“It isn’t the little bit they ates I begridges them,” quoted my cousin, as in one of the long watches of the night she wearily lit her candle for the nineteenth time, “but ’tis the continial thramplin’ they keeps up.”
Even when the greater part of these foes1 was either gorged2 or slain3, the sleep that hummed its mellow4 harmonies in the loft5 over our heads held far from us, tossing and stifling6 among feathers and flock pillows. It must have been about two a.m., and I had just, by various strategies, induced myself to go to sleep, when I was once more awakened8, this time by a convulsive clutch of my arm.
“Don’t stir!” whispered my second cousin, in a{103} voice so low that it felt like one of my own dreams, “but listen!”
A stealthy sound, as of a slow, barefooted advance, crept to us, buried though we were in the perfumed depths of the flock pillows.
“Whatever it is, it came out from under the bed,” breathed my cousin, “and it has gone twice round the room—looking for our money, I expect!”
The steps ceased for a moment, then there came a sound as of a little rush towards the bed, and in an instant something with loud flappings and rustlings had descended9 upon us, and rested heavily, with hollow cacklings of contentment, upon our buried forms (for I suppose I need hardly state that we had both bolted under the bedclothes).
“I believe it’s only the goose after all!” I said, as soon as I was sufficiently10 recovered to speak.
“Only the goose!” returned my second cousin, with concentrated fury; “I don’t see much to be grateful for in that. And how do you know it isn’t the gander? I’m simply stifling here, but I know the brute{104} would peck me if I went out from under the clothes. I wish to goodness it had been a burglar. Anyhow, they don’t peck.”
This was indisputable; as was also the fact that the bird had to be dislodged. She had worked herself into a position that was probably more satisfactory to her than it was to me, and judging, as I was well able to do, by her weight, she must have been a remarkably11 strong and vigorous bird.
“Get the matches ready,” I said, gathering12 myself for an effort. Then, curving myself till the goose must have thought she was sitting on a camel, I gave a heaving plunge13. There was a croak14, a flop15, and a minute afterwards the light of a match revealed a monstrous16 grey goose standing17 in pained astonishment18 on the floor near the bed.
Fortunately the profundities19 of Joyce repose20 knew no disturbance21, and, still more providentially, the three shilling umbrella was within reach of the bed. Opening this as a safeguard against an attack, which in our then thin costume we should be ill-fitted to{105}
[Image unavailable.]
“REVEALED A MONSTROUS GREY GOOSE.”
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{107}
withstand, we gently but firmly ushered22 the majestic23 goose-lady into the kitchen, and, getting back to bed slept in peace till the usual hideous24 farmhouse25 clamour began. We need not dilate26 upon it here. The war-whoopings of the cocks, the exhausting self-satisfaction of the hens over a feat7 which, however praiseworthy in itself, lacks originality27; the yells of the pigs, and their impatient snuffings and bangings against the kitchen door; all, all, were alike detestable, and we welcomed almost with ecstasy28 the lowering of the first pair of Joyce legs, which told us that the family, like a certain distinguished29 cricketer, were going out “leg before.”
My cousin and I are old travellers, and we have two properties, a spirit lamp and a folding indiarubber bath, without which we never take the road. It is my belief that if my second cousin were told that a chariot of fire was at the door, waiting to waft30 her to the skies, she would rush upstairs for the indiarubber bath and the spirit lamp. After this I suppose I need hardly say that they had accompanied{108} us to Connemara. We do not for an instant wish to insinuate31 that the bath, as an institution, does not obtain in those parts. We have every reason to believe that it flourishes there; but a melancholy32 experience has taught us that the age of chivalry33 is dead, so far as hotels are concerned, and if there is a scarcity34 or competition in any department, whether of newspapers, or green peas, or baths, the most recent paper, and the first helping35, and the last available bath is reserved by the truckling domestics for the largely-eating, heavily-tipping male traveller. We have had moments of fury, when violent death has stalked behind the chambermaid who has just informed us that “the last bat’ in the house is afther goin’ in to the gentleman in No. 11.”
But at such times the remembrance of the indiarubber bath floats sweetly into our minds; and we reflect that its tin rival would have cost sixpence or a shilling. Its gentle influence, combined with a dash of chill penury36, represses our noble rage, and we endure the favouritism of the hotel employés with calm;{109} knowing also that retribution is coming for her whose duty it will be to deal with the weird37 and wobbling thing that will, on the smallest provocation38 from the unskilled in its ways, become a mere39 mass of gaping40 mouths, pouring forth41 accusation42 of her and her treatment of the slightest visitor.
