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Penelope's Irish Experiences-Part10_Kate Douglas Wiggin(1856-1923)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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me like some dim, sweet-scented guest-chamber in an old New England

mansion, cool and clean and quiet, and fragrant of lavender. It has



been a lovely, generous life, lived for the most part in the shadow

of other people's wishes and plans and desires. I am an impatient



person, I confess, and heaven seems so far away when certain things

are in question: the righting of a child's wrong, or the demolition



of a barrier between two hearts; above all, for certain surgical

operations, more or less spiritual, such as removing scales from



eyes that refuse to see, and stops from ears too dull to hear.

Nobody shall have our Salemina unless he is worthy, but how I should



like to see her life enriched and crowned! How I should enjoy

having her dear little overworn second fiddle taken from her by main



force, and a beautiful first violin, or even the baton for leading

an orchestra, put into her unselfish hands!



And so good-bye and 'good luck to ye, Cork, and your pepper-box

steeple,' for we leave you to-morrow!



Chapter XI. 'The rale thing.'

'Her ancestors were kings before Moses was born,



Her mother descended from great Grana Uaile.'

Charles Lever.



Knockarney House, Lough Lein.

We are in the province of Munster, the kingdom of Kerry, the town of



Ballyfuchsia, and the house of Mrs. Mullarkey. Knockarney House is

not her name for it; I made it myself. Killarney is church of the



sloe-trees; and as kill is church, the 'onderhanded manin'' of

'arney' must be something about sloes; then, since knock means hill,



Knockarney should be hill of the sloe-trees.

I have not lost the memory of Jenny Geddes and Tam o' the Cowgate,



but Penelope O'Connor, daughter of the king of Connaught, is more

frequently present in my dreams. I have by no means forgotten that



there was a time when I was not Irish, but for the moment I am of

the turf, turfy. Francesca is really as much in love with Ireland



as I, only, since she has in her heart a certain tender string

pulling her all the while to the land of the heather, she naturally



avoids comparisons. Salemina, too, endeavours to appear neutral,

lest she should betray an inexplicable interest in Dr. La Touche's



country. Benella and I alone are really free to speak the brogue,

and carry our wild harps slung behind us, like Moore's minstrel boy.



Nothing but the ignorance of her national dishes keeps Benella from

entire allegiance to this island; but she thinks a people who have



grown up without a knowledge of doughnuts, baked beans, and

blueberry-pie must be lacking in moral foundations. There is



nothing extraordinary in all this; for the Irish, like the Celtic

tribes everywhere, have always had a sort of fascinating power over



people of other races settling among them, so that they become

completely fused with the native population, and grow to be more



Irish than the Irish themselves.

We stayed for a few days in the best hotel; it really was quite



good, and not a bit Irish. There was a Swiss manager, an English

housekeeper, a French head waiter, and a German office clerk. Even



Salemina, who loves comforts, saw that we should not be getting what

is known as the real thing, under these circumstances, and we came



here to this--what shall I call Knockarney House? It was built

originally for a fishing lodge by a sporting gentleman, who brought



parties of friends to stop for a week. On his death is passed

somehow into Mrs. Mullarkey's fair hands, and in a fatal moment she



determined to open it occasionally to 'paying guests,' who might

wish a quiet home far from the madding crowd of the summer tourist.



This was exactly what we did want, and here we encamped, on the

half-hearted advice of some Irish friends in the town, who knew



nothing else more comfortable to recommend.

"With us, small, quiet, or out-of-the-way places are never clean; or



if they are, then they are not Irish," they said. "You had better

see Ireland from the tourist's point of view for a few years yet,



until we have learned the art of living; but if you are determined

to know the humours of the people, cast all thought of comfort



behind you."

So we did, and we afterward thought that this would be a good motto



for Mrs. Mullarkey to carve over the door of Knockarney House. (My

name for it is adopted more or less by the family, though Francesca



persists in dating her letters to Ronald from 'The Rale Thing,'

which it undoubtedly is.) We take almost all the rooms in the



house, but there are a few other guests. Mrs. Waterford, an old




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