a railway-station, bleak8, gray, and windswept, situated9, for the benefit of local car-owners, a mile and a half from the town, and the road which connects the two is execrable. There is a workhouse, in Ballymoy as everywhere else in this lost land the most prominent building. There is a convent, immense and wonderfully white, with rows and rows of staring windows and a far-seen figure of the Blessed Virgin10, poised11 in a niche12 above the main door. There is a Roman Catholic church, gray-walled, gray-roofed, and unspeakably hideous13, but large and, like the workhouse and the convent, obtruding14 itself upon the eye. It seems as if the inhabitants of the town must all of them be forced, and that at no distant date, either into religion or pauperism15, just as small bodies floating in a pond are sucked into connection with one or other of the logs which lie among them. The shops in the one tortuous16 street block the footpaths17 in front of their doors with piles of empty packing-cases. The passenger is saluted18, here by a buffet19 in the face from a waterproof20 coat suspended outside a draper’s, there by a hot breath of whisky-laden air. Two shops out of every three are public-houses. These occupy a very beautiful position in the economic life of the town. Their profits go to build the church, to pay the priests, and to fill the coffers of the nuns21. The making of the profits fills the workhouse. A little aloof22 stands the Protestant church, austere23 to look upon, expressing in all its lines a grim reproach of the people’s life. Beyond it, among scanty24, stooped trees, is the rectory, gray, as everything else is, wearing, like a decayed lady, the air of having lived through better days.
Such, save for one feature, is Ballymoy, as the traveller sees it, as Hyacinth Conneally saw it when he arrived there one gusty25 afternoon. The one unusual feature is Mr. James Quinn’s woollen mill. It stands, a gaunt and indeed somewhat dilapidated building, at the bottom of the street, in the angle where the river turns sharply to flow under the bridge. The water just above the bridge is swept into a channel and forced to turn the wheel which works some primitive27 machinery28 within. In the centre of the mill’s front is an archway through which carts pass into the paved square behind. Here is the weighbridge, and here great bundles of heavy-smelling fleeces are unloaded. Off the square is the office where Mr. Quinn sits, pays for the wool, and enters the weight of it in damp ledgers29. Here on Saturdays two or three men and a score of girls receive their wages. The business is a peculiar30 one. You may bring your wool to Mr. Quinn in fleeces, just as you sheer it off the sheep’s back. He will pay you for it, more or less, according to the amount of trouble you have taken with your sheep. This is the way the younger generation likes to treat its wool. If you are older, and are blessed with a wife able to card and spin, you deal differently with Mr. Quinn. For many evenings after the shearing31 your wife sits by the fireside with two carding-combs in her hands, and wipes off them wonderfully soft rolls of wool. Afterwards she fetches the great wheel from its nook, and you watch her pulling out an endless gray thread while she steps back and forwards across the floor. The girls watch her, too, but not, as you do, with sleepy admiration32. Their emotion is amused contempt. Nevertheless, your kitchen wall is gradually decorated with bunches of great gray balls. When these have accumulated sufficiently33, you take them to Mr. Quinn. A certain number of them become his property. Out of the rest he will weave what you like—coarse yellow flannel34, good for bawneens, and, when it is dyed crimson35, for petticoats; or blankets—not fluffy36 like the blankets that are bought in shops, but warm to sleep under when the winter comes; or perhaps frieze37, very thick and rough, the one fabric38 that will resist the winter rain.
