But no; mile after mile, and still never a sign or hint of change, never the slightest diminution6 in their multitude. The straight road—good and level as all West Connaught roads are—runs on and on through this rock-encumbered wilderness7 as if it loved it. There are low drift-hills near at hand, stone-covered like the rest; there are a few nipped and draggled looking villages at long intervals8; there is a more or less misty9 glimpse of Connemara mountains occasionally to be had; also a much nearer view of Clare and the hills of Burren; there is the bay, very near indeed, with, perhaps, a ‘pookhaun’ or a hooker upon it; now and then a stream dashes by, struggling with difficulty through its incubus of rock, and disappearing under a bridge; otherwise, save stones, stones, stones, there is nothing till the Galway suburbs grow, grey and unlovely, upon your sight.
It was the day of Galway fair, the last of{104} the great western spring fairs, and a large party of Aranites were on their way to it. Grania and Murdough were amongst them. Grania had her calf10 to sell, also a couple of pigs. Murdough had nothing to sell and nothing to do, but any opportunity of escaping for a few hours from Inishmaan, any prospect11 of stir, bustle12, and life was welcome to him. It was he, therefore, who had urged Grania to go this time herself to the fair, instead of entrusting13 the calf and pigs to Pete Durane, who usually sold them for her, charging a modest commission for his own benefit upon the transaction.
She had at first demurred14. She did not want, she said, to leave Honor. This was a perfectly15 true reason, but there were others as well. An inborn16 reluctance17, a touch of savage18 pride had always hitherto made her shrink from facing the crowds and the bustle of the mainland. Ever since those early days{105} of her trips with her father in the old hooker she had hardly set foot outside their own islands. There had been for her a sense of great dignity and importance in those old, lost, but never-forgotten days. How, indeed, could there fail to be? To sail across the bay in one’s own private hooker; to enter a harbour in it; the fuss and bustle of embarkation19; the loud talk of the other hooker-owners with her father; the stares of the open-mouthed, bare-legged beggars and loafers upon the pier—such details as these had naturally given a sense of vague but vast dignity and grandeur20 to a small person sitting bolt upright upon her ballast of stones, and looking with a sense of condescension21 at all these new houses and faces thus brought, as it were, officially, under her notice.
After this to land, like anyone else, from a curragh at Cashla Bay, and to tramp tamely along a road, was a descent not easy to bring{106} the mind to. Murdough, however, had so urged the matter, had pictured the delights of the fair in such glowing colours, had undertaken to look after her so energetically, to aid her so indefatigably22, that in the end—the glamour23 of that fishing evening being still upon her—she had consented. Honor, too, had wished her to go, had arranged that Molly Muldoon should come and sit with her while she was away, had disposed of every difficulty, and had herself waked her up at three o’clock that morning so as to be ready to start at dawn for the curragh, looking so much better than she had lately done that Grania had been able to start feeling as if all was really going well, and all would still go well with her and with all of them.
And in the morning all had gone well. The weather was very fine, though there was a suspicious movement and bustling24 up of clouds to eastward25. As for the scenery,{107} certainly a stranger would have seen little variation, save in point of size, between its stoniness26 and the stoniness of Inishmaan. To Grania, however, as to all whose eyes are not spoiled by too varied27 and too early an acquaintanceship with many landscapes, small differences made great ones, and there was enough variety in that morning tramp through those stone-encumbered pastures to cause an exhilarated sense of travel and enlarged acquaintanceship with a world as yet imperfectly known and visited.
