by J. M. Synge
It was quite dark on the pier, and a terrible gale was blowing. There was no one in the little office where I expected to find him, so I groped my way further on towards a figure I saw moving with a lantern.
It was the old man, and he remembered me at once when I hailed him and told him who I was. He spent some time arranging one of his lanterns, and then he took me back to his office — a mere shed of planks and corrugated iron, put up for the contractor of some work which is in progress on the pier.
When we reached the light I saw that his head was rolled up in an extraordinary collection of mufflers to keep him from the cold, and that his face was much older than when I saw him before, though still full of intelligence.
He began to tell how he had gone to see a relative of mine in Dublin when he first left the island as a cabin-boy, between forty and fifty years ago.
He told his story with the usual detail: —
We saw a man walking about on the quay in Dublin, and looking at us without saying a word. Then he came down to the yacht. ‘Are you the men from Aran?’ said he.
‘We are,’ said we.
‘You’re to come with me so,’ said he. ‘Why?’ said we.
Then he told us it was Mr. Synge had sent him and we went with him. Mr. Synge brought us into his kitchen and gave the men a glass of whisky all round, and a half-glass to me because I was a boy — though at that time and to this day I can drink as much as two men and not be the worse of it. We were some time in the kitchen, then one of the men said we should be going. I said it would not be right to go without saying a word to Mr. Synge. Then the servant-girl went up and brought him down, and he gave us another glass of whisky, and he gave me a book in Irish because I was going to sea, and I was able to read in the Irish.
I owe it to Mr. Synge and that book that when I came back here, after not hearing a word of Irish for thirty years, I had as good Irish, or maybe better Irish, than any person on the island.
I could see all through his talk that the sense of superiority which his scholarship in this little-known language gave him above the ordinary seaman, had influenced his whole personality and been the central interest of his life.
On one voyage he had a fellow-sailor who often boasted that he had been at school and learned Greek, and this incident took place: —
One night we had a quarrel, and I asked him could he read a Greek book with all his talk of it.
‘I can so,’ said he.
‘We’ll see that,’ said I.
Then I got the Irish book out of my chest, and I gave it into his hand.
‘Read that to me,’ said I, ‘if you know Greek.’
He took it, and he looked at it this way, and that way, and not a bit of him could make it out.
‘Bedad, I’ve forgotten my Greek,’ said he.
‘You’re telling a lie,’ said I. ‘I’m not,’ said he; ‘it’s the divil a bit I can read it.’
Then I took the book back into my hand, and said to him— ‘It’s the sorra a word of Greek you ever knew in your life, for there’s not a word of Greek in that book, and not a bit of you knew.’
He told me another story of the only time he had heard Irish spoken during his voyages: —
One night I was in New York, walking in the streets with some other men, and we came upon two women quarrelling in Irish at the door of a public-house.
‘What’s that jargon?’ said one of the men.
‘It’s no jargon,’ said I.
‘What is it?’ said he.
‘It’s Irish,’ said I.
Then I went up to them, and you know, sir, there is no language like the Irish for soothing and quieting. The moment I spoke to them they stopped scratching and swearing and stood there as quiet as two lambs.
Then they asked me in Irish if I wouldn’t come in and have a drink, and I said I couldn’t leave my mates.
‘Bring them too,’ said they.
Then we all had a drop together.
While we were talking another man had slipped in and sat down in the corner with his pipe, and the rain had become so heavy we could hardly hear our voices over the noise on the iron roof.
The old man went on telling of his experiences at sea and the places he had been to.
‘If I had my life to live over again,’ he said, ‘there’s no other way I’d spend it. I went in and out everywhere and saw everything. I was never afraid to take my glass, though I was never drunk in my life, and I was a great player of cards though I never played for money.’
‘There’s no diversion at all in cards if you don’t play for money’ said the man in the corner.
‘There was no use in my playing for money’ said the old man, ‘for I’d always lose, and what’s the use in playing if you always lose?’
Then our conversation branched off to the Irish language and the books written in it.
He began to criticise Archbishop MacHale’s version of Moore’s Irish Melodies with great severity and acuteness, citing whole poems both in the English and Irish, and then giving versions that he had made himself.
‘A translation is no translation,’ he said, ‘unless it will give you the music of a poem along with the words of it. In my translation you won’t find a foot or a syllable that’s not in the English, yet I’ve put down all his words mean, and nothing but it. Archbishop MacHale’s work is a most miserable production.’
From the verses he cited his judgment seemed perfectly justified, and even if he was wrong, it is interesting to note that this poor sailor and night-watchman was ready to rise up and criticise an eminent dignitary and scholar on rather delicate points of versification and the finer distinctions between old words of Gaelic.
In spite of his singular intelligence and minute observation his reasoning was medieval.
I asked him what he thought about the future of the language on these islands.
