Taken together in this fashion, the three isles, with the two sounds which divide them,{45} and an outlying fringe of jagged, vicious-looking rocks and skerries, make up a total length of some fifteen miles, containing, roughly speaking, about eleven thousand acres. Acres! As one writes down the word, it seems to rise up, mock, gibe5, laugh at, and confound one, from its wild inappropriateness, at least to all the ideas we commonly associate with it. For, be it known to you, oh prosperous reader—dweller, doubtless, in a sleek6 land, a land of earth and water, possibly even of trees—that these islands, like their opposite neighbour, the Burren of Clare, are rock, not partially7, but absolutely. Over the entire surface, save the sands upon the shore and the detritus8 that accumulates in the crannies, there is no earth whatsoever9, save what has been artificially created, and even this is for the most part but a few inches deep. The consequence is, that a droughty season is the{46} worst of all seasons for the Aranite. Drench10 him with rain from early March to late November, he is satisfied, and asks no more. Give him what to most people would seem the most moderate possible allowance of sun and dry weather, and ruin begins to stare him in the face! The earth, so laboriously11 collected, begins to crack; his wells—there are practically no streams—run dry; his beasts perish before his eyes; his potatoes lie out bare and half baked upon the stones; his oats—these are not cut, but plucked bodily by hand out of the sands—wither to the ground; he has no stock, nothing to send to the mainland in return for those necessaries which he gets from there, nothing to pay his rent with; worse than all, he has actually to fetch the water he requires to drink in casks and barrels from the opposite shore!
A cheerful picture, you say! Difficult perhaps to realise, still more difficult, when{47} realised, to contemplate12 placidly13. Who so realising it can resist the wish to become, for a moment even, that dream of philanthropists—a benevolent14 despot, and, swooping15 suddenly upon the islands, carry off their whole population—priests, people, and all—and set them down in a new place, somewhere where Nature would make some little response, however slight, to so much toil16, care, love, so fruitlessly and for so many centuries lavished17 upon her here?
‘But would they thank you?’ you, as an experienced philanthropist, perhaps, ask me. I reply that, it is, to say the least, extremely doubtful. Certainly you might carefully sift18 the wide world, search it diligently19 with a candle from pole to pole, without hitting upon another equally undesirable20, equally profitless place of residence. Climate, soil, aspect, everything is against it. Ingenuity{48} might seek and seek vainly to find a quality for which it could be upheld. And yet, so strangely are we made, that a dozen years hence, if you examined one of the inhabitants of your ideal arcadia, you would probably find that all his, or her, dreams of the future, all his, or her, visions of the past, still clung, limpet-fashion, to these naked rocks, these melancholy21 dots of land set in the midst of an inhospitable sea, which Nature does not seem to have constructed with an eye to the convenience of so much as a goat!
The four occupants of our hooker naturally troubled their heads with no such problems. To them their islands—especially this one they were approaching, Inishmaan—were to all practical purposes the world. Even for Con4 O’Malley, whom business carried pretty often to the mainland, the latter was, save on the merest fringe, to all{49} intents and purposes an unknown country. The world, as it existed beyond that grey wash of sea, was a name to him, and nothing more. Ireland—sometimes regarded by superior persons as the very Ultima Thule of civilisation—hung before his eyes as a region of dangerous novelties, dazzling, almost wicked in its sophistication, and he had never set foot on a railroad in his life.
Inishmaan has no regular harbour, consequently it was necessary to get the curragh out again so as to set little Grania ashore23. The child had been hoping the whole way back that Murdough Blake, too, would have come ashore with her, but he remained sitting, with the same expression of sulky dignity, upon the deck of the hooker, and it was the hated Shan Daly who rowed her to the land; which done, with a quick, furtive24 glance towards a particular spot a little to westward, he turned and rowed as{50} quickly as he could back to the larger vessel25 again.
While the boat was still on its way, before it had actually touched shore, a woman who had been waiting for it on the edge might have been seen to move hastily along the rocks, so as to be ready to meet them upon their arrival. This woman wore the usual red Galway flannel26 petticoat, with a loose white or yellowish flannel jacket above, known as a ‘baudeen,’ and worn by both sexes on the islands, a handkerchief neatly27 crossed at her neck, with blue knitted stockings and pampooties upon her feet. At first sight it would have been difficult to guess her age. Her hair, better brushed than usual, was of a deep, unglossy black, and her skin clear and unwrinkled; yet there was nothing about her which seemed to speak of youth. It was a plain face and a sickly one, with little or nothing of that play of expression which{51} redeems28 many an otherwise homely29 Irish face, yet, if you had taken the trouble to examine it, you would have been struck, I think, with something peculiar30 about it, something that would have arrested your attention. Elements not often seen in combination seemed to find a meeting-place there. A look of peculiar contentedness31, an indescribable placidity32 and repose33, had stamped those homely features as with a benediction34. The mild brown eyes, lifting themselves blinkingly to the sunlight, had something about them, chastened, reposeful35, serene36, an expression hardly seen beyond the shelter of the convent; yet, at the same time, there was something in the manner in which the woman ran down to the shore to meet the child, and, lifting her carefully over the edge of the boat, set her on her feet upon the rocks, a manner full of a sort of tender assiduity, a clinging, caressing37, adoring tenderness, not often, hardly ever{52} indeed, to be found apart from the pains and the joys of a mother.
