The curates, as we have said, were three in number; and comprised three of the leading types of their class—the dark and heavily moustached, the red-whiskered and pasty, the clean-shaven and athletic4. The two former sat together and roystered on a pint5 of claret, which they warmed in the palms of their hands, and smacked6 their lips over with a reckless jollity and dark allusions7 to swashbuckling days at Cambridge. The third sat apart from his cloth, among a group of Oxford8 undergraduates, with whom he interchanged reminiscences, and from the elevation9 of his three terms seniority regaled them with tales of hair-breadth escapes from proctors and bulldogs, and, in especial, of the enormities of one Greene, of Pembroke, in connection with a breakfast given by a man who had been sent “a big cake from home.” The story was long, and profusely10 decked with terms of the most{181} esoteric undergraduate slang, but we gathered that Greene, having become what the curate leniently11 termed “a little on,” had cast the still uncut cake out of the window at a policeman, upon the spike12 of whose helmet it became impaled13. We have since heard with real regret that the Oxford police do not wear spikes14 on their helmets; but we adhere to the main facts of the story, and when we tell it ourselves we call the policeman a volunteer. The robust15 voice of the narrator clove16 its way into the loud current of the fishing talk, the table paused over its gooseberry pie and custard to laugh, and even the Cambridge curates were compelled to a compassionate17 smile. They were a good deal older than any of the Oxford clan18, and it seemed to us that the superior modernity and flavour of the Oxford stories had a depressing effect upon them. They finished their claret unostentatiously, and talked to each other in lowered tones about pocket cameras and safety bicycles.
It was strange to feel at this hotel—as, indeed, at all{182} the others we stayed at—that we were almost the only representative of our country, and, casting our minds back through the maze19 of English faces and the Babel of English voices that had been the accompaniment of our meals for the last fortnight, two painful conclusions were forced on us—first, that the Irish people have no money to tour with; second, that it was Saxon influence and support alone that evoluted the Connemara hotels from a primitive20 feather-bed and chicken status alluded21 to in an earlier article. Not, indeed, that chickens are things of the past. Daily through Connemara rises the cry of myriad22 hens, bereft23 of their infant broods, and in every hotel larder24 “wretches hang that fishermen may dine.” Chickens and small brown mutton, mutton and small brown chickens—these, with salmon25 and trout26 of a curdy27 freshness that London wats not of, were the leit-motif of every hotel table d’h?te, and so uniformly excellent were they that we asked for nothing more.
The whole of the next day was wet, utterly28 and solidly wet. The great mountains of Mayo on the{183} other side of the bay looked like elephants swathed in white muslin, and the sea that came lashing29 up the embankment in front of the hotel was thick and muddy, and altogether ugly to look at. We sat dismally30 in the ladies’ drawing-room, with one resentful eye on the rain, and the other fixed31 in still deeper resentment32 on the wholly intolerable man who had taken up his position in front of the fire with a book the night before, and had, apparently33, never stirred since. From the smoking-room on the other side of the hall came drearily34 at intervals35 the twanglings of a banjo; my second cousin read a hotel copy of “The Pilgrim’s Progress”; the general misery36 was complete, and I found myself almost mechanically working a heavy shower into a sketch37 that had been made on a fine day.
Towards evening we began to feel homicidal and dangerous, and putting on our mackintoshes started for a walk with a determination that found a savage38 delight in getting its feet wet. No incident marked that walk, unless the varying depths of puddles39 and{184} the strenuous40 clinging to an umbrella are incidents, but for all that we returned tranquillised and self-satisfied, and were further soothed41 by a cloudy vision caught, through the French window of the smoking-room, of blazers and white flannelled42 legs bestowed43 about the room in various attitudes of supine discontent. Before we sighted the window we had heard the melancholy44 metallic45 hiccupping of the banjo, but just as we passed by it ceased, and a furtive46 glance revealed the athletic curate, prone47 on a sofa, with his banjo propped48 upon the brilliant striped scarf that intervened between the clerical black serge coat and the uncanonical flannels49.
“Now the hand trails upon the viol string
Sad with the whole of pleasure. Whither stray
Their eyes now, from whose lips the slim pipes creep
And leave them pouting——”
misquoted my cousin, who has a slipshod acquaintance with Rossetti.
