The cliffs of Moher in Co. Clare, on the western coast of Ireland, are not as well known to tourists as they should be. It may be doubted whether Lady Mary Quin was right when she called them the highest cliffs in the world, but they are undoubtedly1 very respectable cliffs, and run up some six hundred feet from the sea as nearly perpendicular2 as cliffs should be. They are beautifully coloured, streaked3 with yellow veins4, and with great masses of dark red rock; and beneath them lies the broad and blue Atlantic. Lady Mary’s exaggeration as to the comparative height is here acknowledged, but had she said that below them rolls the brightest bluest clearest water in the world she would not have been far wrong. To the south of these cliffs there runs inland a broad bay,—Liscannor bay, on the sides of which are two little villages, Liscannor and Lahinch. At the latter, Fred Neville, since he had been quartered at Ennis, had kept a boat for the sake of shooting seals and exploring the coast,—and generally carrying out his spirit of adventure. Not far from Liscannor was Castle Quin, the seat of the Earl of Kilfenora; and some way up from Liscannor towards the cliffs, about two miles from the village, there is a cottage called Ardkill. Here lived Mrs. and Miss O’Hara.
It was the nearest house to the rocks, from which it was distant less than half a mile. The cottage, so called, was a low rambling5 long house, but one storey high,—very unlike an English cottage. It stood in two narrow lengths, the one running at right angles to the other; and contained a large kitchen, two sitting rooms,—of which one was never used,—and four or five bed-rooms of which only three were furnished. The servant girl occupied one, and the two ladies the others. It was a blank place enough,—and most unlike that sort of cottage which English ladies are supposed to inhabit, when they take to cottage life. There was no garden to it, beyond a small patch in which a few potatoes were planted. It was so near to the ocean, so exposed to winds from the Atlantic, that no shrubs6 would live there. Everything round it, even the herbage, was impregnated with salt, and told tales of the neighbouring waves. When the wind was from the west the air would be so laden7 with spray that one could not walk there without being wet. And yet the place was very healthy, and noted8 for the fineness of its air. Rising from the cottage, which itself stood high, was a steep hill running up to the top of the cliff, covered with that peculiar9 moss10 which the salt spray of the ocean produces. On this side the land was altogether open, but a few sheep were always grazing there when the wind was not so high as to drive them to some shelter. Behind the cottage there was an enclosed paddock which belonged to it, and in which Mrs. O’Hara kept her cow. Roaming free around the house, and sometimes in it, were a dozen hens and a noisy old cock which, with the cow, made up the total of the widow’s live stock. About a half a mile from the cottage on the way to Liscannor there were half a dozen mud cabins which contained Mrs. O’Hara’s nearest neighbours,—and an old burying ground. Half a mile further on again was the priest’s house, and then on to Liscannor there were a few other straggling cabins here and there along the road.
Up to the cottage indeed there could hardly be said to be more than a track, and beyond the cottage no more than a sheep path. The road coming out from Liscannor was a real road as far as the burying ground, but from thence onward11 it had degenerated12. A car, or carriage if needed, might be brought up to the cottage door, for the ground was hard and the way was open. But no wheels ever travelled there now. The priest, when he would come, came on horseback, and there was a shed in which he could tie up his nag13. He himself from time to time would send up a truss of hay for his nag’s use, and would think himself cruelly used because the cow would find her way in and eat it. No other horse ever called at the widow’s door. What slender stores were needed for her use, were all brought on the girls’ backs from Liscannor. To the north of the cottage, along the cliff, there was no road for miles, nor was there house or habitation. Castle Quin, in which the noble but somewhat impoverished14 Quin family lived nearly throughout the year, was distant, inland, about three miles from the cottage. Lady Mary had said in her letter to her friend that Mrs. O’Hara was a lady;—and as Mrs. O’Hara had no other neighbour, ranking with herself in that respect, so near her, and none other but the Protestant clergyman’s wife within six miles of her, charity, one would have thought, might have induced some of the Quin family to notice her. But the Quins15 were Protestant, and Mrs. O’Hara was not only a Roman Catholic, but a Roman Catholic who had been brought into the parish by the priest. No evil certainly was known of her, but then nothing was known of her; and the Quins were a very cautious people where religion was called in question. In the days of the famine Father Marty and the Earl and the Protestant vicar had worked together in the good cause;—but those days were now gone by, and the strange intimacy16 had soon died away. The Earl when he met the priest would bow to him, and the two clergymen would bow to each other;—but beyond such dumb salutation there was no intercourse17 between them. It had been held therefore to be impossible to take any notice of the priest’s friends.
