’Twas at Zell in the Zillerthal.
Now, whoever knows the Alps, knows the Zillerthal well as the centre of all that is most Tyrolese in the Tyrol. From that beautiful green valley, softly smiling below, majestically1 grand and ice-clad in its upper forks and branches, issue forth2 from time to time all the itinerant3 zither-players and picturesquely-clad singers who pervade5 every capital and every spa in Europe. Born and bred among the rich lawns of their upland villages, they come down in due time, with a feather in their hats and a jodel in their throats, true modern troubadours, setting out on the untried ocean of the outer world?—?their voice for their fortune?—in search of wealth and adventures. Guitar on back and green braces6 on shoulders, they start blithely7 from home with a few copper9 kreuzers in their leather belts, and return again after a year or two, changed men to behold10, their pockets full to bursting with dollars or louis or good English sovereigns.
Not that you must expect to see the Tyrolese peasant of sober reality masquerading about in that extremely operatic and brigand-like costume in the upper Zillerthal. The Alpine11 minstrel in the sugar-loaf hat, much-gartered as to the legs, and clad in a Joseph’s coat of many colours, with whom we are all so familiar in cosmopolitan12 concert-halls, has donned his romantic polychromatic costume as an integral part of the business, and would be regarded with surprise, not unmixed with contempt, were he to appear in it among the pastures of his native valley. The ladies in corset-bodices and loose white lawn sleeves, who trill out startling notes from the back attics13 of their larynx, or elicit14 sweet harmonies from medi?val-looking mandolines in Kursaals and Alcazars, have purchased their Tyrolese dress direct from some Parisian costumier. The real cowherds and milkmaids of the actual Zillerthal are much more prosaic15, not to say commonplace, creatures. A green string for a hat-band, with a blackcock’s plume16 stuck jauntily17 or saucily18 at the back of the hat, and a dirty red lappel to the threadbare coat, is all that distinguishes the Tyrolese mountaineer of solid fact from the universal peasant of European Christendom. Indeed, is it not true, after all, that the stage has led us to expect far too much?—in costume and otherwise?—from the tillers of the soil everywhere? Is it not true that the agricultural and pastoral classes all the world over, in spite of Theocritus and Thomas Hardy19, are apt, when one observes them impartially20 in the flesh, to be earthy, grimy, dull-eyed, and unintelligent?
Florian Wood didn’t think so, however, or affected21 not to think so?—which in his case was probably very much the same thing; for what he really thought about anything on earth, affectation aside, it would have puzzled even himself not a little to determine. He was a tiny man of elegant proportions: so tiny, so elegant, that one felt inclined to put him under a glass case and stick him on a mantelpiece. He leant his small arms upon the parapet of a wall as they were approaching Zell, shifted the knapsack on his back with sylph-like grace, and murmured ecstatically, with a side glance at the stalwart peasant-women carrying basketfuls of fodder23 in huge creels on their backs in the field close by, “How delicious! How charming! How essentially24 picturesque4! How characteristically Tyrolean!”
His companion scanned him up and down with an air of some passing amusement. “Why, I didn’t know you’d ever been in the Tyrol before,” he objected, bluntly. And, in point of fact, when they started together from Munich that morning on their autumn tour, Florian Wood had never yet crossed the Austrian frontier. But what of that? He had got out of the train some five hours back at Jenbach station, and walked the sixteen miles from there to Zell; and in the course of the tramp he had matured his views on the characteristics of the Tyrol.
But he waved one lily-white hand over the earth none the less with airy dismissal of his friend’s implied criticism. “How often shall I have to tell you, my dear Deverill,” he said blandly25, in his lofty didactic tone?—the tone which, as often happens with very small men, came most familiarly of all to him?—“that you unduly26 subordinate the ideal to the real, where you ought rather to subordinate the real to the ideal. This, you say, is the Tyrol?—the solid, uncompromising, geographically27 definite Tyrol of the tax-gatherer, the post-master, and the commercial traveller?—?bounded on the north by Bavaria, on the south by Italy, on the east by the rude Carinthian boor28, and on the west by the collection of hotels and pensions marked down on the map as the Swiss Republic. Very well then; let me see if there’s anything Tyrolese at all to be found in it. I have instinctive29 within me a picture of the true, the ideal Tyrol. I know well its green pastures, its upland slopes, its innocent peasantry, its fearless chamois-hunters, its beautiful, guileless, fair-haired maidens30. Arriving by rail to-day in this its prosaic prototype?—?cast up, as it were, from the train on the sea-coast of this Bohemia?—?I turn my eyes with interest upon the imitation Tyrol of real life, and strive earnestly to discover some faint points of resemblance, if such there be, with the genuine article as immediately revealed to me.”