“I should think they strayed towards the Oughte{185}rard umbrella,” I suggested, as we furled the tent of evil-smelling gingham in the hall. “Since the stuff has come away from two of the spikes it has got the dissipated charwoman look that is so attractive.”
When we went to bed that night the rain was still dropping heavily from the eave-shoots, and, in the depressingly early waking that follows an early going to bed, it was the first sound that I recognised. The hotel was silent when we came down, and the coffee-room redolent of vanished breakfasts; the fishermen had evidently betaken themselves to their trade in an access of despair. The waiter was reserved on the subject of the weather; he neither blessed nor cursed, but hoped, with offensive cheerfulness, that it would improve, and we knew in our hearts that he was certain it would not. We watched him enviously51 as he came in and out with plates, and arranged long battalions52 of forks on a side table. What was the weather to him, with his house-shoes and evening clothes and absolute certainty of what he had to do next from now till bed-time? We would thankfully{186} have gone into the kitchen and proffered53 our services to the cook, or even to the boots, but instead of that we had to wander to the abhorred54 ladies’ drawing-room, and there to mourn the fallacy of the statement that Satan finds some mischief55 still for idle hands to do.
It did clear up in the afternoon, grudgingly56 and gloomily, but still conscientiously57, and we ordered out Sibbie, with a view to seeing how much of the country was left above water. We drove along the Westport road till we had passed the last long bend of the Killaries, and looking across a wooded valley saw the rush of water and jumble58 of foam59 above the mouth of the Erriff river that marked the chosen resort of the fishermen. We got a man to hold Sibbie for a few minutes while we went down and stood on the slender fishing bridge, and looked at a solitary60 angler throwing his fly with the usual scientific grace, and with the usual total absence of result, till we felt it would be kinder to go away. The midges were not perhaps as giant or as insatiable as the Salruck variety,{187} but we heard that night at dinner that they had been enough to drive the whole body of the hotel fishermen back from the river in the morning; and as we looked down the double row of faces, all apparently in the first stage of convalescence61 after small-pox, we gathered some idea of what their sufferings must have been. One youth, whose midge-bites had reached the point at which they might almost be termed confluent, told us that he had lain down on the ground in a kind of frenzy62 and covered himself with his mackintosh, and that the midges had crawled in through the buttonholes and devoured63 him as he lay.
We continued our drive towards Westport, with the river on one side, and on the other great green mountains speckled with thousands of sheep; the road was steep, but we persevered64 up its long shining grey slope, without any definite intention except that of seeing what was on the other side. We found out rather sooner than we had expected. There appeared suddenly over the top of the hill, where the road bent65 its back against the sky, the capering66 figures of three{188} young horses, and at that sight we turned Sibbie sharp round and fled down the hill. The young horses came galloping68 down after us with manes and tails flying, and visions of another runaway69, with the final trampling70 of our fallen bodies by our pursuers, made us “nourish” Sibbie with the whip in a way that was scarcely necessary. She extended her long legs at a gallop67; the trap swung from side to side; it seemed as if the horses gained nothing on us; and as the trees of Astleagh Lodge71 came nearer and nearer there flashed upon us in an instant the spectacle of a close finish at the hotel door, and the thought of the godsend that it would be to the smoking-room. But the smoking-room was fated not to behold72 it. As suddenly as the pursuit had begun so did it end. The three colts whirled up a bohireen towards a farmhouse73, and we then became aware of a small girl running after them down the road with a stick in her hand. It was only the Connemara version of Mary calling the cattle home, written in rather faster time than is usual, and with a running accom{189}paniment in two flats, supplied by ourselves. Sibbie was not thoroughly74 reassured75 even when we reached the hotel, and we drove past it along the road seaward till we reached a point from which we saw the whole of the long exquisite76 fiord of the Killaries, and beyond the furthest of its dark, over-lapping points the thin silver line of the open sea.