At the Widow Joyce’s hot water was unexpectedly abundant, and the spirit lamp was not called into requisition. We were given to understand that the Meejer was loud and instant in his demands for “plenty of biled water,” but how he performed his ablutions with it it is not for us to say. Except they lent him a churn, there was, so far as we could see, no vessels43 competent to undertake the duties of a bath, and a churn in such a capacity would, we should think, leave a good deal to be desired. We were, however, independent of such makeshifts. The chief drawback to an indiarubber bath is its propensity44 to slop; but on an earthen floor slop is little accounted, and all would have been well if my second cousin had not persisted in trying to empty it through the air-{110}hole broken by the Meejer in the window. She did this nominally45 out of kindness to the Widow Joyce, but really because she thought she could pour its contents on the widow’s cat, who was sunning herself on the window-sill. As a matter of fact, I think our luncheon46-basket suffered more than the cat—but we will not pursue the subject. My cousin now recognises that it requires an exceptionally high and hardy47 intellect to control an indiarubber bath, even in repose, and few, very few, are able to direct it in action.
When we went out that morning, we found it was that “gift of God, a perfect day.” Everything looked washed and brilliant after the rain; the little lake was twinkling all over in sharp points of light till it looked as if it were bristling48 with new pins, and the mountains had left off their half-mourning costumes of black and grey, and wore charming confections of softest green and lavender. We stood out in the sunshine, on the narrow strip that ran between the cottage and the lake, and threw some languid stones{111} at the widow’s geese, who were bobbing along before the wind, led on their voyage by the stout49 disturber of our slumbers50. The air was singing with the noise of streams; each pale blue ravine had a white line dividing it; at the back of the cottage a little over-fed river came foaming51 into the lake at a pace that ought to have given it indigestion after all it had swallowed the night before, and the plash of the contents of the indiarubber bath, as the widow emptied it on the step of the front door, gave the last note in the chord of water-music.
We had had an excellent breakfast, founded on fresh eggs and hot griddle cake, with a light top dressing52 of potted meat; we had paid our modest reckoning, and Pat James, the eldest53 hope of the house of Joyce, was harnessing “the pony54.” That “the pony” was giving Pat James a time, not to say seven times and a half time, was obvious from the shouts that came to us through the stable-door, but finally, round the corner of the cow-house, Sibbie’s cross, prim55 face appeared with Pat James leading her, and the governess-{112}cart reeling over the big ruts in the lane behind her.
“He’s very crabbed56, Miss,” said Pat James, in tones of soft reproach, “he’s afther hittin’ me the divil’s own puck inside in the stable.”
There was a spiteful gleam in Sybylla’s bright eye that spoke57 to the truth of his statement, and we felt sorry for Pat James.
We took a mutually affectionate farewell of the Widow Joyce, promising58 to convey her respects to the Meejer if we met him in England, as she seemed to think probable, and we set forth to make our way back to “the big road below,” accompanied by Pat James, whose mother had charged him to see us safe over the first bad bit of the road.
He was an idyllically59 picturesque60 creature of seventeen or eighteen, with large, gentle grey eyes, set in a golden-brown face several shades darker in value than they were, and the most charming voice and manner imaginable. The cat, on whom my cousin had basely tried to empty the bath, came with him; sometimes{113} strolling behind with a set face of unconsciousness, but with a tail that twitched61 with inward plottings, and sometimes making possessed62 scuttles63 on ahead, with a sort of squirrel’s tail held high, and a little dreadful air of being moved by some unseen power. Pat James was evidently rather ashamed of it, and at such moments would throw stones at it to cover his confusion.
“We have it for a dog, Miss,” he said in answer to our enquiries, “and it have the way now to be running with us when we’d be going out.”
Here he threw another stone at the cat who had usurped64 the position of household dog, which had the effect of wafting65 it across the road under Sibbie’s nose, and thereby66 alarming her seriously. He left us after about half a mile, and when we saw him last he was sitting on a big rock, his slouched felt hat and creamy flannel67 “bawneen” looking all that could be desired against their background of clear blue sky, whilst the cat performed unearthly gambols68 in the heather at his bare feet.{114}
“After all,” we said to each other, as we turned into the main road, and set Sibbie’s long nose for Recess69, “it was just as well we missed our way, for if we hadn’t we should have missed Pat James.”
