messer marco polo-第1节

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Messer　Marco　Polo　

by　Brian　Oswald　Donn…Byrne




A　NOTE　ON　THE　AUTHOR　OF　MESSER　MARCO　POLO

So　Celtic　in　feeling　and　atmosphere　are　the　stories　of　Donn　Byrne　that　many　of　his　devotees　have　come　to　believe　that　he　never　lived　anywhere　but　in　Ireland。　　Actually；　Donn　Byrne　was　born　in　New　York　City。　Shortly　after　his　birth；　however；　his　parents　took　him　back　to　the　land　of　his　forefathers。　　There　he　was　educated　and　came　to　know　the　people　of　whom　he　wrote　so　magically。　　At　Dublin　University　his　love　for　the　Irish　language　and　for　a　good　fight　won　him　many　prizes；　first　as　a　writer　in　Gaelic　and　second　as　the　University's　lightweight　boxing　champion。　　After　continuing　his　studies　at　the　Sorbonne　and　the　University　of　Leipzig；　he　returned　to　the　United　States；　where；　in　1911；　he　married　and　established　a　home　in　Brooklyn　Heights。　　He　earned　his　living；　while　trying　to　write　short　stories；　as　an　editor　of　dictionaries。　Soon　his　tales　began　to　attract　attention　and　he　added　to　his　collection　of　boxing　prizes　many　others　won　in　short…story　contests。　　When　MESSER　MARCO　POLO　appeared　in　1921　his　reputation　in　the　literary　world　was　firmly　established。　　Thereafter；　whatever　he　wrote　was　hailed　enthusiastically　by　his　ever…growing　public；　until　1928；　when　his　tragic　death　in　an　automobile　accident　cut　short　the　career　of　one　of　America's　best…loved　story…tellers。



MESSER　MARCO　POLO

The　message　came　to　me；　at　the　second　check　of　the　hunt；　that　a　countryman　and　a　clansman　needed　me。　　The　ground　was　heavy；　the　day　raw；　and　it　was　a　drag；　too　fast　for　fun　and　too　tame　for　sport。　So　I　blessed　the　countryman　and　the　clansman；　and　turned　my　back　on　the　field。

But　when　they　told　me　his　name；　I　all　but　fell　from　the　saddle。

〃But　that　man's　dead！〃

But　he　wasn't　dead。　　He　was　in　New　York。　　He　was　traveling　from　the　craigs　of　Ulster　to　his　grandson；　who　had　an　orange…grove　on　the　Indian　River；　in　Florida。　　He　wasn't　dead。　　And　I　said　to　myself　with　impatience；　〃Must　every　man　born　ninety　years　ago　be　dead？〃

〃But　this　is　a　damned　thing；〃　I　thought；　〃to　be　saddled　with　a　man　over　ninety　years　old。　　To　have　to　act　as　GARDE…MALADE　at　my　age！　Why　couldn't　he　have　stayed　and　died　at　home？　　Sure；　one　of　these　days　he　will　die；　as　we　all　die；　and　the　ghost　of　him　will　never　be　content　on　the　sluggish　river；　by　the　mossy　trees；　where　the　blue　herons　and　the　white　cranes　and　the　great　gray　pelicans　fly。　　It　will　be　going　back；　I　know；　to　the　booming　surf　and　the　red…berried　rowan…trees　and　the　barking　eagles　of　Antrim。　　To　die　out　of　Ulster；　when　one　can　die　in　Ulster；　there　is　a　gey　foolish　thing。　。　。〃

But　the　harsh　logic　of　Ulster　left　me；　and　the　soft　mood　of　Ulster　came　on　me　as　I　remembered　him；　and　I　going　into　the　town　on　the　train。　And　the　late　winter　grass；　of　Westchester；　spare；　scrofulous；　the　jerry…built　bungalows；　the　lines　of　uncomely　linen；　the　blatant　advertising　boards　　all　the　unbeauty　of　it　passed　away；　and　I　was　again　in　the　Antrim　glens。　　There　was　the　soft　purple　of　the　Irish　Channel；　and　there　the　soft；　dim　outline　of　Scotland。　　There　was　the　herring　school　silver　in　the　sun；　and　I　could　see　it　from　the　crags　where　the　surf　boomed　like　a　drum。　　And　underfoot　was　the　springy　heather；　the　belled　and　purple　heather。　。　。