This portion of his business Mr. Quinn finds to be decreasing year by year. Fewer and fewer women care to card and spin the wool. The younger men find it more profitable to sell it at once, and to wear, instead of the old bawneens, shirts called flannel which are brought over from cotton-spinning Lancashire, and sold in the shops. The younger women think that they look prettier in gowns made artfully by the local dressmaker out of feeble materials got up to catch the eye. If now and then, for the sake of real warmth, one of them makes a petticoat of the old crimson flannel, it is kept so short that, save in very heavy rain, it can be concealed39. Unfortunately, while these old-fashioned profits are vanishing, Mr. Quinn finds it very hard to increase the other branch of his business. The fabrics40 which he makes are good, so good that he finds it difficult to sell them in the teeth of competition. The country shops are flooded with what he calls ‘shoddy.’ An army of eager commercial travellers pushes showy goods on the shopkeepers and the public at half his price. Even the farmers in remote districts are beginning to acquire a taste for smartness. Some things in which he used to do a useful trade are now scarcely worth making. There is hardly any demand for the checked head-kerchiefs. The women prefer hats and bonnets41, decked with cheap ribbons or artificial flowers; and these bring no trade to Mr. Quinn’s mill. Still, he manages to hold on. The Lancashire people, though they have invented flannelette, cannot as yet make a passable imitation of frieze, and there is a Dublin house which buys annually42 all the blankets he can turn out. It is true that even there, and for the best class of customers, prices have to be cut so as to leave a bare margin43 of profit. Yet since there is a margin, Mr. Quinn holds on, though not very hopefully.
Hyacinth left the bulk of his luggage—a packing-case containing the books which the auctioneer had failed to dispose of in Carrowkeel—at the station, and walked into Ballymoy carrying his bag. He had little difficulty in making his way to the mill, and found the owner of it in his office. It was difficult at first to believe that James Quinn could be any relation to Captain Albert, the traveller, horse-dealer, soldier, and thief. This man was tall, though he stooped when he stood to receive his visitor. His movements were slow. His fair hair lay thin across his forehead, and was touched above the ears with gray. His blue eyes were very gentle, and had a way of looking long and steadily44 at what they saw. A glance at his face left the impression that life, perhaps by no very gentle means, had taught him patience.
‘This letter will introduce me,’ said Hyacinth; ‘it is from your brother, Captain, or Mr. Albert, Quinn.’
James Quinn took the letter, and turned it over slowly. Then, without opening it, he laid it on the table in front of him. His eyes travelled from it to Hyacinth’s face, and rested there. It was some time before he spoke45, and then it was to correct Hyacinth upon a trivial point.
‘My half-brother,’ he said. ‘My father married twice, and Albert is the son of his second wife. You may have noticed that he is a great deal younger than I am.’
‘He looks younger, certainly,’ said Hyacinth, for the other was waiting for a reply.
‘Nearly twenty years younger. Albert is only just thirty.’
The exact age of the Captain was uninteresting and seemed to be beside the purpose of the visit. Hyacinth shifted his chair and fidgeted, uncertain what to do or say next.
‘Albert gave you this letter to me. Is he a friend of yours?’
‘No.’
James Quinn looked at him again steadily. It seemed—but this may have been fancy—that there was a kindlier expression in his eyes after the emphatic46 repudiation47 of friendship with Albert. At length he took up the letter, and read it through slowly.
‘Why did my brother give you this letter?’
The question was a puzzling one. Hyacinth had never thought of trying to understand the Captain’s motives48. Then the conversation in the hotel recurred49 to him.
‘He said that he wanted to do a good turn to me and to you also.’
‘What had you done for him?’
‘Nothing whatever.’
Apparently50 James Quinn was not in the least vexed51 at the brevity of the answers he received, or disturbed because his cross-examination was obviously disagreeable to Hyacinth.
‘In this letter,’ he went on, referring to the document as he spoke, ‘he describes you as a young man who is “certainly honest, probably religious, and possibly intelligent.” I presume you know my brother, and if you do, you may be surprised to hear that I am quite prepared to take his word for all this. I have very seldom known Albert to tell me lies, and I don’t know why he should want to deceive me in this case. Still, I am a little puzzled to account for his giving you the letter. Can you add nothing in the way of explanation to what you have said?’
‘I don’t know that I can,’ said Hyacinth.
‘Will you tell me how you met my brother, and what he is doing now, or where he is?’
‘I do not think I should be justified52 in doing so.’
‘Ah, well! I can understand that in certain circumstances Albert would be very grateful to a man who would hold his tongue. He might be quite willing to do you a good turn if you undertook to answer no questions about him.’