“And you find none?” Deverill put in, smiling.
Florian waved that dainty Dresden china hand expansively once more over the landscape before him, as if it belonged to him. “Pardon me,” he said, sententiously; “in many things, I admit, the reality might be improved upon. The mountains, for example, should be higher, their forms more varied31, their peaks more jagged, their sides more precipitous; the snow should drape them with more uniform white, regardless of the petty restrictions32 of gravity; the river should tear down far rockier ravines, in more visible cataracts33. But Nature has sometimes her happy moments, too. And I call this one of them! Those women, now, so Millet-like in their patient toil34?—?how sympathetic! how charming! A less primitive35 society, a less idyllic36 folk, would have imposed such burdens upon a horse or a donkey. The Tyrol knows better. It is more na?ve, more picturesque?—?in one word, more original. It imposes them on the willing neck of beautiful woman!”
“It’s terribly hard work for them,” Deverill answered, observing them with half a sigh.
“For them? Ah, yes, I admit it, of course, poor souls!?—?but for me, my dear fellow?—?for me, just consider! It gives me a thrill of the intensest sensibility. In the first place, the picture is a beautiful one in itself?—?the figures, the baskets, the frame, the setting. In the second place, it suggests to the observant mind an Arcadian life, a true Dorian simplicity37. In the third place?—?which is perhaps the most important of all?—?it affords me an opportunity for the luxury of sympathy. What is the trifling38 inconvenience of a heavy load on their backs to these poor ignorant creatures, compared with the refined and artistic39 pleasure?—?of an altruistic40 kind?—?which I derive41 from pitying them?”
“Florian!” his friend said, surveying him comically from head to foot, “you really are impayable. It’s no use arguing with you; it only flatters you. You know very well in your heart you never mean a word of anything you say; so stop your nonsense and put yourself in marching order again. Let’s get on to Zell, and see what sort of quarters we can find in the village.”
Florian Wood came down at once from his epicurean clouds, and strode out with his little legs in the direction of their resting-place. In spite of his tininess, he was a capital walker. If Nature, as he averred42, has sometimes her happy moments, she certainly had one when she created her critic. Florian Wood was a young man of a delicate habit of mind and body?—?a just and pleasing compromise between a philosopher and a butterfly. His figure was small but extremely graceful43; his limbs were dainty but well-knit and gazelle-like; his face, though small-featured, was very intelligent, and distinctly good-humoured; his voice was melodious44 and exquisitely45 modulated46. And what Nature had left undone47, his godfathers and godmothers did for him at his baptism when they christened him Florian. As plain John Wood, to be sure, he would have been nobody at all; as William or Thomas or Henry or George, he would have been lost in the multitudinous deep sea of London. But his parents had the glorious inspiration of dubbing48 him Florian, and it acted like a charm: all went well in life with him. A baronetcy would have been a far less valuable social passport?—?for there are many baronets, but only one Florian. Before the romantic rarity of that unique Christian49 name, the need for a surname paled and faded away into utter nothingness. Nobody ever dreamt of calling him “Wood”: they spoke50 of Florian as they once spoke of “Randolph.” On this somewhat illogical but very natural ground, he became from his schooldays upward the spoiled child of society. He was a toy?—?a plaything. Clubs hung on his clear voice; women petted and made much of him. When you talk of a man always by his Christian name alone, depend upon it, he becomes in the end as one of the family: mere51 association of ideas begets52 in you at last a friendly?—?nay53, almost a fraternal feeling towards him.
They walked along briskly in the direction of Zell, Florian humming as he went a few stray snatches of Tyrolese songs (or what pass in the world for such), by way of putting himself in emotional harmony with the environment. For Florian was modern, intensely modern. He played with science as he played with everything else; and he could talk of the environment by the hour with the best of them, in his airy style, as if environments and he had been lifelong companions. But Zell itself, when they got to it, failed somehow to come up to either of their expectations. Florian would have made the valley narrower, or transplanted the village three hundred feet higher up the slope of the hill. As for Will Deverill, less critical of Nature’s handicraft, he found the inns over-civilised; the Post and the Br?u were too fine for his taste: they had come thus far in search of solitude54 and Alpine wilds, and they lighted instead on a sort of miniature Grindelwald, with half-a-dozen inns, a respectable café, experienced (or in other words extortionate) guides, and a regular tourist-trap for the sale of chamois-horns and carved models of chalets. “This will never do!” Will Deverill exclaimed, gazing round him in disgust at the Greiderer Hotel and the comfortable Welschwirth. “This is pure civilisation55!”