And what notice could have been taken of two ladies who came from nobody knew where, to live in that wild out-of-the-way place, nobody knew why? They called themselves mother and daughter, and they called themselves O’Haras;—but there was no evidence of the truth even of these assertions. They were left therefore in their solitude18, and never saw the face of a friend across their door step except that of Father Marty.
In truth Mrs. O’Hara’s life had been of a nature almost to necessitate19 such solitude. With her story we have nothing to do here. For our purpose there is no need that her tale should be told. Suffice it to say that she had been deserted20 by her husband, and did not now know whether she was or was not a widow. This was in truth the only mystery attached to her. She herself was an Englishwoman, though a Catholic; but she had been left early an orphan21, and had been brought up in a provincial22 town of France by her grandmother. There she had married a certain Captain O’Hara, she having some small means of her own sufficient to make her valuable in the eyes of an adventurer. At that time she was no more than eighteen, and had given her hand to the Captain in opposition23 to the wishes of her only guardian24. What had been her life from that time to the period at which, under Father Marty’s auspices25, she became the inhabitant of Ardkill Cottage, no one knew but herself. She was then utterly26 dissevered from all friends and relatives, and appeared on the western coast of County Clare with her daughter, a perfect stranger to every one. Father Marty was an old man, now nearly seventy, and had been educated in France. There he had known Mrs. O’Hara’s grandmother, and hence had arisen the friendship which had induced him to bring the lady into his parish. She came there with a daughter, then hardly more than a child. Between two and three years had passed since her coming, and the child was now a grown-up girl, nearly nineteen years old. Of her means little or nothing was known accurately27, even to the priest. She had told him that she had saved enough out of the wreck28 on which to live with her girl after some very humble29 fashion, and she paid her way. There must have come some sudden crash, or she would hardly have taken her child from an expensive Parisian school to vegetate30 in such solitude as that she had chosen. And it was a solitude from which there seemed to be no chance of future escape. They had brought with them a piano and a few books, mostly French;—and with these it seemed to have been intended that the two ladies should make their future lives endurable. Other resources except such as the scenery of the cliffs afforded them, they had none.
The author would wish to impress upon his readers, if it may be possible, some idea of the outward appearance and personal character of each of these two ladies, as his story can hardly be told successfully unless he do so. The elder, who was at this time still under forty years of age, would have been a very handsome woman had not troubles, suffering, and the contests of a rugged31 life, in which she had both endured and dared much, given to her face a look of hard combative32 resolution which was not feminine. She was rather below than above the average height,—or at any rate looked to be so, as she was strongly made, with broad shoulders, and a waist that was perhaps not now as slender as when she first met Captain O’Hara. But her hair was still black,—as dark at least as hair can be which is not in truth black at all but only darkly brown. Whatever might be its colour there was no tinge33 of grey upon it. It was glossy34, silken, and long as when she was a girl. I do not think that she took pride in it. How could she take pride in personal beauty, when she was never seen by any man younger than Father Marty or the old peasant who brought turf to her door in creels on a donkey’s back? But she wore it always without any cap, tied in a simple knot behind her head. Whether chignons had been invented then the author does not remember,—but they certainly had not become common on the coast of County Clare, and the peasants about Liscannor thought Mrs. O’Hara’s head of hair the finest they had ever seen. Had the ladies Quin of the Castle possessed35 such hair as that, they would not have been the ladies Quin to this day. Her eyes were lustrous37, dark, and very large,—beautiful eyes certainly; but they were eyes that you might fear. They had been softer perhaps in youth, before the spirit of the tiger had been roused in the woman’s bosom38 by neglect and ill-usage. Her face was now bronzed by years and weather. Of her complexion39 she took no more care than did the neighbouring fishermen of theirs, and the winds and the salt water, and perhaps the working of her own mind, had told upon it, to make it rough and dark. But yet there was a colour in her cheeks, as we often see in those of wandering gipsies, which would make a man stop to regard her who had eyes appreciative40 of beauty. Her nose was well formed,—a heaven-made nose, and not a lump of flesh stuck on to the middle of her face as women’s noses sometimes are;—but it was somewhat short and broad at the nostrils41, a nose that could imply much anger, and perhaps tenderness also. Her face below her nose was very short. Her mouth was large, but laden with expression. Her lips were full and her teeth perfect as pearls. Her chin was short and perhaps now verging42 to that size which we call a double chin, and marked by as broad a dimple as ever Venus made with her finger on the face of a woman.