He smiled as he spoke, a little grimly, but there was laughter lurking53 in the corners of his eyes. A Puritan will sometimes smile in such a way at the thought of a sinful situation, too solemn to be laughed at openly, but appealing to a not entirely54 atrophied55 sense of humour. Hyacinth felt reassured56.
‘Indeed,’ he said, ‘I made no promise of silence. It is only that—well, I don’t think——’
James Quinn waited patiently for the conclusion of the sentence, but Hyacinth never arrived at it.
‘In this letter,’ he said at last, ‘my brother asks me to give you the place he lately held in my business. Now, I don’t want to press you to say anything you don’t want to, but before we go further I must ask you this, Were you implicated57 in the affair yourself?’
‘I beg your pardon. I don’t quite understand what you mean.’
‘Well, I suppose that since my brother is anxious that you should hold your tongue, he has done something that won’t bear talking about. Were you implicated in—in whatever the trouble was?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Hyacinth. ‘In fact, it was on account of what you speak of as “trouble” that I declined to have anything more to do with your brother.’
‘That is probably very much to your credit, and, in the light of my brother’s estimate of your character, I may say that I entirely believe what you say. Am I to understand that you are an applicant58 for the post in my business which Albert held, and which this letter tells me I may consider vacant?’
‘That is what brought me down here,’ said Hyacinth.
‘Have you any other recommendations or testimonials as to character to show me?’
‘No. But there are several people who would answer questions about me if you wrote to them: Dr. Henry, of Trinity College, would, or Miss Augusta Goold, or Father Moran, of Carrowkeel, in County Galway.’
‘You have given me the most remarkable59 list of references I ever came across in my life. I don’t suppose anyone ever before was recommended for a post by a Protestant divinity professor, a notoriously violent political agitator60, a Roman Catholic priest, and a—well, we won’t describe my brother. How do you come to be mixed up with all these people? Who are you?’
‘I am the son of ?neas Conneally, Rector of Carrowkeel, who died last Christmas.’
‘Well,’ said James Quinn, ‘I suppose if all these people are prepared to recommend you, your character must be all right. Now, tell me, do you know what the post is you are applying for?’
‘No,’ said Hyacinth. ‘And I may as well say that I have had no experience or business training whatever.’
‘So I should suppose from the way you have come to me. Well, my brother was clerk and traveller for my business. He was supposed to help me to keep accounts and to push the sale of my goods among the shopkeepers in Connaught. As a matter of fact, he never did either the one or the other. When he was at home he did nothing. When he was on the road he bought and sold horses. I paid him eighty pounds a year and his travelling expenses. I also promised him a percentage on the profits of the sales he effected. Now, do you think this work would suit you?’
‘I might not be able to do it,’ said Hyacinth, ‘but I should very much like to be allowed to try. I can understand that I shall be very little use at first, and I am willing to work without any salary for a time, perhaps six months, until I have learned something about your business.’
‘Come, now, that’s a business-like offer. I’ll give you a trial, if it was only for the sake of your list of references. I won’t keep you six months without paying you if you turn out to be any good at all. And I think there must be something in you, for you’ve gone about getting this job in the queerest way I ever heard of. Would you like any time to make up your mind finally before accepting the post?’
‘No,’ said Hyacinth; ‘I accept at once.’
They walked together through the mill, and looked at the machines and the workers. The girls smiled when Mr. Quinn stopped to speak to them, and looked with frank curiosity at Hyacinth. The three or four men who did the heavier work stopped and chatted for a few minutes when they came to them. Evidently there was no soreness or distrust here between the employer and the employed. When they had gone through the rooms where the work was going on, they climbed a staircase like a ladder, and came to the loft61 where the wool was stored. Hyacinth handled it as he was directed, and endeavoured to appreciate the difference between the good and the inferior qualities. They passed by an unglazed window at the back of the mill, and Mr. Quinn pointed62 out his own house. It stood among trees and shrubs63, now for the most part bare, but giving promise of shady privacy in summertime. Long windows opened out on to a lawn stretching down to the watercourse which fed the millwheel. A gravel64 path skirted one side of the house leading to a bridge, and thence to a doorway65 in a high wall, beyond which lay the road. As they looked the door opened, and a woman with two little girls came through. They crossed the bridge, and walked up to the house.