The road that was to be our portion was the one known as the New Line, leading out of the Recess and Clifden road into another road that leads through the Pass of Kylemore, and on into Letterfrack, where we meant to spend the night. Sibbie was fresh and full of going, and the long level road, following the curves of Lough Inagh and Lough Derryclare, inspired her with a fine and unusual zeal71. The accustomed boats, each with its little patient whipping figure, were paddling about the lakes, and, according to our custom, we reined72 in the fiery73 Sibbie to watch them. They were a depressing spectacle, and, as usual, our cold, though anything but fishy74, eye blighted75 all their chances of a rise. We left them all flogging away like Dublin cabdrivers, and made up our minds that if we wanted to spend thirty shillings a day on fish, we would do it at the Stores.{115}
Our way lay through a long up-sloping tract76 of heathery, boggy78 valley, with the splendid towers and pinnacles79 of the Twelve Pins hanging high over the lakes on our left, and on our right the last outworks of the Maam Turc ranges rising almost from the road. It was an utterly80 lonely place. The small black-faced sheep pervaded81 the landscape, speckling the mountains like grains of rice, and we could see them filing along the ledges82 over purple depths where more than one climber has been killed. The little black and brindled83 cattle stared at us defiantly84 as we drove along, and the only human creature we met on the road was a grey old bagpiper85, who looked as though he might have lost his way among the hills some time in the last century, and had only just found the New Line when we met him.
It certainly was a perfect day and a perfect drive. The delicious mountain wind, which was charged with all the subtle perfumes drawn86 from bog77 and heather; the marvellous cloud effects on the great crags of the Twelve Pins; the sparkle and rush of the brown{116} streams under the innumerable hog-backed bridges; the intense blue of the lakes, even the yellow whiteness of the slow-climbing road, all combined to fill us with that vague delightful87 yearning88 which can only be satisfied by lunch half an hour earlier than usual.
One only sign of civilisation89 did we see between Recess and Kylemore, and it was of a wholly unexpected type. A middle-sized house, bow-windowed, gabled, stucco-covered, hideous beyond compare, standing in the middle of a grass plot at the foot of one of the hills, and looking as if some vulgar-minded fairy had transported it bodily from Brixton or Clapham Rise. It had at first the effect of being deserted90, but, as we got nearer, a melancholy old horse strayed out of a sort of dilapidated shed and stared at us, and an outside car propped91 against an elaborately gabled end showed that he was not a mere derelict. As we drove by, a cat climbed out of one broken pane92 of glass, and a cock crept in by another, and then suddenly at three of the upstairs windows there appeared the faces of three dirty little{117} girls. The hall door was shut, and the thin wiry grass round the house was untrampled. No other living thing appeared, and we can only conclude that we stumbled in upon the middle of a fairy tale. The house, of course, was the work of enchantment93, and the three princesses, who were held there in durance vile94, were about to be rescued by the princely cock whom we had seen forcing an entrance, while the bad fairy—the cat, naturally—had to creep out and throw up the sponge (of which, by-the-bye, the princesses might with advantage have made practical use).
We left the New Line just as we came in sight of the Pass of Kylemore, and the road on which we now found ourselves wound along the shore of the lake, according to the custom in Connemara, where, unlike the rest of Ireland, the roads are not planted along the backs of the highest hills procurable95. We pulled up on one of the bends of the road to look at the view and make a sketch96. That is the supremest of the advantages of driving your own donkey-cart, you can generally stop when and wherever you like. The{118} only exception to this rule is when, as happened at Ballinahinch, your donkey has had too many oats.
On this occasion the donkey was quite ready to stop, and she surveyed, with a connoisseur’s cold eye, the unsurpassable view, while the evening clouds thronged97 the gap between the steep tree-covered sides of Kylemore on one side, and the stony98 severities of the Diamond Mountain on the other, and sent changing lights and shadows hurrying over the wide lake, and drove the labouring sketcher99 of these things almost to madness.
Mr. Mitchell Henry’s place, Kylemore Castle, stands close in among the woods under the side of Kylemore Mountain, with a small lake shutting it off from the road. It is a great, imposing100 grey mass of turrets101 and towers, and, close by, the white spire70 of a charming little limestone102 church is reflected among the trees in the lake, and gives an amazing finish of civilisation to the whole view—in fact, civilisation and fuchsia hedges are the leading notes from Kylemore to Letterfrack, wide crimson103 banks of fuchsia lining{119}
[Image unavailable.]
