A basket underneath17 a tree A yellow tiger is to me, If it is nothing more.
The more really alarming episodes of the road, the hoot18 and whir of a passing motor-car or the loud vibrating hum of a wayside threshing-machine, were treated with indifference19.
On turning a corner out of a narrow coppice-bordered lane into a wider road that sloped steadily20 upward in a long stretch of hill Elaine saw, coming toward her at no great distance, a string of yellow-painted vans, drawn21 for the most part by skewbald or speckled horses. A certain rakish air about these oncoming road-craft proclaimed them as belonging to a travelling wild-beast show, decked out in the rich primitive22 colouring that one’s taste in childhood would have insisted on before it had been schooled in the artistic23 value of dulness. It was an unlooked-for and distinctly unwelcome encounter. The mare had already commenced a sixfold scrutiny24 with nostrils25, eyes and daintily-pricked ears; one ear made hurried little backward movements to hear what Elaine was saying about the eminent26 niceness and respectability of the approaching caravan27, but even Elaine felt that she would be unable satisfactorily to explain the elephants and camels that would certainly form part of the procession. To turn back would seem rather craven, and the mare might take fright at the manoeuvre28 and try to bolt; a gate standing29 ajar at the entrance to a farmyard lane provided a convenient way out of the difficulty.
As Elaine pushed her way through she became aware of a man standing just inside the lane, who made a movement forward to open the gate for her.
“Thank you. I’m just getting out of the way of a wild-beast show,” she explained; “my mare is tolerant of motors and traction-engines, but I expect camels — hullo,” she broke off, recognising the man as an old acquaintance, “I heard you had taken rooms in a farmhouse30 somewhere. Fancy meeting you in this way.”
In the not very distant days of her little-girlhood, Tom Keriway had been a man to be looked upon with a certain awe31 and envy; indeed the glamour32 of his roving career would have fired the imagination, and wistful desire to do likewise, of many young Englishmen. It seemed to be the grown-up realisation of the games played in dark rooms in winter fire-lit evenings, and the dreams dreamed over favourite books of adventure. Making Vienna his headquarters, almost his home, he had rambled33 where he listed through the lands of the Near and Middle East as leisurely34 and thoroughly35 as tamer souls might explore Paris. He had wandered through Hungarian horse-fairs, hunted shy crafty36 beasts on lonely Balkan hillsides, dropped himself pebble-wise into the stagnant37 human pool of some Bulgarian monastery38, threaded his way through the strange racial mosaic39 of Salonika, listened with amused politeness to the shallow ultra-modern opinions of a voluble editor or lawyer in some wayside Russian town, or learned wisdom from a chance tavern40 companion, one of the atoms of the busy ant-stream of men and merchandise that moves untiringly round the shores of the Black Sea. And far and wide as he might roam he always managed to turn up at frequent intervals41, at ball and supper and theatre, in the gay Hauptstadt of the Habsburgs, haunting his favourite cafes and wine-vaults, skimming through his favourite news-sheets, greeting old acquaintances and friends, from ambassadors down to cobblers in the social scale. He seldom talked of his travels, but it might be said that his travels talked of him; there was an air about him that a German diplomat42 once summed up in a phrase: “a man that wolves have sniffed43 at.”
And then two things happened, which he had not mapped out in his route; a severe illness shook half the life and all the energy out of him, and a heavy money loss brought him almost to the door of destitution44. With something, perhaps, of the impulse which drives a stricken animal away from its kind, Tom Keriway left the haunts where he had known so much happiness, and withdrew into the shelter of a secluded45 farmhouse lodging46; more than ever he became to Elaine a hearsay47 personality. And now the chance meeting with the caravan had flung her across the threshold of his retreat.
“What a charming little nook you’ve got hold of,” she exclaimed with instinctive4 politeness, and then looked searchingly round, and discovered that she had spoken the truth; it really was charming. The farmhouse had that intensely English look that one seldom sees out of Normandy. Over the whole scene of rickyard, garden, outbuildings, horsepond and orchard48, brooded that air which seems rightfully to belong to out-of-the-way farmyards, an air of wakeful dreaminess which suggests that here, man and beast and bird have got up so early that the rest of the world has never caught them up and never will.