‘That is my wife,’ said Mr. Quinn, ‘and my two little girls.’
He stretched out between the bars of the window, and shouted to them. All three looked back. Mrs. Quinn waved her hand, and the two children shouted in reply. Then a light appeared in one of the windows, and Hyacinth caught a glimpse of a trim maid-servant pulling the curtains across it.
‘We shall be having tea at half-past six,’ said Mr. Quinn. ‘Will you come and join us? By the way, where are you staying?’
Hyacinth accepted the invitation, and confessed that he had not as yet looked for any place to lay his head.
‘Ah! Better go to the hotel for to-night. It’s not much of a place, but you will have to learn to put up with that sort of accommodation. Tomorrow we’ll try and find you some decent lodgings66.’
The hotel struck even Hyacinth as of inferior quality, though it boasted great things in the timetable advertisements, and called itself ‘Imperial’ in large gold letters above its door. A smell of whisky and tobacco greeted him as he entered, and a waiter with a greasy67 coat, in answer to inquiries68 about a bed, sent him down a dark passage to seek a lady called Miss Sweeney at the bar. Large leather cases with broad straps69 and waterproof-covered baskets blocked the passage, and Hyacinth stumbled among them for some time before he discovered Miss Sweeney reading a periodical called Spicy70 Bits among her whisky-bottles. She was a young woman of would-be fashionable appearance, and acted apparently in the double capacity of barmaid and clerk. On hearing that Hyacinth required, not whisky, but a bedroom, she requested him to go forward to the office, indicating a glass case at the far end of the bar counter. Here he repeated his request to her through a small opening in the glass, and received her assurance, given with great condescension71, that No. 42 was vacant, and, further, that there was a fire in the commercial room. A boy whom she summoned carried Hyacinth’s bag to an extremely dirty and ill-furnished bedroom, and afterwards conducted him to the promised fire. Two other guests were seated at it when he entered, who, after a long stare, made room for him. Apparently there was no one else stopping in the hotel, and the whole mass of cumbrous baggage which blocked the passage to the bar must belong to them. Hyacinth realized, with a feeling of disgust which he could not account for, that these were two members of his new profession—fellow-travellers in the voyages of commerce. He gathered—for they talked loudly, without regarding his presence—that they represented two Manchester firms which were rivals in the wholesale72 drapery business. Very much of what they said was unintelligible73 to him, though the words were familiar. He knew that ‘lines’ could be ‘quoted,’ but not apparently in the same sense in which they discussed these operations, and it puzzled him to hear of muslins being ‘done at one and seven-eighths.’ He sat for a time wondering at the waste of money and energy involved in sending these men to remote corners of Ireland to search for customers. Then he left them, and made his way down the muddy street to Mr. Quinn’s house.
The room into which he was shown was different from any he had ever seen. It was lit by a single lamp with a dull glass globe and a turf fire which burnt brightly. Two straight-backed, leather-covered chairs stood one on either side of the tiled hearth74. Near one stood a little table covered with neatly-arranged books, and, rising from among them, a reading-lamp, as yet unlit. Beyond the other was a work-table strewed75 with reels and scissors, on which lay a child’s frock and some stockings. The table was laid for tea. On it were plates piled up with floury scones76, delicate beleek saucers full of butter patted thin into the shapes of shells, and jam in coloured glass dishes cased in silver filigree77. A large home-baked loaf of soda78 bread on a wooden platter stood at one end of the table, and near it a sponge-cake. At the other end was an array of cups and saucers with silver spoons that glittered, a jug79 of cream, and one of milk. Two of the cups were larger than the others, and had those curious bars across them which are designed to save men from wetting their moustaches when they drink. No room and no preparation for a meal could have offered a more striking contrast to Augusta Goold’s dining-room, her groups of wineglasses, multiplicity of heavy-handled knives and forks, and her candles shrouded80 in silk. Nor was the dainty neatness less remote from the cracked delf and huddled81 sordidness82 of his old home.
