Synge And The Ireland Of His Time-第4章

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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　reflects　itself　as　in　the　still　water　of　a　pool。　thought　es　to　him　slowly；　and　only　after　long　seemingly　unmeditative　watching；　and　when　it　es；　（and　he　had　the　same　character　in　matters　of　business）　it　is　spoken　without　hesitation　and　never　changed。　his　conversation　was　not　an　experimental　thing；　an　instrument　of　research；　and　this　made　him　silent；　while　his　essays　recall　events；　on　which　one　feels　that　he　pronounces　no　judgment　even　in　the　depth　of　his　own　mind；　because　the　labour　of　life　itself　had　not　yet　brought　the　philosophic　generalization；　which　was　almost　as　much　his　object　as　the　emotional　generalization　of　beauty。　a　mind　that　generalizes　rapidly；　continually　prevents　the　experience　that　would　have　made　it　feel　and　see　deeply；　just　as　a　man　whose　character　is　too　plete　in　youth　seldom　grows　into　any　energy　of　moral　beauty。　synge　had　indeed　no　obvious　ideals；　as　these　are　understood　by　young　men；　and　even　as　i　think　disliked　them；　for　he　once　plained　to　me　that　our　modern　poetry　was　but　the　poetry　of　the　lyrical　boy；　and　this　lack　makes　his　art　have　a　strange　wildness　and　coldness；　as　of　a　man　born　in　some　far？off　spacious　land　and　time。

．．



Synge　And　The　Ireland　Of　His　TimeXI

；
there　are　artists　like　byron；　like　goethe；　like　shelley；　who　have　impressive　personalities；　active　wills　and　all　their　faculties　at　the　service　of　the　will；　but　he　belonged　to　those　who　like　wordsworth；　like　coleridge；　like　goldsmith；　like　keats；　have　little　personality；　so　far　as　the　casual　eye　can　see；　little　personal　will；　but　fiery　and　brooding　imagination。　i　cannot　imagine　him　anxious　to　impress；　or　convince　in　any　pany；　or　saying　more　than　was　sufficient　to　keep　the　talk　circling。　such　men　have　the　advantage　that　all　they　write　is　a　part　of　knowledge；　but　they　are　powerless　before　events　and　have　often　but　one　visible　strength；　the　strength　to　reject　from　life　and　thought　all　that　would　mar　their　work；　or　deafen　them　in　the　doing　of　it；　and　only　this　so　long　as　it　is　a　passive　act。　if　synge　had　married　young　or　taken　some　profession；　i　doubt　if　he　would　have　written　books　or　been　greatly　interested　in　a　movement　like　ours；　but　he　refused　various　opportunities　of　making　money　in　what　must　have　been　an　almost　unconscious　preparation。　he　had　no　life　outside　his　imagination；　little　interest　in　anything　that　was　not　its　chosen　subject。　he　hardly　seemed　aware　of　the　existence　of　other　writers。　i　never　knew　if　he　cared　for　work　of　mine；　and　do　not　remember　that　i　had　from　him　even　a　conventional　pliment；　and　yet　he　had　the　most　perfect　modesty　and　simplicity　in　daily　intercourse；　self？assertion　was　impossible　to　him。　on　the　other　hand；　he　was　useless　amidst　sudden　events。　he　was　much　shaken　by　the　playboy　riot；　on　the　first　night　confused　and　excited；　knowing　not　what　to　do；　and　ill　before　many　days；　but　it　made　no　difference　in　his　work。　he　neither　exaggerated　out　of　defiance　nor　softened　out　of　timidity。　he　wrote　on　as　if　nothing　had　happened；　altering　the　tinkers　wedding　to　a　more　unpopular　form；　but　writing　a　beautiful　serene　deirdre；　with；　for　the　first　time　since　his　riders　to　the　sea；　no　touch　of　sarcasm　or　defiance。　misfortune　shook　his　physical　nature　while　it　left　his　intellect　and　his　moral　nature　untroubled。　the　external　self；　the　mask；　the　persona　was　a　shadow；　character　was　all。

。d　　。



Synge　And　The　Ireland　Of　His　TimeXII


he　was　a　drifting　silent　man　full　of　hidden　passion；　and　loved　wild　islands；　because　there；　set　out　in　the　light　of　day；　he　saw　what　lay　hidden　in　himself。　there　is　passage　after　passage　in　which　he　dwells　upon　some　moment　of　excitement。　he　describes　the　shipping　of　pigs　at　kilronan　on　the　north　island　for　the　english　market：　when　the　steamer　was　getting　near；　the　whole　drove　was　moved　down　upon　the　slip　and　the　curraghs　were　carried　out　close　to　the　sea。　then　each　beast　was　caught　in　its　turn　and　thrown　on　its　side；　while　its　legs　were　hitched　together　in　a　single　knot；　with　a　tag　of　rope　remaining；　by　which　it　could　be　carried。

probably　the　pain　inflicted　was　not　great；　yet　the　animals　shut　their　eyes　and　shrieked　with　almost　human　intonations；　till　the　suggestion　of　the　noise　became　so　intense　that　the　men　and　women　who　were　merely　looking　on　grew　wild　with　excitement；　and　the　pigs　waiting　their　turn　foamed　at　the　mouth　and　tore　each　other　with　their　teeth。

after　a　while　there　was　a　pause。　the　whole　slip　was　covered　with　amass　of　sobbing　animals；　with　here　and　there　a　terrified　woman　crouching　among　the　bodies　and　patting　some　special　favourite；　to　keep　it　quiet　while　　the　curraghs　were　being　launched。　then　the　screaming　began　again　while　the　pigs　were　carried　out　and　laid　in　their　places；　with　a　waistcoat　tied　round　their　feet　to　keep　them　from　damaging　the　canvas。　they　seemed　to　know　where　they　were　going；　and　looked　up　at　me　over　the　gunnel　with　an　ignoble　desperation　that　made　me　shudder　to　think　that　i　had　eaten　this　whimpering　flesh。　when　the　last　curragh　went　out；　i　was　left　on　the　slip　with　a　band　of　women　and　children；　and　one　old　boar　who　sat　looking　out　over　the　sea。

the　women　were　over？excited；　and　when　i　tried　to　talk　to　them　they　crowded　round　me　and　began　jeering　and　shrieking　at　me　because　i　am　not　married。　a　dozen　screamed　at　a　time；　and　so　rapidly　that　i　could　not　understand　all　they　were　saying；　yet　i　was　able　to　make　out　that　they　were　taking　advantage　of　the　absence　of　their　husbands　to　give　me　the　full　volume　of　their　contempt。　some　little　boys　who　were　listening　threw　themselves　down；　writhing　with　laughter　among　the　sea？weed；　and　the　young　girls　grew　red　and　embarrassed　and　stared　down　in　the　surf。　the　book　is　full　of　such　scenes。　now　it　is　a　crowd　going　by　train　to　the　parnell　celebration；　now　it　is　a　woman　cursing　her　son　who　made　himself　a　spy　for　the　police；　now　it　is　an　old　woman　keening　at　a　funeral。　kindred　to　his　delight　in　the　harsh　grey　stones；　in　the　hardship　of　the　life　there；　in　the　wind　and　in　the　mist；　there　is　always　delight　in　every　moment　of　excitement；　whether　it　is　but　the　hysterical　excitement　of　the　women　over　the　pigs；　or　some　primary