Elaine dismounted, and Keriway led the mare round to a little paddock by the side of a great grey barn. At the end of the lane they could see the show go past, a string of lumbering49 vans and great striding beasts that seemed to link the vast silences of the desert with the noises and sights and smells, the naphtha-flares and advertisement hoardings and trampled50 orange-peel, of an endless succession of towns.
“You had better let the caravan pass well on its way before you get on the road again,” said Keriway; “the smell of the beasts may make your mare nervous and restive51 going home.”
Then he called to a boy who was busy with a hoe among some defiantly52 prosperous weeds, to fetch the lady a glass of milk and a piece of currant loaf.
“I don’t know when I’ve seen anything so utterly53 charming and peaceful,” said Elaine, propping54 herself on a seat that a pear-tree had obligingly designed in the fantastic curve of its trunk.
“Charming, certainly,” said Keriway, “but too full of the stress of its own little life struggle to be peaceful. Since I have lived here I’ve learnt, what I’ve always suspected, that a country farmhouse, set away in a world of its own, is one of the most wonderful studies of interwoven happenings and tragedies that can be imagined. It is like the old chronicles of medieval Europe in the days when there was a sort of ordered anarchy55 between feudal56 lords and overlords, and burg-grafs, and mitred abbots, and prince-bishops, robber barons57 and merchant guilds58, and Electors and so forth59, all striving and contending and counter-plotting, and interfering60 with each other under some vague code of loosely-applied rules. Here one sees it reproduced under one’s eyes, like a musty page of black-letter come to life. Look at one little section of it, the poultry61-life on the farm. Villa62 poultry, dull egg-machines, with records kept of how many ounces of food they eat, and how many pennyworths of eggs they lay, give you no idea of the wonder-life of these farm-birds; their feuds63 and jealousies64, and carefully maintained prerogatives65, their unsparing tyrannies and persecutions, their calculated courage and bravado66 or sedulously67 hidden cowardice68, it might all be some human chapter from the annals of the old Rhineland or medieval Italy. And then, outside their own bickering69 wars and hates, the grim enemies that come up against them from the woodlands; the hawk70 that dashes among the coops like a moss-trooper raiding the border, knowing well that a charge of shot may tear him to bits at any moment. And the stoat, a creeping slip of brown fur a few inches long, intently and unstayably out for blood. And the hunger-taught master of craft, the red fox, who has waited perhaps half the afternoon for his chance while the fowls71 were dusting themselves under the hedge, and just as they were turning supper-ward to the yard one has stopped a moment to give her feathers a final shake and found death springing upon her. Do you know,” he continued, as Elaine fed herself and the mare with morsels72 of currant-loaf, “I don’t think any tragedy in literature that I have ever come across impressed me so much as the first one, that I spelled out slowly for myself in words of three letters: the bad fox has got the red hen. There was something so dramatically complete about it; the badness of the fox, added to all the traditional guile73 of his race, seemed to heighten the horror of the hen’s fate, and there was such a suggestion of masterful malice74 about the word ‘got.’ One felt that a countryside in arms would not get that hen away from the bad fox. They used to think me a slow dull reader for not getting on with my lesson, but I used to sit and picture to myself the red hen, with its wings beating helplessly, screeching75 in terrified protest, or perhaps, if he had got it by the neck, with beak76 wide agape and silent, and eyes staring, as it left the farmyard for ever. I have seen blood-spillings and down-crushings and abject77 defeat here and there in my time, but the red hen has remained in my mind as the type of helpless tragedy.” He was silent for a moment as if he were again musing78 over the three-letter drama that had so dwelt in his childhood’s imagination. “Tell me some of the things you have seen in your time,” was the request that was nearly on Elaine’s lips, but she hastily checked herself and substituted another.
“Tell me more about the farm, please.”