And　there　came　to　me　again　the　vision　of　the　old　man's　thatched　farmhouse　when　the　moon　was　up　and　the　bats　were　out；　and　the　winds　of　the　County　Antrim　came　bellying　down　the　glens。　。　。The　turf　fire　burned　on　the　hearth；　now　red；　now　yellow；　and　there　was　the　golden　light　of　lamps；　and　Malachi　of　the　Long　Glen　was　reciting　some　poem　of　Blind　Raftery's；　or　the　lament　of　Pierre　Ronsard　for　Mary；　Queen　of　Scots：　　　　Ta　ribin　o　mo　cheadshearc　ann　mo　phocs　sios。　　　　Agas　mna　Eirip　ni　leigheasfadaois　mo　bhron；　faraor！　　　　Ta　me　reidh　leat　go　ndeantar　comhra　caol！　　　　Agas　gobhfasfaidh　an　fear　no　dhiaidh　sin　thrid　mo　lar　anios！

　　　There　is　a　ribbon　from　my　only　love　in　my　pocket　deep；　　　　And　the　women　of　Europe　they　could　not　cure　my　grief；　alas！　　　　I　am　done　with　you　until　a　narrow　coffin　be　made　for　me。　　　　And　until　the　grass　shall　grow　after　that　up　through　my　heart！

And　I　suddenly　discovered　on　the　rumbling　train　that　apart　from　the　hurling　and　the　foot…ball　and　the　jumping　of　horses；　what　life　I　remembered　of　Ulster　was　bound　up　in　Malachi　Campbell　of　the　Long　Glen。　。　。

A　very　strange　old　man；　hardy　as　a　blackthorn；　immense；　bowed　shoulders；　the　face　of　some　old　hawk　of　the　mountains；　hair　white　and　plentiful　as　some　old　cardinal's。　　All　his　kinsfolk　were　dead　except　for　one　granddaughter。　。　。And　he　had　become　a　tradition　in　the　glens。　。　。　It　was　said　he　had　been　an　ecclesiastical　student　abroad；　in　Valladolid。　。　。and　that　he　had　forsaken　that　life。　　And　in　France　he　had　been　a　tutor　in　the　family　of　MacMahon；　roi　d'　Irlande。　。　。and　somewhere　he　had　married；　and　his　wife　had　died　and　left　him　money。　。　。and　he　had　come　back　to　Antrim。　。　。He　had　been　in　the　Papal　Zouaves；　and　fought　also　in　the　American　Civil　War。　。　。A　strange　old　figure　who　knew　Greek　and　Latin　as　well　as　most　professors；　and　who　had　never　forgotten　his　Gaelic。　。　。

Antrim　will　ever　color　my　own　writing。　　My　Fifth　Avenue　will　have　something　in　it　of　the　heather　glen。　　My　people　will　have　always　a　phrase；　a　thought；　a　flash　of　Scots…Irish　mysticism；　and　for　that　I　must　either　thank　or　blame　Malachi　Campbell　of　the　Long　Glen。　The　stories　I　heard；　and　I　young；　were　not　of　Little　Rollo　and　Sir　Walter　Scott's；　but　the　horrible　tale　of　the　Naked　Hangman；　who　goes　through　the　Valleys　on　Midsummer's　Eve；　of　Dermot；　and　Granye　of　the　Bright　Breasts；　of　the　Cattle　Raid　of　Maeve；　Queen　of　Connacht；　of　the　old　age　of　Cuchulain　in　the　Island　of　Skye；　grisly；　homely　stories；　such　as　yon　of　the　ghostly　foot…ballers　of　Cushendun；　whose　ball　is　a　skull；　and　whose　goal　is　the　portals　of　a　ruined　graveyard；　strange　religious　poems；　like　the　Dialogue　of　Death　and　the　Sinner：

　　　Do　thugainn　loistin　do　gach　deoraidh　treith…lag　　　　　I　used　to　give　lodging　to　every　poor　wanderer；　　　　Food　and　drink　to　him　I　would　see　in　want；　　　　His　proper　payment　to　the　man　requesting　reckoning；　　　　Och！　　Is　not　Jesus　hard　if　he　condemns　me！