She had ever been strong and active, and years in that retreat had told upon her not at all. She would still walk to Liscannor, and thence round, when the tide was low, beneath the cliffs, and up by a path which the boys had made from the foot through the rocks to the summit, though the distance was over ten miles, and the ascent43 was very steep. She would remain for hours on the rocks, looking down upon the sea, when the weather was almost at its roughest. When the winds were still, and the sun was setting across the ocean, and the tame waves were only just audible as they rippled44 on the stones below, she would sit there with her child, holding the girl’s hand or just touching45 her arm, and would be content so to stay almost without a word; but when the winds blew, and the heavy spray came up in blinding volumes, and the white-headed sea-monsters were roaring in their fury against the rocks, she would be there alone with her hat in her hand, and her hair drenched47. She would watch the gulls48 wheeling and floating beneath her, and would listen to their screams and try to read their voices. She would envy the birds as they seemed to be worked into madness by the winds which still were not strong enough to drive them from their purposes. To linger there among the rocks seemed to be the only delight left to her in life,—except that intense delight which a mother has in loving her child. She herself read but little, and never put a hand upon the piano. But she had a faculty49 of sitting and thinking, of brooding over her own past years and dreaming of her daughter’s future life, which never deserted her. With her the days were doubtless very sad, but it cannot truly be said that they were dull or tedious.
And there was a sparkle of humour about her too, which would sometimes shine the brightest when there was no one by her to appreciate it. Her daughter would smile at her mother’s sallies,—but she did so simply in kindness. Kate did not share her mother’s sense of humour,—did not share it as yet. With the young the love of fun is gratified generally by grotesque50 movement. It is not till years are running on that the grotesqueness51 of words and ideas is appreciated. But Mrs. O’Hara would expend52 her art on the household drudge53, or on old Barney Corcoran who came with the turf,—though by neither of them was she very clearly understood. Now and again she would have a war of words with the priest, and that, I think, she liked. She was intensely combative, if ground for a combat arose; and would fight on any subject with any human being—except her daughter. And yet with the priest she never quarrelled; and though she was rarely beaten in her contests with him, she submitted to him in much. In matters touching her religion she submitted to him altogether.
Kate O’Hara was in face very like her mother;—strangely like, for in much she was very different. But she had her mother’s eyes,—though hers were much softer in their lustre54, as became her youth,—and she had her mother’s nose, but without that look of scorn which would come upon her mother’s face when the nostrils were inflated55. And in that peculiar shortness of the lower face she was the very echo of her mother. But the mouth was smaller, the lips less full, and the dimple less exaggerated. It was a fairer face to look upon,—fairer, perhaps, than her mother’s had ever been; but it was less expressive56, and in it there was infinitely57 less capability58 for anger, and perhaps less capability for the agonising extremes of tenderness. But Kate was taller than her mother, and seemed by her mother’s side to be slender. Nevertheless she was strong and healthy; and though she did not willingly join in those longer walks, or expose herself to the weather as did her mother, there was nothing feeble about her, nor was she averse59 to action. Life at Ardkill Cottage was dull, and therefore she also was dull. Had she been surrounded by friends, such as she had known in her halcyon60 school days at Paris, she would have been the gayest of the gay.