To walk briskly along the wide, indefinitely extending road, with Murdough Blake beside her; to hear him expatiating28, descanting, pointing out the different objects she was to notice; to look from right to left; to laugh and nod to other passers-by—all this surely was novelty, stir, and exhilaration enough for anyone! The group of Aranites tramped rapidly along in their{108} cow’s-skin pampooties, their tongues keeping pace with their legs. In their homemade flannel29 clothes and queer shoes, with their quick, alert, yet shuffling30 tread, they formed a marked contrast to the ordinary peasants of the mainland, most of whom stopped short on encountering them, and a brisk interchange of guttural salutations took place. Yes, certainly, it was amusing, Grania thought. Murdough was right; it was a mistake to stay always in one place. One grew to be no better than a cow, or a goat, or a thistle growing upon the rocks. It was good to look abroad. The world, after all, was really a large place. Why, beyond Galway there were actually other towns; Dublin even; that Dublin which Murdough was always talking about and pining to get to. Who could tell but what she herself might some day see Dublin? Stranger things had happened.{109}
Matters went less well when they at last reached Galway. The fair is held in the middle of the town, in its main square, the Belgrave or Grosvenor Square of its fashion and importance. The crowd was already great, all the people from the country round having streamed in long before our more distant Aranites could reach the scene. To Grania’s unaccustomed ears the noise seemed to echo and re-echo from every house around, big grey or white houses—enormously big in her eyes—and all strange, all full of people standing31 in the windows and looking out, laughing at the crowd below—that crowd of which she herself was but a solitary32 and an insignificant33 fragment.
She had considerable difficulty in discovering her own beasts, which had been sent by boat the night before so that they might be fresh for the fair, and even after she had found them the next difficulty of finding{110} purchasers was to her inexperience absolutely paralysing. If Murdough had stayed with her and helped her, as he had promised to do, all might have gone well, but almost immediately after their arrival he had gone off to look at a horse, promising34 to return quickly, and had never done so. Left to herself, Grania soon grew utterly35 miserable36 and bewildered. She was not frightened by the crowd, for that was not her way; but the noise, the shouts, the rude shoving, the laughter, the rushing to and fro of the animals, the loud thumps37 upon their wretched backs, the pushing of the people about her, the constant arrival of more cars, more carts, more people, more beasts, more big, excited men in frieze38 coats, the necessity of being constantly on the alert, so as to hinder oneself from being cheated—all this disturbed and annoyed her. Further, it offended her dignity, used as she was to moving at her{111} own free will amid the solitude39 and austere40 silence of her own island.
Worse than all the rest, however, and deeper than any merely temporary vexation, was the sense of Murdough’s defection. Why had he left her? why did he not come back when he had promised to do so? why to-day?—just to-day when everything had promised to be so happy? She scanned the crowd in every direction, growing from minute to minute more wretched, more and more hurt and angry. A burning, deep-seated anger such as she had never before experienced seemed to fill her veins41. She was hot and cold at once; she was sick with vexation and disappointment. The end of it was that, after vainly waiting and looking about her, seeing him twenty times in the distance, and finding, as he drew near, that it was someone else, she suddenly accepted an offer for her calf from a cattle-jobber which was{112} at least ten shillings less than she ought to have got for it, and, making over the two pigs to Pete Durane, telling him to do the best he could with them, she darted42 away out of the fair, out of the town, retracing43 her steps almost by instinct along the road to Spiddal, her whole soul smarting under a sense of wrong and injury.
It had begun to rain while she was still in Galway, and as she advanced along the road the rain grew momentarily heavier. There was not a scrap44 of shelter of any sort, and before she had gone many miles she was drenched45 to the skin. The immensely thick red flannel petticoat she wore, in all other respects an admirable garment, is apt in the long run to become a terrible drag in such a downpour as this. Once soaked, it weighed upon her as though it had been a petticoat of solid lead, and she had again and again to pause and wring46 it{113} out as she might have wrung47 a sponge. In spite of this she hurried on along the dreary48, featureless road, hardly heeding49 where she was going, only filled with the desire of escaping from that dreadful fair, which to her had been a scene not merely of disappointment but something far worse—a breaking-down of this sweet, this newly-found, this hardly-touched happiness—a source of intense bitterness; of a bitterness how intense she herself hardly yet knew.
At last, though how long after she left Galway she could not have told, she once more reached the spot, not far from Cloghmore Point, where they had disembarked in the morning. No boat was ready to take her across; the men were all away; there was not even a curragh to be seen, or, in her present mood, she might have attempted to get across the bay by herself. As it was, there was nothing for it but to wait till someone{114} arrived. Once more, therefore, wringing52 out her petticoat and gathering53 up her hair, which had got loose in her race, she got under the shelter of a bank and sat down upon a stone, near to where a small stream was bubbling and trickling54 through a pipe.