“Eight o’clock breakfast, please, and call us sharp at seven,” were our last words on our last night at Leenane. The final day of our tour had come, and two things remained imperatively77 for us to do. We had to see Delphi, and we had to accomplish the twenty Irish miles that lay between Sibbie and her home in Oughterard. Energy and an early start were necessary, and eight o’clock struck as we walked into the breakfast-room, expecting to find our twin breakfast-cups and plates stationed in lonely fellowship at one end of a long desert of tablecloth78. What we did find was a gobbling, haranguing79 crowd of fishermen, full of a daily, accustomed energy that made ours seem a very forced and exotic growth.{190} The waiter, who at 9.30 yesterday morning had been servilely attentive80, now regarded us with a coldly distraught eye. Clearly he was of the opinion of the indignant housemaid who declared that “there never was a rale lady that was out of her bed before nine in the morning.” Breakfast after breakfast came in, but not for us. We saw with anguish81 the athletic curate make a clean sweep of the gooseberry jam, and the last of the hot cakes had disappeared before our coffee and chops were vouchsafed82 to us. Consequently it was a good deal later than we wanted it to be when we went down to the pier83 and got into the boat that was to take us across to Delphi.
The weather was grey and rough, and we asked the boatmen their opinion of it as we crept along in the shelter of the western shore of the bay, as close as possible to the seaweedy points of rock, the chosen playgrounds of the seals.
“There’s not much wind, but what there is is very high,” said the stroke. “Faith, it’s hardly we’ll get{191}
over to Delphi with the surges that’ll be in it when we’ll be out in the big wather.”
“Ah, na boclish!” struck in the bow, who, judging by his glowing complexion84, was of the sanguine85 temperament86. “I’d say it’ll turn up a grand day yet. What signifies the surges that’ll be in it?”
We began to think it signified a good deal when, after a pull of nearly two miles, we forsook87 the shore, and, turning out into the open water, met the full and allied88 strength of the wind and tide. The “surges” were quite as large as any that we want to see, and the progress of the boat was like a succession of knight’s moves at chess, two strokes towards the Delphi shore, and one stroke to bring her head to the advancing “surge.” Naturally, we took a long time to get across, and when we got there we had still a walk of two miles before us; only that it really did “turn up a grand day” our hearts would have failed us, as we felt the hours slipping from us, and remembered the journey that was before us in the afternoon.
Delphi was called so by some genius who saw in its{194} lake and overhanging mountains a resemblance to the home of the oracle89. The boatmen were not able to remember when the little lake had been converted and rebaptized, or who the missionary90 had been, but rumour91 pointed92 to a Bishop93 and a Dean of the Irish Church, who, within the recollection of old inhabitants, had been the first to impart civilisation94 to the Killaries; who had built the charming fishing-lodge at the head of the lake, and had fished its waters, attired95 in poke96 bonnets97 and bottle-green veils. We had not been more than five minutes there before we understood the rationale of the bonnets and veils, and wished that we had been similarly protected from the blood-thirsty midges, that made our wanderings by the lake and our lunch by the river a time of torture.
But the stings of the midges have died away, and the recollection of the glassy curve of the river, the mirrored wild flowers at its brim, the classical grove98 of pines and slender white birches, and the luminous99 purple reflection of the mountain lying deep in the{195} stream beneath them are the things that come into our minds when we think of our last day in Connemara. As a companion picture, belonging, too, to that day, I seem still to see my cousin’s sailor hat flying from her head like a rocketing pheasant, in a gust100 that caught us as we crossed the Killaries on our return journey. It crested101 the “surges” gallantly102 for a few minutes, but finally filled and sank with all hands, that is to say, two most cherished hatpins, before we could reach it.
That moment was the beginning of the end. One of the most important members of the expedition had left it, and the general dissolution was at hand. The regret with which we paid our hotel bill was not wholly mercenary, but was blended with the finer pathos103 of farewell. The cup of bovril of which we partook when the first five miles of our journey had been accomplished104 was “strong as first love, and wild with all regret”; it was the last of a staunch and long-enduring little pot, and economy required that no scraping of it should remain at the final unpacking{196} of the hamper105. Gingerbread biscuits that had been hoarded106 like gold pieces were flung en masse to a passing tramp before even the preliminary blessing107 had flowed from her lips; and the last of the seedcake was forced into Sibbie’s reluctant mouth. The frugalities of a fortnight were dissipated in one hour of joyless, obligatory108 debauch109.