Her hair was dark as her mother’s,—even darker. Seen by the side of Miss O’Hara’s, the mother’s hair was certainly not black, but one could hardly think that hair could be blacker than the daughter’s. But hers fell in curling clusters round her neck,—such clusters as now one never sees. She would shake them in sport, and the room would seem to be full of her locks. But she used to say herself to her mother that there was already to be found a grey hair among them now and again, and she would at times shew one, declaring that she would be an old woman before her mother was middle-aged61.
Her life at Ardkill Cottage was certainly very dull. Memory did but little for her, and she hardly knew how to hope. She would read, till she had nearly learned all their books by heart, and would play such tunes62 as she knew by the hour together, till the poor instrument, subject to the sea air and away from any tuner’s skill, was discordant63 with its limp strings64. But still, with all this, her mind would become vacant and weary. “Mother,” she would say, “is it always to be like this?”
“Not always, Kate,” the mother once answered.
“And when will it be changed?”
“In a few days,—in a few hours, Kate.”
“What do you mean, mother?”
“That eternity65 is coming, with all its glory and happiness. If it were not so, it would, indeed, be very bad.”
It may be doubted whether any human mind has been able to content itself with hopes of eternity, till distress66 in some shape has embittered67 life. The preachers preach very well,—well enough to leave many convictions on the minds of men; but not well enough to leave that conviction. And godly men live well,—but we never see them living as though such were their conviction. And were it so, who would strive and moil in this world? When the heart has been broken, and the spirit ground to the dust by misery68, then,—such is God’s mercy—eternity suffices to make life bearable. When Mrs. O’Hara spoke69 to her daughter of eternity, there was but cold comfort in the word. The girl wanted something here,—pleasures, companions, work, perhaps a lover. This had happened before Lieutenant70 Neville of the 20th Hussars had been seen in those parts.
And the mother herself, in speaking as she had spoken, had, perhaps unintentionally, indulged in a sarcasm71 on life which the daughter certainly had not been intended to understand. “Yes;—it will always be like this for you, for you, unfortunate one that you are. There is no other further look-out in this life. You are one of the wretched to whom the world offers nothing; and therefore,—as, being human, you must hope,—build your hopes on eternity.” Had the words been read clearly, that would have been their true meaning. What could she do for her child? Bread and meat, with a roof over her head, and raiment which sufficed for life such as theirs, she could supply. The life would have been well enough had it been their fate, and within their power, to earn the bread and meat, the shelter and the raiment. But to have it, and without work,—to have that, and nothing more, in absolute idleness, was such misery that there was no resource left but eternity!
And yet the mother when she looked at her daughter almost persuaded herself that it need not be so. The girl was very lovely,—so lovely that, were she but seen, men would quarrel for her as to who should have her in his keeping. Such beauty, such life, such capability for giving and receiving enjoyment72 could not have been intended to wither73 on a lone46 cliff over the Atlantic! There must be fault somewhere. But yet to live had been the first necessity; and life in cities, among the haunts of men, had been impossible with such means as this woman possessed. When she had called her daughter to her, and had sought peace under the roof which her friend the priest had found for her, peace and a roof to shelter her had been the extent of her desires. To be at rest, and independent, with her child within her arms, had been all that the woman asked of the gods. For herself it sufficed. For herself she was able to acknowledge that the rest which she had at least obtained was infinitely preferable to the unrest of her past life. But she soon learned,—as she had not expected to learn before she made the experiment,—that that which was to her peace, was to her daughter life within a tomb. “Mother, is it always to be like this?”
