Читать книгу Travels in Wicklow, West Kerry and Connemara - John Millington Synge - Страница 7

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Here and there in County Wicklow there are a number of little known places – places with curiously melodious names, such as Aughavanna, Glenmalure, Annamoe or Lough Nahanagan – where the people have retained a peculiar simplicity and speak a language in some ways more Elizabethan than the English of Connaught, where Irish was used till a much later date. In these glens many women still wear old-fashioned bonnets, with a frill round the face, and the old men, when they are going to the fair, or to Mass, are often seen in curiously-cut frock-coats, tall hats and breeches buckled at the knee. When they meet a wanderer on foot, these old people are glad to stop and talk to him for hours, telling him stories of the Rebellion, or of the fallen angels that ride across the hills, or alluding to the three shadowy countries that are never forgotten in Wicklow – America (their El Dorado), the Union and the Madhouse.

‘I had a power of children,’ an old man, who was born in Glenmalure, said to me once. ‘I had a power of children, and they all went to California, with what I could give them, and bought a bit of a field. Then, when they put in the plough, it stuck fast on them. They looked in beneath it, and there was fine gold stretched within the earth. They’re rich now and their daughters are riding on fine horses with new saddles on them, and elegant bits in their mouths, yet not a ha’p’orth did they ever send me, and may the devil ride with them to hell!’

Not long afterwards I met an old man wandering about a hillside, where there was a fine view of Lough Dan, in extraordinary excitement and good spirits.

‘I landed in Liverpool two days ago,’ he said, when I had wished him the time of day, ‘then I came to the city of Dublin this morning, and took the train to Bray, where you have the blue salt water on your left, and the beautiful valleys, with trees in them, on your right. From that I drove to this place on a jaunting-car to see some brothers and cousins I have living below. They’re poor people, Mister, honey, with bits of cabins, and mud floors under them, but they’re as happy as if they were in heaven, and what more would a man want than that? In America and Australia, and on the Atlantic Ocean, you have all sorts, good people and bad people, and murderers and thieves, and pick-pockets; but in this place there isn’t a being isn’t as good and decent as yourself or me.’

I saw he was one of the old people one sometimes meets with who emigrated when the people were simpler than they are at present, and who often come back, after a lifetime in the States, as Irish as any old man who has never been twenty miles from the town of Wicklow. I asked him about his life abroad, when we had talked a little longer.

‘I’ve been through perils enough to slay nations,’ he said, ‘and the people here think I should be rotten with gold, but they’re better off the way they are. For five years I was a ship’s smith, and never saw dry land, and I in all the danger and peril of the Atlantic Ocean. Then I was a veterinary surgeon, curing side-slip, splay-foot, spavin, splints, glanders and the various ailments of the horse and ass. The lads in this place think you’ve nothing to do but to go across the sea and fill a bag with gold; but I tell you it is hard work, and in those countries the workhouses is full, and the prisons is full, and the crazyhouses is full, the same as in the city of Dublin. Over beyond you have fine dwellings, and you have only to put out your hand from the window among roses and vines, and the red wine grape; but there is all sorts in it, and the people is better in this country, among the trees and valleys, and they resting on their floors of mud.’

In Wicklow, as in the rest of Ireland, the union, though it is a home of refuge for the tramps and tinkers, is looked on with supreme horror by the peasants. The madhouse, which they know better, is less dreaded.

One night I had to go down late in the evening from a mountain village to the town of Wicklow, and come back again into the hills. As soon as I came near Rathnew I passed many bands of girls and men making rather ruffianly flirtation on the pathway, and women who surged up to stare at me, as I passed in the middle of the road. The thick line of trees that are near Rathnew makes the way intensely dark, even on clear nights, and when one is riding quickly, the contrast, when one reaches the lights of Wicklow, is singularly abrupt. The town itself after nightfall is gloomy and squalid. Half-drunken men and women stand about, wrangling and disputing in the dull light from the windows, which is only strong enough to show the wretchedness of the figures which pass continually across them. I did my business quickly and turned back to the hills, passing for the first few miles the same noisy groups and couples on the roadway. After a while I stopped at a lonely public house to get a drink and rest for a moment before I came to the hills. Six or seven men were talking drearily at one end of the room, and a woman I knew, who had been marketing in Wicklow, was resting nearer the door. When I had been given a glass of beer, I sat down on a barrel near her, and we began to talk.

