《Synge And The Ireland Of His Time》第5章

the　irish　monks；　his　friends　and　entertainers　for　all　his　spanish　bible　scattering；　oh；　ireland；　mother　of　the　bravest　soldiers　and　of　the　most　beautiful　women！
it　was　as　i　believe；　to　seek　that　old　ireland　which　took　its　mould　from　the　duellists　and　scholars　of　the　18th　century　and　from　generations　older　still；　that　synge　returned　again　and　again　to　aran；　to　kerry；　and　to　the　wild　blaskets。
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Synge　And　The　Ireland　Of　His　TimeIX
when　i　got　up　this　morning　he　writes；　after　he　had　been　a　long　time　in　innismaan；　i　found　that　the　people　had　gone　to　mass　and　latched　the　kitchen　door　from　the　outside；　so　that　i　could　not　open　it　to　give　myself　light。
i　sat　for　nearly　an　hour　beside　the　fire　with　a　curious　feeling　that　i　should　be　quite　alone　in　this　little　cottage。　i　am　so　used　to　sitting　here　with　the　people　that　i　have　never　felt　the　room　before　as　a　place　where　any　man　might　live　and　work　by　himself。　after　a　while　as　i　waited；　with　just　light　enough　from　the　chimney　to　let　me　see　the　rafters　and　the　greyness　of　the　walls；　i　became　indescribably　mournful；　for　i　felt　that　this　little　corner on　the　face　of　the　world；　and　the　people　who　live　in　it；　have　a　peace　and　dignity　from　which　we　are　shut　for　ever。　this　life；　which　he　describes　elsewhere　as　the　most　primitive　left　in　europe；　satisfied　some　necessity　of　his　nature。　before　i　met　him　in　paris　he　had　wandered　over　much　of　europe；　listening　to　stories　in　the　black　forest；　making　friends　with　servants　and　with　poor　people；　and　this　from　an　aesthetic　interest；　for　he　had　gathered　no　statistics；　had　no　money　to　give；　and　cared　nothing　for　the　wrongs　of　the　poor；　being　content　to　pay　for　the　pleasure　of　eye　and　ear　with　a　tune　upon　the　fiddle。　he　did　not　love　them　the　better　because　they　were　poor　and　miserable；　and　it　was　only　when　he　found　innismaan　and　the　blaskets；　where　there　is　neither　riches　nor　poverty；　neither　what　he　calls　the　nullity　of　the　rich　nor　the　squalor　of　the　poor　that　his　writing　lost　its　old　morbid　brooding；　that　he　found　his　genius　and　his　peace。　here　were　men　and　women　who　under　the　weight　of　their　necessity　lived；　as　the　artist　lives；　in　the　presence　of　death　and　childhood；　and　the　great　affections　and　the　orgiastic　moment　when　life　outleaps　its　limits；　and　who；　as　it　is　always　with　those　who　have　refused　or　escaped　the　trivial　and　the　temporary；　had　dignity　and　good　manners　where　manners　mattered。　here　above　all　was　silence　from　all　our　great　orator　took　delight　in；　from　formidable　men；　from　moral　indignation；　from　the　sciolist　who　is　never　sad；　from　all　in　modern　life　that　would　destroy　the　arts；　and　here；　to　take　a　thought　from　another　playwright　of　our　school；　he　could　love　time　as　only　women　and　great　artists　do　and　need　never　sell　it。
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Synge　And　The　Ireland　Of　His　TimeX
生小说＿网　
as　i　read　the　aran　islands　right　through　for　the　first　time　since　he　showed　it　me　in　manuscript；　i　e　to　understand　how　much　knowledge　of　the　real　life　of　ireland　went　to　the　creation　of　a　world　which　is　yet　as　fantastic　as　the　spain　of　cervantes。　here　is　the　story　of　the　playboy；　of　the　shadow　of　the　glen；　here　is　the　ghost　on　horseback　and　the　finding　of　the　young　mans　body　of　riders　to　the　sea；　numberless　ways　of　speech　and　vehement　pictures　that　had　seemed　to　owe　nothing　to　observation；　and　all　to　some　overflowing　of　himself；　or　to　some　mere　necessity　of　dramatic　construction。　i　had　thought　the　violent　quarrels　of　the　well　of　the　saints　came　from　his　love　of　bitter　condiments；　but　here　is　a　couple　that　quarrel　all　day　long　amid　neighbours　who　gather　as　for　a　play。　i　had　defended　the　burning　of　christy　mahons　leg　on　the　ground　that　an　artist　need　but　make　his　characters　self？consistent；　and　yet；　that　too　was　observation；　for　although　these　people　are　kindly　towards　each　other　and　their　children；　they　have　no　sympathy　for　the　suffering　of　animals；　and　little　sympathy　for　pain　when　the　person　who　feels　it　is　not　in　danger。　i　had　thought　it　was　in　the　wantonness　of　fancy　martin　dhoul　accused　the　smith　of　plucking　his　living　ducks；　but　a　few　lines　further　on；　in　this　book　where　moral　indignation　is　unknown；　i　read；　sometimes　when　i　go　into　a　cottage；　i　find　all　the　women　of　the　place　down　on　their　knees　plucking　the　feathers　from　live　ducks　and　geese。
he　loves　all　that　has　edge；　all　that　is　salt　in　the　mouth；　all　that　is　rough　to　the　hand；　all　that　heightens　the　emotions　by　contest；　all　that　stings　into　life　the　sense　of　tragedy；　and　in　this　book；　unlike　the　plays　where　nearness　to　his　audience　moves　him　to　mischief；　he　shows　it　without　thought　of　other　taste　than　his。　it　is　so　constant；　it　is　all　set　out　so　simply；　so　naturally；　that　it　suggests　a　correspondence　between　a　lasting　mood　of　the　soul　and　this　life　that　shares　the　harshness　of　rocks　and　wind。　the　food　of　the　spiritual？minded　is　sweet；　an　indian　scripture　says；　but　passionate　minds　love　bitter　food。　yet　he　is　no　indifferent　observer；　but　is　certainly　kind　and　sympathetic　to　all　about　him。　when　an　old　and　ailing　man；　dreading　the　ing　winter；　cries　at　his　leaving；　not　thinking　to　see　him　again；　and　he　notices　that　the　old　mans　mitten　has　a　hole　in　it　where　the　palm　is　accustomed　to　the　stick；　one　knows　that　it　is　with　eyes　full　of　interested　affection　as　befits　a　simple　man　and　not　in　the　curiosity　of　study。　when　he　had　left　the　blaskets　for　the　last　time；　he　travelled　with　a　lame　pensioner　who　had　drifted　there；　why　heaven　knows；　and　one　morning　having　missed　him　from　the　inn　where　they　were　staying；　he　believed　he　had　gone　back　to　the　island　and　searched　everywhere　and　questioned　everybody；　till　he　understood　of　a　sudden　that　he　was　jealous　as　though　the　island　were　a　woman。
the　book　seems　dull　if　you　read　much　at　a　time；　as　the　later　kerry　essays　do　not；　but　nothing　that　he　has　written　recalls　so　pletely　to　my　senses　the　man　as　he　was　in　daily　life；　and　as　i　read；　there　are　moments　when　every　line　of　his　face；　every　inflection　of　his　voice；　grows　so　clear　in　memory　that　i　cannot　realize　that　he　is　dead。　he　was　no　nearer　when　we　walked　and　talked　than　now　while　i　read　these　unarranged； unspeculating　pages；　wherein　the　only　life　he　loved　with　his　whole　heart　reflec