Long before Hyacinth had realized an impression of the scene before him Mrs. Quinn greeted him, and led him to the fire. Her two little girls, who lay on the hearthrug with a picture-book between them, were bidden to make room for him. When her husband appeared she bustled83 off, and in a minute or two she and the maid came in bringing toast and tea and hot water hissing84 in a silver urn26.
As the evening passed Hyacinth began to realize that he had entered into a home of peace. He felt that these people were neither greatly anxious to be rich nor much afraid of being poor. They seemed in no way fretted85 that there were others higher in the social scale, cleverer or more brilliant than they were. He understood that they were both of them religious in a way quite different from any he had known. They neither spoke of mysteries, like his father, nor were eager about disputings, like the men who had been his fellow-students. They were living a very simple life, of which faith and a wide charity formed a part as natural as eating or sleeping. When the children’s bedtime came it seemed to him a very wonderful thing that they should kneel in turns beside their father’s knee and say their prayers aloud, when he, a stranger, was in the room. It seemed to him less strange, because then he had been two hours longer in the company of the Quinns, that before leaving he, too, should kneel beside his hostess and listen while his new employer repeated the familiar words of some of the old collects he had heard his father read in church.
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1
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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bucolic
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| adj.乡村的；牧羊的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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7
eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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niche
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| n.壁龛；合适的职务(环境、位置等) | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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obtruding
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| v.强行向前，强行，强迫( obtrude的现在分词 ) | |
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pauperism
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| n.有被救济的资格，贫困 | |
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tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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footpaths
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| 人行小径，人行道( footpath的名词复数 ) | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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19
buffet
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| n.自助餐；饮食柜台；餐台 | |
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waterproof
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| n.防水材料；adj.防水的；v.使...能防水 | |
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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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22
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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24
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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gusty
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| adj.起大风的 | |
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urn
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| n.（有座脚的）瓮；坟墓；骨灰瓮 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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ledgers
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| n.分类账( ledger的名词复数 ) | |
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30
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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31
shearing
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| n.剪羊毛，剪取的羊毛v.剪羊毛( shear的现在分词 )；切断；剪切 | |
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32
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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35
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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fluffy
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| adj.有绒毛的，空洞的 | |
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frieze
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| n.(墙上的)横饰带，雕带 | |
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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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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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fabrics
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| 织物( fabric的名词复数 )； 布； 构造； （建筑物的）结构（如墙、地面、屋顶）：质地 | |
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41
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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42
annually
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| adv.一年一次，每年 | |
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margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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44
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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45
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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46
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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47
repudiation
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| n.拒绝；否认；断绝关系；抛弃 | |
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48
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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49
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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50
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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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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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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atrophied
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| adj.萎缩的，衰退的v.（使）萎缩，（使）虚脱，（使）衰退( atrophy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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implicated
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| adj.密切关联的；牵涉其中的 | |
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applicant
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| n.申请人，求职者，请求者 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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agitator
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| n.鼓动者；搅拌器 | |
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loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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straps
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| n.带子( strap的名词复数 )；挎带；肩带；背带v.用皮带捆扎( strap的第三人称单数 )；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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spicy
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| adj.加香料的；辛辣的，有风味的 | |
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condescension
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| n.自以为高人一等，贬低(别人) | |
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wholesale
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| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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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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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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scones
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| n.烤饼，烤小圆面包( scone的名词复数 ) | |
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filigree
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| n.金银丝做的工艺品；v.用金银细丝饰品装饰；用华而不实的饰品装饰；adj.金银细丝工艺的 | |
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soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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sordidness
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| n.肮脏；污秽；卑鄙；可耻 | |
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bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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