Then he told me with
careful emphasis how he had wandered when he was a young man, and
lived in a fine college, teaching Irish to the young priests!
They say on the island that he can tell as many lies as four men:
perhaps the stories he has learned have strengthened his
imagination. When I stood up in the doorway to give him God's
blessing, he leaned over on the straw that forms his bed, and shed
tears. Then he turned to me again, lifting up one trembling hand,
with the mitten worn to a hole on the palm, from the rubbing of his
crutch.
'I'll not see you again,' he said, with tears trickling on his face,
'and you're a kindly man. When you come back next year I won't be in
it. I won't live beyond the winter. But listen now to what I'm
telling you; let you put insurance on me in the city of Dublin, and
it's five hundred pounds you'll get on my burial.'
This evening, my last in the island, is also the evening of the
'Pattern' - a festival something like 'Pardons' of Brittany.
I waited especially to see it, but a piper who was expected did not
come, and there was no amusement. A few friends and relations came
over from the other island and stood about the public-house in their
best clothes, but without music dancing was impossible.
I believe on some occasions when the piper is present there is a
fine day of dancing and excitement, but the Galway piper is getting
old, and is not easily induced to undertake the voyage.
Last night, St. John's Eve, the fires were lighted and boys ran
about with pieces of the burning turf, though I could not find out
if the idea of lighting the house fires from the bonfires is still
found on the island.
I have come out of an hotel full of tourists and commercial
travelers, to stroll along the edge of Galway bay, and look out in
the direction of the islands. The sort of yearning I feel towards
those lonely rocks is indescribably acute. This town, that is
usually so full of wild human interest, seems in my present mood a
tawdry medley of all that is crudest in modern life. The nullity of
the rich and the squalor of the poor give me the same pang of
wondering disgust; yet the islands are fading already and I can
hardly realise that the smell of the seaweed and the drone of the
Atlantic are still moving round them.
One of my island friends has written to me: -
DEAR JOHN SYNGE, - I am for a long time expecting a letter from you
and I think you are forgetting this island altogether.
Mr. - died a long time ago on the big island and his boat was on
anchor in the harbour and the wind blew her to Black Head and broke
her up after his death.
Tell me are you learning Irish since you went. We have a branch of
the Gaelic League here now and the people is going on well with the
Irish and reading.
I will write the next letter in Irish to you. Tell me will you come
to see us next year and if you will you'll write a letter before
you. All your loving friends is well in health. - Mise do chara go
huan.
Another boy I sent some baits to has written to me also, beginning
his letter in Irish and ending it in English: -
DEAR JOHN, - I got your letter four days ago, and there was pride and
joy on me because it was written in Irish, and a fine, good,
pleasant letter it was. The baits you sent are very good, but I lost
two of them and half my line. A big fish came and caught the bait,
and the line was bad and half of the line and the baits went away.
My sister has come back from America, but I'm thinking it won't be
long till she goes away again, for it is lonesome and poor she finds
the island now. - I am your friend. ...
Write soon and let you write in Irish, if you don't I won't look on
it.
Part II
THE evening before I returned to the west I wrote to Michael - who
had left the islands to earn his living on the mainland - to tell him
that I would call at the house where he lodged the next morning,
which was a Sunday.
A young girl with fine western features, and little English, came
out when I knocked at the door. She seemed to have heard all about
me, and was so filled with the importance of her message that she
could hardly speak it intelligibly.
'She got your letter,' she said, confusing the pronouns, as is often
done in the west, 'she is gone to Mass, and she'll be in the square
after that. Let your honour go now and sit in the square, and Michael
will find you.'
As I was returning up the main street I met Michael wandering down
to meet me, as he had got tired of waiting.
He seemed to have grown a powerful man since I had seen him, and was
now dressed in the heavy brown flannels of the Connaught labourer.
After a little talk we turned back together and went out on the
sandhills above the town. Meeting him here a little beyond the
threshold of my hotel I was singularly struck with the refinement of
his nature, which has hardly been influenced by his new life, and
the townsmen and sailors he has met with.