‘It can never die out,’ said he, ‘because there’s no family in the place can live without a bit of a field for potatoes, and they have only the Irish words for all that they do in the fields. They sail their new boats — their hookers — in English, but they sail a curagh oftener in Irish, and in the fields they have the Irish alone. It can never die out, and when the people begin to see it fallen very low, it will rise up again like the phoenix from its own ashes.’
‘And the Gaelic League?’ I asked him.
‘The Gaelic League! Didn’t they come down here with their organisers and their secretaries, and their meetings and their speechifyings, and start a branch of it, and teach a power of Irish for five weeks and a half!’ [a]
‘What do we want here with their teaching Irish?’ said the man in the corner; ‘haven’t we Irish enough?’
‘You have not,’ said the old man; ‘there’s not a soul in Aran can count up to nine hundred and ninety-nine without using an English word but myself.’
It was getting late, and the rain had lessened for a moment, so I groped my way back to the inn through the intense darkness of a late autumn night.
[a] This was written, it should be remembered, some years ago.
Part IV
NO TWO JOURNEYS to these islands are alike. This morning I sailed with the steamer a little after five o’clock in a cold night air, with the stars shining on the bay. A number of Claddagh fishermen had been out all night fishing not far from the harbour, and without thinking, or perhaps caring to think, of the steamer, they had put out their nets in the channel where she was to pass. Just before we started the mate sounded the steam whistle repeatedly to give them warning, saying as he did so —
‘If you were out now in the bay, gentlemen, you’d hear some fine prayers being said.’
When we had gone a little way we began to see the light from the turf fires carried by the fishermen flickering on the water, and to hear a faint noise of angry voices. Then the outline of a large fishing-boat came in sight through the darkness, with the forms of three men who stood on the course. The captain feared to turn aside, as there
are sandbanks near the channel, so the engines were stopped and we glided over the nets without doing them harm. As we passed close to the boat the crew could be seen plainly on the deck, one of them holding the bucket of red turf, and their abuse could be distinctly heard. It changed continually, from profuse Gaelic maledictions to the simpler curses they know in English. As they spoke they could be seen writhing and twisting themselves with passion against the light which was beginning to turn on the ripple of the sea. Soon afterwards another set of voices began in front of us, breaking out in strange contrast with the dwindling stars and the silence of the dawn.
Further on we passed many boats that let us go by without a word, as their nets were not in the channel. Then day came on rapidly with cold showers that turned golden in the first rays from the sun, filling the troughs of the sea with curious transparencies and light.
This year I have brought my fiddle with me so that I may have something new to keep up the interest of the people. I have played for them several tunes, but as far as I can judge they do not feel modern music, though they listen eagerly from curiosity. Irish airs like ‘Eileen Aroon’ please them better, but it is only when I play some jig like the ‘Black Rogue’ — which is known on the island — that they seem to respond to the full meaning of the notes. Last night I played for a large crowd, which had come together for another purpose from all parts of the island.
About six o’clock I was going into the schoolmaster’s house, and I heard a fierce wrangle going on between a man and a woman near the cottages to the west, that lie below the road. While I was listening to them several women came down to listen also from behind the wall, and told me that the people who were fighting were near relations who lived side by side and often quarrelled about trifles, though they were as good friends as ever the next day. The voices sounded so enraged that I thought mischief would come of it, but the women laughed at the idea. Then a lull came, and I said that they seemed to have finished at last.
‘Finished!’ said one of the women; ‘sure they haven’t rightly begun. It’s only playing they are yet.’
It was just after sunset and the evening was bitterly cold, so I went into the house and left them.
An hour later the old man came down from my cottage to say that some of the lads and the ‘fear lionta’ (‘the man of the nets’ — a young man from Aranmor who is teaching net-mending to the boys) were up at the house, and had sent him down to tell me they would like to dance, if I would come up and play for them.
I went out at once, and as soon as I came into the air I heard the dispute going on still to the west more violently than ever. The news of it had gone about the island, and little bands of girls and boys were running along the lanes towards the scene of the quarrel as eagerly as if they were going to a racecourse. I stopped for a few minutes at the door of our cottage to listen to the volume of abuse that was rising across the stillness of the island. Then I went into the kitchen and began tuning the fiddle, as the boys were impatient for my music. At first I tried to play standing, but on the upward stroke my bow came in contact with the salt-fish and oil-skins that hung from the rafters, so I settled myself at last on a table in the corner, where I was out of the way, and got one of the people to hold up my music before me, as I had no stand. I played a French melody first, to get myself used to the people and the qualities of the room, which has little resonance between the earth floor and the thatch overhead. Then I struck up the ‘Black Rogue,’ and in a moment a tall man bounded out from his stool under the chimney and began flying round the kitchen with peculiarly sure and graceful bravado.
The lightness of the pampooties seems to make the dancing on this island lighter and swifter than anything I have seen on the mainland, and the simplicity of the men enables them to throw a naive extravagance into their steps that is impossible in places where the people are self-conscious.