MR. MITCHELL HENRY’S PLACE, KYLEMORE CASTLE.
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the road, and prosperous farm buildings presiding over fat turnip104 fields, until the road lifts again into the barer uplands whereon is situated105 the village of Letterfrack.
No map we have as yet encountered pays Letterfrack the compliment of marking it, but it is nevertheless a very fine place, with a post and telegraph office, an industrial school, and a tolerably regular double row of houses of all sorts. Our various delays of luncheon and sketching106, &c., along the road had made us later than usual, and we were only just in time for the table d’h?te at Mr. O’Grady’s fuchsia-covered hotel. There was a wonderful sunset that evening, and after dinner we wandered out to see as much as we could before bedtime. It was the strangest country we had yet seen. A long down-sloping tract of semi-cultivated land, and, starting up round its outskirts107, tall, crudely conical mountains, “such a landscape as a child would draw,” my second cousin said. There was something volcanic108 and threatening about these great dark tents, showing{122} awfully109 against the red background of the sunset. We were almost glad when everything melted into a grey sea-fog—for the sea, though out of sight, was very near—and we had to walk back the hotel; while from a shadowy cottage back of the road the piercing screams of a concertina rendered in maddening iteration the first theme of the “Sweethearts” waltz. Only one incident did we meet with on our way back. Quite suddenly, out of the greyness, three men appeared, and as they passed us, one of them turned and said, “Genoong i dhieri,” which, being translated, is “God speed you.”
We said feebly “Good evening,” and it was not till we were nearing the hotel that my second cousin remembered that she should have answered, “Ge moch hay ritth,” which is the Irish method of saying, “The same to you.{123}”
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1
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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gorged
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| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的过去式和过去分词 )；作呕 | |
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slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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loft
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| n.阁楼，顶楼 | |
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stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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croak
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| vi.嘎嘎叫，发牢骚 | |
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flop
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| n.失败(者)，扑通一声；vi.笨重地行动，沉重地落下 | |
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16
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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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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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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profundities
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| n.深奥，深刻，深厚( profundity的名词复数 )；堂奥 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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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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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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dilate
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| vt.使膨胀，使扩大 | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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waft
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| v.飘浮，飘荡；n.一股；一阵微风；飘荡 | |
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insinuate
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| vt.含沙射影地说，暗示 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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scarcity
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| n.缺乏，不足，萧条 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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penury
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| n.贫穷，拮据 | |
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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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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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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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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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vessels
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| n.血管( vessel的名词复数 )；船；容器；（具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的）人 | |
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propensity
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| n.倾向；习性 | |
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nominally
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| 在名义上，表面地； 应名儿 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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50
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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52
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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53
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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55
prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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56
crabbed
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| adj.脾气坏的；易怒的；（指字迹）难辨认的；（字迹等）难辨认的v.捕蟹( crab的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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idyllically
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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twitched
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| vt.& vi.（使）抽动，（使）颤动（twitch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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scuttles
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| n.天窗( scuttle的名词复数 )v.使船沉没( scuttle的第三人称单数 )；快跑，急走 | |
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usurped
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| 篡夺，霸占( usurp的过去式和过去分词 )； 盗用； 篡夺，篡权 | |
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wafting
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的现在分词 ) | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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gambols
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| v.蹦跳，跳跃，嬉戏( gambol的第三人称单数 ) | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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reined
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| 勒缰绳使（马）停步( rein的过去式和过去分词 )； 驾驭； 严格控制； 加强管理 | |
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fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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fishy
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| adj. 值得怀疑的 | |
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blighted
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| adj.枯萎的，摧毁的 | |
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tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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bog
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| n.沼泽；室...陷入泥淖 | |
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boggy
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| adj.沼泽多的 | |
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pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ledges
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| n.（墙壁，悬崖等）突出的狭长部分( ledge的名词复数 )；（平窄的）壁架；横档；（尤指）窗台 | |
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brindled
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| adj.有斑纹的 | |
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defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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bagpiper
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| n.吹风笛的人，风笛手 | |
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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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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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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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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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procurable
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| adj.可得到的，得手的 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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sketcher
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| n.画略图者，作素描者，舞台布景设计者 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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102
limestone
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| n.石灰石 | |
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103
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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turnip
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| n.萝卜，芜菁 | |
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105
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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106
sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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107
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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108
volcanic
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| adj.火山的；象火山的；由火山引起的 | |
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109
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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