This was Honor O’Malley, little Grania’s half-sister, the only surviving daughter of Con O’Malley’s first marriage. She had been little more than a half-grown girl when her mother died, but for several years had kept house for her father. Then had come the short-lived episode of his second marriage and his wife’s death, since which time Honor’s one aim in life, her whole joy, her pride, her torment38, her absorbing passion, had been her little sister.
The child had been an endless trouble to her. Honor herself was a saint—a tender, self-doubting, otherwise all-believing soul. The small sister was a born rebel. No priest lived on Inishmaan, or, indeed, lives there still, so that this visible sign of authority was wanting. Even had there been one, it is doubtful whether his mere22 presence would have had{53} the desired effect, though Honor always devoutly39 believed that it would. The child had grown up as the young seamew grows. The air, the rocks, the restless, fretting40 sea; a few keen loves, a few still keener and more vehement41 hates; the immemorial criss-cross of wishes, hindrances42, circumstances—these and such as these had made her education, so far as she had had any. As for poor Honor’s part in it! Well, the child was really fond of her, really loved her, and that must suffice. There are mothers who have to put up with less.
Taking her by the hand the elder sister now attempted to lead her from the shore. It was a slow process! At every rock she came to little Grania stopped dead short, turning her head mutinously43 back to watch the hooker, as, with its brown patched sails set almost to the cracking point, it rounded the first green-speckled spit of land, on its way to Aranmore.{54} Whenever she did so, Honor waited patiently beside her until her curiosity was satisfied and she was ready to proceed on her way. Then they went on again.
There were rocks enough to arrest even a more determined44 laggard45. The first barnacle-coated set crossed, they got upon a paler-coloured set, out of reach of the tide, which were tumbled one against another like half-destroyed dolmens or menhirs. These stretched in all directions far as the eye could reach. The whole shore of this side of the island was one continuous litter of them. Three agents—the sea, the weathering of the air, the slow, filtering, sapping action of rain—had produced the oddest effect of sculpturing upon their surface. From end to end—back, sides, every atom of them—they were honey-combed with holes varying from those into which the two clenched46 fists might be thrust to those which would with difficulty have{55} accommodated a single finger. These holes were of all depths too. Some of them mere dimples, some piercing down to the heart of the blocks, five, six, seven feet in depth, and as smooth as the torrent-worn troughs upon a glacier47.
Ten minutes were spent in clearing this circumvallation; then the sisters got upon a waste of sand sprinkled with sickly bent48, through which thin patches of white flowering campion asserted themselves. Here, invisible until you all but brushed against its walls, rose a small chapel49, roofless, windowless, its door displaced, its gable ends awry—melancholy to look at, yet not without a certain air of invitation even in its desolation. Sand had everywhere invaded it, half hiding the walls, completely covering the entrance, and forming a huge drift where once the altar had risen. Looking at it, fancy, even in calm weather, seemed in{56}voluntarily to conjure50 up the sweep of the frightened yellow atoms under the flail51 of the wind; the hurry-scurry of distracted particles; the tearing away of the frail52 covering of bent; the wild rush of the sand through the entrance; and, finally, its settling down to rest in this long-set-aside haven53 of the unprotected.
West of the chapel, and a little to the left of the ruined entrance, stood a cross, though one which a casual glance would hardly have recognised as such, for there were no cross arms—apparently54 never had been any—and the figure upon the upright post was so worn by weather, so utterly55 extinguished, rubbed, and lichen-crusted by the centuries, as hardly to have a trace of humanity left. Honor never passed the place without stopping to say a prayer here. For her it had a special sanctity, this poor, shapeless, armless cross, though she would{57} probably have been unable to explain why. Now, as usual, she stopped, almost mechanically, and, first crossing herself devoutly, bent her head down to kiss a small boss or ridge56, which apparently once represented the feet, and then turned to make her sister do the same.