It was a wretched spot. There were a few cabins a little farther up the road, but it did not occur to her, somehow, to ask for shelter in any of them. She simply sat still upon her stone under the bank, waiting for someone to come, feeling miserable, but almost too tired now to know why or about what. The rain beat upon her head; the wind whistled round her; the sea was a sheet of ink, save for here and there the white crest55 of a breaker. She was growing very cold after the heat of her walk, and her wet clothes clung closely. She had eaten nothing since the early morning. As regards all this, however, she was for the moment not indifferent merely, but unconscious of it.{115}
Presently the door of the nearest cabin opened, and a woman came out, carrying a pail in her hand. She came directly towards Grania, who sat still on her stone under the pelting56 rain and watched her. She was a terribly emaciated57-looking creature, evidently not long out of bed, though it was now getting to the afternoon. She seemed almost too weak, indeed, to stand, much less to walk. As she came up to the stranger she gazed at her with a look of dull indifference58, either from ill-health or habitual59 misery60; set her pail under the pipe in the bank through which the stream ran, and, when it was filled, turned and went back, staggering under its weight, towards the door of her cabin again.
With an instinct of helpfulness Grania sprang up and ran after her, took the pail from her hands and carried it for her to the door.
The woman stared a little, but said{116} nothing. Some half-naked, hungry-looking children were playing round the entrance, and through these she pushed her way with a weary, dragging step. Then, as if for the first time observing the rain, turned and beckoned61 Grania to follow her indoors.
Dull as it had been outside, entering the cabin was like going into a cellar. There was hardly a spark of fire. That red glow which rarely fails in any Irish home, however miserable, was all but out; a pale, sickly glimmer62 hung about the edges of some charred63 sods of turf, but that was all.
A heavy, stertorous64 breathing coming from a distant corner next attracted Grania’s attention, and, looking closely, she could just distinguish a man lying there at full length. A glance showed that he was dead drunk, too drunk to move, though not too drunk, as presently became apparent, to{117} maunder out a string of incoherent abuse, which he directed at his wife without pause, meaning, or intermission, as she moved about the cabin. One of the brood of squalid children—too well used, evidently, to the phenomenon to heed50 it—ventured within reach of his arm, whereupon he struck an aimless blow at it, less with the intention apparently65 of hurting it, than from a vague impulse of asserting himself by doing something to somebody. He was very lamentably66 drunk indeed, and probably not for the first, or the first hundredth, time.
The woman indifferently drew the child away and sent it to play with the other children in the gutter67 outside. Then having set the black pot upon the fire, she squatted68 down on her heels beside it, heedless, apparently, of the fact that there was not a chance of its boiling in its present state, and taking no heed either of her visitor or of{118} her husband, who continued to maunder out more or less incoherent curses from his corner.
Grania shivered and felt sick. Something in the look and extraordinary apathy69 of the woman, something in the hideous70 squalor of the house, affected71 her as no poverty—not even that of the Dalys at home—had ever done before. She raked together the embers, and put a few fresh sods of turf on the fire—seeing that the woman of the house was either too ill or too indifferent to do anything—then sat down on a low creepy opposite to her, feeling chilled to the bone and utterly miserable.
Something new was at work within her. She did not yet know what it was, but it was a revelation in its way—a revelation as new and as strange as that other revelation two days before in the boat, only that it was exactly the reverse of it. A new idea, a{119} new impression, was again at work within her, only this time it was a new idea, a new impression upon the intolerableness of life, its unspeakable hopelessness, its misery, its dread51, unfathomable dismalness72. Why should people go on living so? she thought. Why should they go on living at all, indeed? Why, above all, should they marry and bring more wretched creatures into the world, if this was to be the way of it? How stupid, how useless, how horrible it all was! Yes, Honor was right, the priests were right, the nuns73 were right, they were all right—there was no happiness in the world, none at all—nowhere! Murdough Blake?—well, Murdough Blake would be just like the rest of them, just like every other husband—worse, perhaps, than some. He wanted to marry her, it is true, but why? Because she was strong, because she owned the farm, because she owned Moonyeen, and the pigs, and the little bit{120} of money; because she could keep him in idleness; could keep him, above all, in drink; because he could get more out of her perhaps than he could out of another!