All　these　stories；　of　all　these　people　he　told；　had　the　unreal；　shimmering　quality　of　that　mirage　that　is　seen　from　Portrush　cliffs；　a　glittering　city　in　a　golden　desert；　surrounded　by　a　strange　sea　mist。　All　these　songs；　all　these　words　he　spoke；　were　native；　had　the　same　tang　as　the　turf　smoke；　the　Gaelic　quality　that　is　in　dark　lakes　on　mountains　summits；　in　plovers　nests　amid　the　heather。　。　。And　to　remember　them　now　in　New　York；　to　see　him。　。　。

Fifteen　years　had　changed　him　but　little：　little　more　tremor　and　slowness　in　the　walk；　a　bow　to　the　great　shoulders；　an　eye　that　flashed　like　a　knife。

〃And　what　do　you　think　of　New　York；　Malachi？〃

〃I　was　here　before；　your　honor　will　remember。　　I　fought　at　the　Wilderness。〃

I　forbore　asking　him　what　change　he　had　found。　　I　saw　his　quivering　nostrils。

In　a　few　days　he　would　proceed　south；　when　he　had　orientated　himself　after　the　days　of　shipboard。

That　night　it　seemed　every　one　chose　to　come　in　and　cluster　around　the　fire。　　Randall；　the　poet；　and　the　two　blond　Danish　girls；　with　their　hair　like　flax；　Fraser；　the　golfer；　just　over　from　Prestwick；　and　a　young　writer；　with　his　spurs　yet　to　win；　and　this　one。　。　。and　that　one。

They　all　kept　silence　as　old　Malach　spoke；　sportsmen；　artists；　men　and　women　of　the　world；　a　hush　came　on　them　and　their　eyes　showed　they　were　not　before　the　crackling　fire　in　the　long　rooms　but　amazed　in　the　Antrim　glens。

Yes；　old　Malachi　said；　things　were　changed　over　there；　and　a　greater　change　was　liable。　。　。People　whispered　that　in　the　Valley　of　the　Black　Pig　the　Boar　without　Bristles　had　been　seen　at　the　close　of　the　day；　and　in　Templemore　there　was　a　bleeding　image；　and　these　were　ominous　portents。　。　。Some　folks　believed　and　some　didn't。　。　。　And　the　great　Irish　hunter　that　had　won　the　Grand　National；　the　greatest　horse　in　the　world。　。　。But　our　Man　of　War；　Malachi？。　。　Oh；　sure；　all　he　could　do　was　run；　and　a　hare　or　a　greyhound　could　beat　him　at　that；　but　Shawn　Spadah；　a　great　jumper　him；　as　well　as　a　runner；　in　fine；　a　horse。　。　。And　did　I　know　that　Red　Simon　McEwer　of　Cushundall　had　gone　around　Portrush　in　eighteen　consecutive　fours？　。　。　。A　Rathlin　Islander　had　tried　the　swim　across　to　Scotland；　but　didn't　make　it；　and　there　was　great　arguing　as　to　whether　it　was　because　of　the　currents　or　of　lack　of　strength。　。　。There　were　rumblings　in　the　Giants'　Causeway。　。　。very　strange。　。　。A　woman　in　Oran　had　the　second　sight；　the　most　powerful　gift　of　second　sight　in　generations。　。　。There　was　a　new　piper　in　Islay；　and　it　was　said　he　was　a　second　McCrimmon。　。　。And　a　new　poet　had　arisen　in　Uist；　and　all　over　the　Highlands　they　were　reciting　his　songs　and　his　〃Lament　for　the　Bruce〃。　。　。Was　I　still　as　keen　for；　did　I　still　remember　the　poems；　and　the　great　stories？。　。　。

〃'Behold；　the　night　is　of　great　length；'〃　I　quoted；　〃'Unbearable。　Tell　us；　therefore；　of　those　wondrous　deeds。'〃

〃If　you've　remembered　your　Gaidhlig　as　you've　remembered　your　Greek！〃

〃It's　a　long　time　since　you've　had　a　story　of　me；　twelve　long　years；　and　it's　a　long　t