The speed, however, was so violent that I had some difficulty in keeping up, as my fingers were not in practice, and I could not take off more than a small part of my attention to watch what was going on. When I finished I heard a commotion at the door, and the whole body of people who had gone down to watch the quarrel filed into the kitchen and arranged themselves around the walls, the women and girls, as is usual, forming themselves in one compact mass crouching on their heels near the door.
I struck up another dance— ‘Paddy get up’ — and the ‘fear lionta’ and the first dancer went through it together, with additional rapidity and grace, as they were excited by the presence of the people who had come in. Then word went round that an old man, known as Little Roger, was outside, and they told me he was once the best dancer on the island.
For a long time he refused to come in, for he said he was too old to dance, but at last he was persuaded, and the people brought him in and gave him a stool opposite me. It was some time longer before he would take his turn, and when he did so, though he was met with great clapping of hands, he only danced for a few moments. He did not know the dances in my book, he said, and did not care to dance to music he was not familiar with. When the people pressed him again he looked across to me.
‘John,’ he said, in shaking English, ‘have you got “Larry Grogan,” for it is an agreeable air?’
I had not, so some of the young men danced again to the ‘Black Rogue,’ and then the party broke up. The altercation was still going on at the cottage below us, and the people were anxious to see what was coming of it.
About ten o’clock a young man came in and told us that the fight was over.
‘They have been at it for four hours,’ he said, ‘and now they’re tired.’
Indeed it is time they were, for you’d rather be listening to a man killing a pig than to the noise they were letting out of them.’
After the dancing and excitement we were too stirred up to be sleepy, so we sat for a long time round the embers of the turf, talking and smoking by the light of the candle.
From ordinary music we came to talk of the music of the fairies, and they told me this story, when I had told them some stories of my own: —
A man who lives in the other end of the village got his gun one day and went out to look for rabbits in a thicket near the small Dun. He saw a rabbit sitting up under a tree, and he lifted his gun to take aim at it, but just as he had it covered he heard a kind of music over his head, and he looked up into the sky. When he looked back for the rabbit, not a bit of it was to be seen.
He went on after that, and he heard the music again.
Then he looked over a wall, and he saw a rabbit sitting up by the wall with a sort of flute in its mouth, and it playing on it with its two fingers!
‘What sort of rabbit was that?’ said the old woman when they had finished. ‘How could that be a right rabbit? I remember old Pat Dirane used to be telling us he was once out on the cliffs, and he saw a big rabbit sitting down in a hole under a flagstone. He called a man who was with him, and they put a hook on the end of a stick and ran it down into the hole. Then a voice called up to them —
‘“Ah, Phaddrick, don’t hurt me with the hook!”
‘Pat was a great rogue,’ said the old man. ‘Maybe you remember the bits of horns he had like handles on the end of his sticks? Well, one day there was a priest over and he said to Pat— “Is it the devil’s horns you have on your sticks, Pat?” “I don’t rightly know” said Pat, “but if it is, it’s the devil’s milk you’ve been drinking, since you’ve been able to drink, and the devil’s flesh you’ve been eating and the devil’s butter you’ve been putting on your bread, for I’ve seen the like of them horns on every old cow through the country.”’
The weather has been rough, but early this afternoon the sea was calm enough for a hooker to come in with turf from Connemara, though while she was at the pier the roll was so great that the men had to keep a watch on the waves and loosen the cable whenever a large one was coming in, so that she might ease up with the water.
There were only two men on board, and w
hen she was empty they had some trouble in dragging in the cables, hoisting the sails, and getting out of the harbour before they could be blown on the rocks.
A heavy shower came on soon afterwards, and I lay down under a stack of turf with some people who were standing about, to wait for another hooker that was coming in with horses. They began talking and laughing about the dispute last night and the noise made at it.
‘The worst fights do be made here over nothing,’ said an old man next me. ‘Did Mourteen or any of them on the big island ever tell you of the fight they had there threescore years ago when they were killing each other with knives out on the strand?’
‘They never told me,’ I said.
‘Well,’ said he, ‘they were going down to cut weed, and a man was sharpening his knife on a stone before he went. A young boy came into the kitchen, and he said to the man— “What are you sharpening that knife for?”’
‘“To kill your father with,” said the man, and they the best of friends all the time. The young boy went back to his house and told his father there was a man sharpening a knife to kill him.
‘“Bedad,” said the father, “if he has a knife I’ll have one, too.”
‘He sharpened his knife after that, and they went down to the strand. Then the two men began making fun about their knives, and from that they began raising their voices, and it wasn’t long before there were ten men fighting with their knives, and they never stopped till there were five of them dead.
‘They buried them the day after, and when they were coming home, what did they see but the boy who began the work playing about with the son of the other man, and their two fathers down in their graves.’
