按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
Messer Marco Polo
Messer Marco Polo
By Donn…Byrne
（1889…1928）
1
… Page 2…
Messer Marco Polo
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
2
… Page 3…
Messer Marco Polo
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！
3
… Page 4…
Messer Marco Polo
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
4
… Page 5…
Messer Marco Polo
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