‘Ah, your honour,’ she said, ‘I hear you’re going off in a short time to Dublin, or to France, and maybe we won’t be in the place at all when you come back. There’s no fences to the bit of farm I have, the way I’m destroyed running. The calves do be straying, and the geese do be straying, and the hens do be straying, and I’m destroyed running after them. We’ve no man in the place since himself died in the winter, and he ailing these five years, and there’s no one to give us a hand drawing the hay or cutting the bit of oats we have above on the hill. My brother Michael has come back to his own place after being seven years in the Richmond Asylum; but what can you ask of him, and he with a long family of his own? And, indeed, it’s a wonder he ever came back when it was a fine time he had in the asylum.’

She saw my movement of surprise, and went on:

‘There was a son of my own, as fine a lad as you’d see in the county – though I’m his mother that says it, and you’d never think it to look at me. Well, he was a keeper in a kind of private asylum, I think they call it, and when Michael was taken bad, he went to see him, and didn’t he know the keepers that were in charge of him, and they promised to take the best of care of him, and, indeed, he was always a quiet man that would give no trouble. After the first three years he was free in the place, and he walking about like a gentleman, doing any light work he’d find agreeable. Then my son went to see him a second time, and “You’ll never see Michael again,” says he when he came back, “for he’s too well off where he is.” And, indeed, it was well for him, but now he’s come home.’ Then she got up to carry out some groceries she was buying to the ass-cart that was waiting outside.

‘It’s real sorry I do be when I see you going off,’ she said, as she was turning away. ‘I don’t often speak to you, but it’s company to see you passing up and down over the hill, and now may the Almighty God bless and preserve you, and see you safe home.’

A little later I was walking up the long hill which leads to the high ground from Laragh to Sugar Loaf. The solitude was intense. Towards the top of the hill I passed through a narrow gap with high rocks on one side of it and fir trees above them, and a handful of jagged sky filled with extraordinarily brilliant stars. In a few moments I passed out on the brow of the hill that runs behind the Devil’s Glen, and smelt the fragrance of the bogs. I mounted again. There was not light enough to show the mountains round me, and the earth seemed to have dwindled away into a mere platform where an astrologer might watch. Among these emotions of the night one cannot wonder that the madhouse is so often named in Wicklow.

Many of the old people of the country, however, when they have no definite sorrow, are not mournful, and are full of curious whims and observations. One old woman who lived near Glen Macanass told me that she had seen her sons had no hope of making a livelihood in the place where they were born, so, in addition to their schooling, she engaged a master to come over the bogs every evening and teach them sums and spelling. One evening she came in behind them, when they were at work and stopped to listen.

‘And what do you think my son was after doing?’ she said. ‘He’d made a sum of how many times a wheel on a cart would turn round between the bridge below and the Post Office in Dublin. Would you believe that? I went out without saying a word, and I got the old stocking, where I keep a bit of money, and I made out what I owed the master. Then I went in again, and “Master,” says I, “Mick’s learning enough for the likes of him. You can go now and safe home to you.” And, God bless you, Avourneen, Mick got a fine job after on the railroad.’

Another day, when she was trying to flatter me, she said, ‘Ah, God bless you, Avourneen, you’ve no pride. Didn’t I hear you yesterday, and you talking to my pig below in the field as if it was your brother? And a nice clean pig it is, too, the crathur.’ A year or two afterwards I met this old woman again. Her husband had died a few months before of the ‘Influence’, and she was in pitiable distress, weeping and wailing while she talked to me. ‘The poor old man is after dying on me,’ she said, ‘and he was great company. There’s only one son left me now, and we do be killed working. Ah, Avourneen, the poor do have great stratagems to keep in their little cabins at all. And did you ever see the like of the place we live in? Isn’t it the poorest, lonesomest, wildest, dreariest bit of a hill a person ever passed a life on?’ When she stopped a moment, with the tears streaming on her face, I told a little about the poverty I had seen in Paris.

‘God Almighty forgive me, Avourneen,’ she went on, when I had finished, ‘we don’t know anything about it. We have our bit of turf, and our bit of sticks, and our bit to eat, and we have our health. Glory be to His Holy Name, not a one of the childer was ever a day ill, except one boy was hurted off a cart, and he never overed it. It’s small right we have to complain at all.’

She died the following winter, and her son went to New York.

The old people who have direct tradition of the Rebellion, and a real interest in it, are growing less numerous daily, but one still meets with them here and there in the more remote districts.

One evening, at the beginning of harvest, as I was walking into a straggling village, far away in the mountains, in the southern half of the county, I overtook an old man walking in the same direction with an empty gallon can. I joined him; and when he had talked for a moment, he turned round and looked at me curiously.

‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ he said, ‘I think you aren’t Irish.’ I told him he was mistaken.

‘Well,’ he went on, ‘you don’t speak the same as we do; so I was thinking maybe you were from another country.’

‘I came back from France,’ I said, ‘two months ago, and maybe there’s a trace of the language still upon my tongue.’ He stopped and beamed with satisfaction.

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘see that now. I knew there was something about you. I do be talking to all who do pass through this glen, telling them stories of the Rebellion, and the old histories of Ireland, and there’s few can puzzle me, though I’m only a poor ignorant man.’ He told me some of his adventures, and then he stopped again.

‘Look at me now,’ he said, ‘and tell me what age you think I’d be.’

‘You might be seventy,’ I said.

‘Ah,’ he said, with a piteous whine in his voice, ‘you wouldn’t take me to be as old as that? No man ever thought me that age to this day.’

‘Maybe you aren’t far over sixty,’ I said, fearing I had blundered, ‘maybe you’re sixty-four.’ He beamed once more with delight, and hurried along the road.

‘Go on, now,’ he said, ‘I’m eighty-two years, three months and five days. Would you believe that? I was baptised on the fourth of June, eighty-two years ago, and it’s the truth I’m telling you.’

‘Well, it’s a great wonder,’ I said, ‘to think you’re that age, when you’re as strong as I am to this day.’

‘I am not strong at all,’ he went on, more despondingly, ‘not strong the way I was. If I had two glasses of whisky I’d dance a hornpipe would dazzle your eyes; but the way I am at this minute you could knock me down with a rush. I have a noise in my head, so that you wouldn’t hear the river at the side of it, and I can’t sleep at nights. It’s that weakens me. I do be lying in the darkness thinking of all that has happened in three-score years to the families of Wicklow – what this son did, and what that son did, and of all that went across the sea, and wishing black hell would seize them that never wrote three words to say were they alive or in good health. That’s the profession I have now – to be thinking of all the people, and of the times that’s gone. And, begging your pardon, might I ask your name?’ I told him.

‘There are two branches of the Synges in the County Wicklow,’ he said, and then he went on to tell me fragments of folklore connected with my forefathers. How a lady used to ride through Roundwood ‘on a curious beast’ to visit an uncle of hers in Roundwood Park, and how she married one of the Synges and got her weight in gold – eight stone of gold – as her dowry: stories that referred to events which took place more than a hundred years ago.

When he had finished I told him how much I wondered at his knowledge of the country.

‘There’s not a family I don’t know,’ he said, ‘from Baltinglass to the sea, and what they’ve done, and who they’ve married. You don’t know me yet, but if you were a while in this place talking to myself, it’s more pleasure and gratitude you’d have from my company than you’d have maybe from many a gentleman you’d meet riding or driving a car.’

By this time we had reached a wayside public house, where he was evidently going with his can, so, as I did not wish to part with him so soon, I asked him to come in and take something with me. When we went into the little bar-room, which was beautifully clean, I asked him what he would have. He turned to the publican:

‘Have you any good whisky at the present time?’ he said.

‘Not now; nor at any time,’ said the publican, ‘we only keep bad; but isn’t it all the same for the likes of you that wouldn’t know the difference?’

After prolonged barging he got a glass of whisky, took off his hat before he tasted it, to say a prayer for my future, and then sat down with it on a bench in the corner.

I was served in turn, and we began to talk about horses and racing, as there had been races in Arklow a day or two before. I alluded to some races I had seen in France, and immediately the publican’s wife, a young woman who had just come in, spoke of a visit she had made to the Grand Prix a few years before.

‘Then you have been in France?’ I asked her.

’For eleven years,’ she replied.

’Alors vous parlez français, Madame?’

’Mais oui, Monsieur,’ she answered with pure intonation.

We had a little talk in French, and then the old man got his can filled with porter – the evening drink for a party of reapers who were working on the hill – bought a pennyworth of sweets and went back down the road.

‘That’s the greatest old rogue in the village,’ said the publican, as soon as he was out of hearing. ‘He’s always making up to all who pass through the place, and trying what he can get out of them. The other day a party told me to give him a bottle of XXX porter he was after asking for. I just gave him the dregs of an old barrel we had finished, and there he was, sucking in his lips, and saying it was the finest drink ever he tasted, and that it was rising to his head already, though he’d hardly a drop of it swallowed. Faith in the end I had to laugh to hear the talk he was making.’

A little later I wished them good evening and started again on my walk, as I had two mountains to cross.