It was eight o’clock that evening when, after five or six hours’ driving, we came down the long slope of the moor110 outside Oughterard. The mountains of Connemara were all behind us, in the pale distant guise111 in which we had first known them, and the only things that remained to us of our wanderings in their valleys were the governess-cart and the tired, but still dauntless, Sibbie. Even these would not be ours much longer; the door of Murphy’s hotel would soon witness our final separation, and to-morrow we should be, like any other tourists, swinging into Galway on the mail-car.
“Well, at all events,” said my cousin, as we said these things to each other, “we have converted Sibbie.{197}
I have noticed several little things about her lately that make me sure she regards us with a stern affection. I daresay,” she went on, “that she will detest112 going back to her old life and surroundings.”
My second cousin looked pensively113 at Sibbie as she said this, and whipped up through the streets of Oughterard with a kind of melancholy flourish. Nothing was further from her expectations or from mine than the eel-like dive which, just as the sympathetic reflection was uttered, Sibbie made into the archway leading to Mr. Johnny Flanigan’s stable; and we have ever since regretted that, owing to our both having fallen on to the floor of the governess-cart, Mr. Flanigan could not have credited the brilliant curve with which we entered his yard to our coachmanship. In fact, what he said was:
“Well, now, I’m afther waiting these two hours out in the sthreet the way I’d be before her to ketch her when she’d do that, and, may the divil admire me,{200} but she picked the minnit I was back in the house for a coal to light me pipe, and she have me bet afther all. But ye needn’t say a word, when she hasn’t the two o’ ye desthroyed!”
FINIS.
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1
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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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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3
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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8
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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9
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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10
profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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leniently
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| 温和地，仁慈地 | |
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12
spike
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| n.长钉，钉鞋；v.以大钉钉牢，使...失效 | |
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13
impaled
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| 钉在尖桩上( impale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14
spikes
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| n.穗( spike的名词复数 )；跑鞋；（防滑）鞋钉；尖状物v.加烈酒于( spike的第三人称单数 )；偷偷地给某人的饮料加入（更多）酒精（ 或药物）；把尖状物钉入；打乱某人的计划 | |
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15
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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16
clove
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| n.丁香味 | |
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17
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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18
clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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19
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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20
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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23
bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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larder
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| n.食物贮藏室，食品橱 | |
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salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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27
curdy
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| adj.成凝乳状的，凝结了的 | |
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28
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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29
lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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30
dismally
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| adv.阴暗地，沉闷地 | |
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31
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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32
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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35
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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36
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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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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38
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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39
puddles
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| n.水坑， （尤指道路上的）雨水坑( puddle的名词复数 ) | |
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40
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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41
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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42
flannelled
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| 穿法兰绒衣服的 | |
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43
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
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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45
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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46
furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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47
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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48
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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49
flannels
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| 法兰绒男裤； 法兰绒( flannel的名词复数 ) | |
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50
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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51
enviously
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| adv.满怀嫉妒地 | |
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52
battalions
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| n.（陆军的）一营（大约有一千兵士）( battalion的名词复数 )；协同作战的部队；军队；（组织在一起工作的）队伍 | |
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53
proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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55
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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56
grudgingly
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57
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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58
jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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59
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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60
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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61
convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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62
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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63
devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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64
persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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65
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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66
capering
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| v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的现在分词 )；蹦蹦跳跳 | |
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67
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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68
galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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69
runaway
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| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
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70
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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71
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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72
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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73
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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74
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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75
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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76
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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imperatively
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| adv.命令式地 | |
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78
tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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79
haranguing
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| v.高谈阔论( harangue的现在分词 ) | |
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80
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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81
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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82
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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83
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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84
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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85
sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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86
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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87
forsook
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| forsake的过去式 | |
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88
allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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89
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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90
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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91
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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92
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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93
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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94
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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95
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
poke
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| n.刺，戳，袋；vt.拨开，刺，戳；vi.戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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97
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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98
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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99
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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100
gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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101
crested
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| adj.有顶饰的，有纹章的，有冠毛的v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的过去式和过去分词 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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102
gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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103
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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104
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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105
hamper
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| vt.妨碍，束缚，限制；n.(有盖的)大篮子 | |
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106
hoarded
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| v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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107
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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108
obligatory
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| adj.强制性的，义务的，必须的 | |
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109
debauch
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| v.使堕落，放纵 | |
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110
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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111
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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112
detest
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| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
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113
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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