And he told her of a whole world, or rather of several intermingled worlds, set apart in this sleepy hollow in the hills, of beast lore13 and wood lore and farm craft, at times touching79 almost the border of witchcraft80 — passing lightly here, not with the probing eagerness of those who know nothing, but with the averted81 glance of those who fear to see too much. He told her of those things that slept and those that prowled when the dusk fell, of strange hunting cats, of the yard swine and the stalled cattle, of the farm folk themselves, as curious and remote in their way, in their ideas and fears and wants and tragedies, as the brutes82 and feathered stock that they tended. It seemed to Elaine as if a musty store of old-world children’s books had been fetched down from some cobwebbed lumber-room and brought to life. Sitting there in the little paddock, grown thickly with tall weeds and rank grasses, and shadowed by the weather-beaten old grey barn, listening to this chronicle of wonderful things, half fanciful, half very real, she could scarcely believe that a few miles away there was a garden-party in full swing, with smart frocks and smart conversation, fashionable refreshments83 and fashionable music, and a fevered undercurrent of social strivings and snubbings. Did Vienna and the Balkan Mountains and the Black Sea seem as remote and hard to believe in, she wondered, to the man sitting by her side, who had discovered or invented this wonderful fairyland? Was it a true and merciful arrangement of fate and life that the things of the moment thrust out the after-taste of the things that had been? Here was one who had held much that was priceless in the hollow of his hand and lost it all, and he was happy and absorbed and well-content with the little wayside corner of the world into which he had crept. And Elaine, who held so many desirable things in the hollow of her hand, could not make up her mind to be even moderately happy. She did not even know whether to take this hero of her childhood down from his pedestal, or to place him on a higher one; on the whole she was inclined to resent rather than approve the idea that ill-health and misfortune could so completely subdue84 and tame an erstwhile bold and roving spirit.
The mare was showing signs of delicately-hinted impatience85; the paddock, with its teasing insects and very indifferent grazing, had not thrust out the image of her own comfortable well-foddered loose-box. Elaine divested86 her habit of some remaining crumbs87 of bun-loaf and jumped lightly on to her saddle. As she rode slowly down the lane, with Keriway escorting her as far as its gate, she looked round at what had seemed to her, a short while ago, just a picturesque88 old farmstead, a place of bee-hives and hollyhocks and gabled cart-sheds; now it was in her eyes a magic city, with an undercurrent of reality beneath its magic.
“You are a person to be envied,” she said to Keriway; “you have created a fairyland, and you are living in it yourself.”
“Envied?”
He shot the question out with sudden bitterness. She looked down and saw the wistful misery89 that had come into his face.
“Once,” he said to her, “in a German paper I read a short story about a tame crippled crane that lived in the park of some small town. I forget what happened in the story, but there was one line that I shall always remember: ‘it was lame90, that is why it was tame.’”
He had created a fairyland, but assuredly he was not living in it.
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1
impels
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的第三人称单数 ) | |
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languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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oasis
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| n.（沙漠中的）绿洲，宜人的地方 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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reeked
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的过去式和过去分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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valid
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| adj.有确实根据的；有效的；正当的，合法的 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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lore
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| n.传说；学问，经验，知识 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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paraphrased
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| v.释义，意译( paraphrase的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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hoot
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| n.鸟叫声，汽车的喇叭声； v.使汽车鸣喇叭 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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caravan
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| n.大蓬车；活动房屋 | |
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manoeuvre
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| n.策略，调动；v.用策略，调动 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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tavern
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| n.小旅馆，客栈；小酒店 | |
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41
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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42
diplomat
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| n.外交官，外交家；能交际的人，圆滑的人 | |
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43
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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44
destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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45
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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46
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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hearsay
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| n.谣传，风闻 | |
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48
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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50
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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51
restive
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| adj.不安宁的，不安静的 | |
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52
defiantly
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| adv.挑战地，大胆对抗地 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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propping
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| 支撑 | |
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anarchy
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| n.无政府状态；社会秩序混乱，无秩序 | |
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feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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57
barons
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| 男爵( baron的名词复数 )； 巨头； 大王； 大亨 | |
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guilds
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| 行会，同业公会，协会( guild的名词复数 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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feuds
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| n.长期不和，世仇( feud的名词复数 ) | |
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jealousies
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| n.妒忌( jealousy的名词复数 )；妒羡 | |
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prerogatives
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| n.权利( prerogative的名词复数 )；特权；大主教法庭；总督委任组成的法庭 | |
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bravado
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| n.虚张声势，故作勇敢，逞能 | |
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sedulously
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| ad.孜孜不倦地 | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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69
bickering
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| v.争吵( bicker的现在分词 )；口角；（水等）作潺潺声；闪烁 | |
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hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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morsels
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| n.一口( morsel的名词复数 )；（尤指食物）小块，碎屑 | |
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guile
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| n.诈术 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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75
screeching
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的现在分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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76
beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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82
brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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83
refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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84
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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85
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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86
divested
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| v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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87
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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88
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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89
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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90
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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