She looked suddenly across at the mistress of the house and it seemed to her that she saw herself grown older. Evidently the other had once been a handsome woman, and was not even now old, only worn out with ill-health, many children, much work, much misery. Her left hand, which she held mechanically towards the now rising blaze, was so thin that the wedding-ring seemed to be dropping off; her hair was still black, and hung about her emaciated face in draggled-looking coils and wisps like seaweed. Staring at her in the dusk of that miserable hearth74 Grania seemed to see herself a dozen years later: broken down in spirit; broken down in health; grown prematurely75 old; her capacity for work diminished; with{121} a brood of squalid, ill-fed children clamouring for what she had not to give them; with no help; with Honor long dead; without a soul left who had known her and cared for her when she was young; with shame and a workhouse on the mainland—deepest of all degradation76 to an islander—coming hourly nearer and nearer, and a maudlin77, helpless, eternally drunken—
With a sudden sickening sense of disgust and yet of fascination78 she turned and looked again at the man, still swearing and squirming in his corner. All at once an overpowering feeling of revolt overtook her, and with a bound she sprang to her feet and ran out of the cabin and down the road. Anywhere, anywhere in the world would be better than to remain an instant longer looking at those two, that man, that woman! Who were they? Were they not simply herself and him—herself and Murdough?{122}
It was raining harder than ever, but she went on a long distance, far away from all the houses, before she again crouched79 down, this time nearer to the shore, under the shelter of a big boulder1, there to wait till the rest of the party returned from Galway.
It was a dreary, and seemingly an endless wait, but they came at last. Half an hour at least before they reached her she could hear Murdough Blake’s voice, far away up the road, and the minute he saw her he ran forward and began a long, involved account of all that had delayed him and prevented his return—how he had met Pat this, and Larry that, and Malachy the other, what they had said, done, and consulted him about. It was an even more involved account, and one that entailed80 a yet more profuse81 expenditure82 of vocabulary, than usual, and this and his looks showed that the proverbial hospitality of Galway had not belied83 itself. Grania{123} answered nothing; accepted his explanations in absolute silence; sat looking in front of her silently upon her thwart84 all the while they were crossing back to the islands. She was so often silent that neither he nor anyone else in the boat noticed anything unusual. When they reached the shore, however, she turned instantly away, without a word to any of the rest of the party gathered together at the landing-place, and walked slowly home by herself to the cabin and to Honor.
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1
boulder
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| n.巨砾；卵石，圆石 | |
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boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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incubus
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| n.负担；恶梦 | |
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diminution
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| n.减少；变小 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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calf
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| n.小牛，犊，幼仔，小牛皮 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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entrusting
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的现在分词 ) | |
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demurred
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| v.表示异议，反对( demur的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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inborn
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| adj.天生的，生来的，先天的 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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embarkation
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| n. 乘船, 搭机, 开船 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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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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indefatigably
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| adv.不厌倦地，不屈不挠地 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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stoniness
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| 冷漠，一文不名 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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expatiating
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| v.详述，细说( expatiate的现在分词 ) | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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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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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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thumps
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| n.猪肺病；砰的重击声( thump的名词复数 )v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的第三人称单数 ) | |
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frieze
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| n.(墙上的)横饰带，雕带 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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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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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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retracing
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| v.折回( retrace的现在分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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44
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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45
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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46
wring
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| n.扭绞；v.拧，绞出，扭 | |
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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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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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51
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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52
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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53
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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54
trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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55
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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56
pelting
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| 微不足道的，无价值的，盛怒的 | |
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57
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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58
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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63
charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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stertorous
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| adj.打鼾的 | |
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65
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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66
lamentably
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| adv.哀伤地，拙劣地 | |
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67
gutter
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| n.沟，街沟，水槽，檐槽，贫民窟 | |
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68
squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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69
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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70
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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72
dismalness
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| 阴沉的 | |
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73
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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74
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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76
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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maudlin
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| adj.感情脆弱的，爱哭的 | |
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78
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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79
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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81
profuse
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| adj.很多的，大量的，极其丰富的 | |
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82
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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83
belied
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| v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 )；证明（或显示）…为虚假；辜负；就…扯谎 | |
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thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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