Had her child not carried the weight of good blood, had some small grocer or country farmer been her father, she might have come down to the neighbouring town of Ennistimon, and found a fitting mate there. Would it not have been better so? From that weight of good blood,—or gift, if it please us to call it,—what advantage would ever come to her girl? It can not really be that all those who swarm74 in the world below the bar of gentlehood are less blessed, or intended to be less blessed, than the few who float in the higher air. As to real blessedness, does it not come from fitness to the outer life and a sense of duty that shall produce such fitness? Does any one believe that the Countess has a greater share of happiness than the grocer’s wife, or is less subject to the miseries75 which flesh inherits? But such matters cannot be changed by the will. This woman could not bid her daughter go and meet the butcher’s son on equal terms, or seek her friends among the milliners of the neighbouring town. The burden had been imposed and must be borne, even though it isolated76 them from all the world.
“Mother, is it always to be like this?” Of course the mother knew what was needed. It was needed that the girl should go out into the world and pair, that she should find some shoulder on which she might lean, some arm that would be strong to surround her, the heart of some man and the work of some man to which she might devote herself. The girl, when she asked her question, did not know this,—but the mother knew it. The mother looked at her child and said that of all living creatures her child was surely the loveliest. Was it not fit that she should go forth77 and be loved;—that she should at any rate go forth and take her chance with others? But how should such going forth be managed? And then,—were there not dangers, terrible dangers,—dangers specially78 terrible to one so friendless as her child? Had not she herself been wrecked79 among the rocks, trusting herself to one who had been utterly unworthy,—loving one who had been utterly unlovely? Men so often are as ravenous80 wolves, merciless, rapacious81, without hearts, full of greed, full of lust36, looking on female beauty as prey82, regarding the love of woman and her very life as a toy! Were she higher in the world there might be safety. Were she lower there might be safety. But how could she send her girl forth into the world without sending her certainly among the wolves? And yet that piteous question was always sounding in her ears. “Mother, is it always to be like this?”
Then Lieutenant Neville had appeared upon the scene, dressed in a sailor’s jacket and trowsers, with a sailor’s cap upon his head, with a loose handkerchief round his neck and his hair blowing to the wind. In the eyes of Kate O’Hara he was an Apollo. In the eyes of any girl he must have seemed to be as good-looking a fellow as ever tied a sailor’s knot. He had made acquaintance with Father Marty at Liscannor, and the priest had dined with him at Ennis. There had been a return visit, and the priest, perhaps innocently, had taken him up on the cliffs. There he had met the two ladies, and our hero had been introduced to Kate O’Hara.
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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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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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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degenerated
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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nag
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| v.(对…)不停地唠叨；n.爱唠叨的人 | |
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impoverished
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| adj.穷困的，无力的，用尽了的v.使（某人）贫穷( impoverish的过去式和过去分词 )；使（某物）贫瘠或恶化 | |
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quins
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| n.五胞胎，五件一套 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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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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necessitate
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| v.使成为必要，需要 | |
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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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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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vegetate
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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combative
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| adj.好战的；好斗的 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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appreciative
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| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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verging
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| 接近，逼近（verge的现在分词形式） | |
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ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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rippled
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| 使泛起涟漪（ripple的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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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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gulls
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| n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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grotesqueness
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52
expend
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| vt.花费，消费，消耗 | |
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53
drudge
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| n.劳碌的人；v.做苦工，操劳 | |
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54
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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55
inflated
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| adj.（价格）飞涨的；（通货）膨胀的；言过其实的；充了气的v.使充气（于轮胎、气球等）( inflate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）膨胀；（使）通货膨胀；物价上涨 | |
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expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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capability
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| n.能力；才能；(pl)可发展的能力或特性等 | |
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averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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halcyon
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| n.平静的，愉快的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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62
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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65
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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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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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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73
wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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ravenous
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| adj.极饿的，贪婪的 | |
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rapacious
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| adj.贪婪的，强夺的 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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