This time Grania would willingly have gone on, but Honor was less compliant57 than before, and she gently bent the child’s reluctant head, coaxing58 her, till her lips at last touched the right place. Grania did not exactly resist, but her eyes wandered away again in the direction of the hooker, now fast disappearing round the corner. Why had Murdough Blake gone to Aranmore, instead of coming back with her? she thought, with a sense of intense grievance59. The disappointment rankled60, and the salt, gritty touch and taste of the boss of limestone61 against her small red lips could not,{58} and did not, alter the matter an atom, one way or other.
Leaving the chapel they next began to climb the slope, first crossing a sort of moraine of loose stones which lay at its foot. Like all the Aran isles, Inishmaan is divided into a succession of rocky steps or platforms, the lowest to eastward62, the highest to westward, platforms which are in their turn divided and subdivided63 by innumerable joints65 and fissures66. This, by the way, is a fact to be remembered, as, without it, you might easily wander for days and days over the islands without really getting to know or understand their topography.
A curious symmetry marked the first of these steps, that up which the sisters were then mounting: you would have been struck in a moment by its resemblance to the backbone67 of some forgotten monster, unknown to geologists68. A python, say, or{59} plesiosaurus of undetermined species, but wholly impressive vastness, stretching itself lazily across about a third of the island, till its last joint64, sinking towards the sea, disappeared from sight in the general mass of loose stones which lay at the bottom of the slope.
It was at the head of this monster that the O’Malleys’ cabin stood, while at the other—the tail-end, so to speak—was hidden away that foul69 and decaying hovel in which the Shan Daly family squatted70, lived, and starved. Though far above the level of the average stamp of Aran architecture, the O’Malleys’ house itself would not, perhaps, have struck a stranger as luxurious71. It was of the usual solid, square-shaped, two-roomed type, set at the mouth of a narrow gorge72 or gully, leading from the second to the third of those steps, steps whose presence, already insisted upon, must always be borne{60} in mind, since they form the main point, the ground lines upon which the whole island is built.
A narrow entrance between two rocks, steep as the sides of a well, led to the door of the cabin, the result being that, whenever the wind was to the west or south-west—the two prevailing73 winds—anyone entering it was caught as by a pair of irresistible74 hands, twirled for a moment hither and thither75, and then thrust violently forward. Impossible to enter quietly. You were shot towards the door, and, if it proved open, shot forward again, as if discharged from some invisible catapult. So well was the state of affairs understood that a sort of hedge or screen, made of heather, and known as a corrag, was kept between the door and fire, so that entering friends might be checked and hindered from falling, as otherwise they assuredly would have fallen, prone76 upon the{61} hearthstone. There were a good many other, and all more or less futile77 contrivances upon that little group of wind-worn, wind-tormented islands against their omnipotent78 master.
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1
geologist
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| n.地质学家 | |
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isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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con
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| n.反对的观点，反对者，反对票，肺病；vt.精读，学习，默记；adv.反对地，从反面；adj.欺诈的 | |
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gibe
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| n.讥笑；嘲弄 | |
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sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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detritus
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| n.碎石 | |
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whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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drench
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| v.使淋透，使湿透 | |
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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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swooping
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的现在分词 ) | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sift
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| v.筛撒，纷落，详察 | |
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diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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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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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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redeems
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| 补偿( redeem的第三人称单数 )； 实践； 解救； 使…免受责难 | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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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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contentedness
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placidity
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| n.平静，安静，温和 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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reposeful
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| adj.平稳的，沉着的 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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hindrances
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| 阻碍者( hindrance的名词复数 )； 障碍物； 受到妨碍的状态 | |
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mutinously
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| adv.反抗地，叛变地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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laggard
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| n.落后者；adj.缓慢的，落后的 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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glacier
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| n.冰川，冰河 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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51
flail
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| v.用连枷打；击打；n.连枷（脱粒用的工具） | |
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52
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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53
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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54
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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56
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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compliant
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| adj.服从的，顺从的 | |
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coaxing
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| v.哄，用好话劝说( coax的现在分词 )；巧言骗取；哄劝，劝诱；“锻炼”效应 | |
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59
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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rankled
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| v.（使）痛苦不已，（使）怨恨不已( rankle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
limestone
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| n.石灰石 | |
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eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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subdivided
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| 再分，细分( subdivide的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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66
fissures
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| n.狭长裂缝或裂隙( fissure的名词复数 )；裂伤；分歧；分裂v.裂开( fissure的第三人称单数 ) | |
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backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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geologists
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| 地质学家，地质学者( geologist的名词复数 ) | |
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69
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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70
squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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75
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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76
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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77
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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78
omnipotent
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| adj.全能的，万能的 | |
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