And Florian, looking down instinctively56 at his dust-encumbered boots, murmured with a faint sigh, “A perfect Bond Street!” For Florian loved to do everything “consummately,”?—?’twas his own pet adverb; he aimed at universality, but he aimed quite as much at perfection in detail of the most Pharisaical description. In Piccadilly, he went clad in a faultless miniature frock-coat, surmounted57 by the silken sheen of Lincoln and Bennet’s glossiest58; but if he made up his mind to Alps and snow-fields, then Alps he would have, pure, simple, and unadulterated. No half-way houses for him! He would commune at first hand with the eternal hills; he would behold the free life of the mountain folk in all its unsophisticated and primitive simplicity.
So he gazed at his Tom Thumb boots with a regretful eye, and murmured pensively59 once more, “A perfect Bond Street!”
“What shall we do now?” Will Deverill asked, stopping short and glancing ahead towards the glaciers60 that close the valley.
“See that village on the left there,” Florian answered, in a rapt tone of sudden inspiration, seizing his arm theatrically61; “?—?no, not the lower one on the edge of the level, but that high-perched group of little wooden houses with the green steeple by the edge of the ravine: what a magnificent view of the snow-fields to the south! From there, one must look at a single glance over all the spreading fingers and ramifications62 of the valley.”
“Perhaps there’s no inn there,” Will responded, dubiously63.
“No inn! You prate64 to me of inns?” Florian exclaimed, striking an attitude. “In full view of these virgin65 peaks, you venture to raise a question of mere earthly bedrooms?—?landlord, waiter, chambermaid! Who cares where he sleeps?—?or whether he sleeps at all?—?in such a village as that?” He struck his stick on the ground hard to enforce and emphasise66 the absoluteness of his determination. “The die is cast,” he cried, with the Caesaric firmness of five-feet-nothing. “We cross the stream at once, and we make for the village!”
“Well, there’s probably somewhere we can put up for the night and reconnoitre the neighbourhood,” Will Deverill answered, as he followed his friend’s lead. “If the worst comes to the worst, we can fall back upon Zell; but the priest will most likely find us a lodging67.”
No sooner said than done. They mounted the steep slope, and rose by gentle zig-zags towards the upland hamlet. At each step they took, the view over the glacier-bound peaks that close the glen to southward, opened wider and wider. Near an Alpine farmhouse68 they paused for breath. It was built of brown wood, toned and darkened by age, with projecting eaves and basking69 southern front, where endless cobs of Indian corn in treble tiers and rows hung out drying in the sunshine. Florian drank in the pretty picture with the intense enjoyment70 of youth and health and a rich sensuous71 nature. There was a human element, too, giving life to the foreground. Three Tyrolese children, a boy and two girls, in costumes more obtrusively72 national than they had yet observed, stood playing with one another on the platform in front of the farmhouse. Florian beamed on them, enchanted73. “What innocence74!” he cried, ecstatically. “What untrammelled forms! What freedom of limb! What Hellenic suppleness75! How different from the cramped76 motions of our London-bred children! You can see in a moment those vigorous young muscles have strengthened themselves from the cradle in the bracing77 air of the mountains?—?so fresh they are, so lithe8, so gracious, so lissom78! I recognise there at once the true note of the Tyrol.”
As he spoke, the younger girl, playing roughly with the boy, gave him a violent push which nearly sent him over into a neighbouring puddle79. At that, the elder sister clutched her hard by the wrist and gave her a good shaking, observing at the same time in very familiar accents:
“Naow then, Mariar-Ann, if you do like that to ’Arry agin, I’ll tike you stright in, an’ tell your mother.”
It was the genuine unmistakable Cockney dialect!
In an agony of injured nerves, Florian seized the elder girl by the collar of her dress, and, holding her at arm’s-length, as one might do some venomous reptile80, demanded of her, sternly, in his severest tone: “Now, where on earth did you ever learn English?”
The little Tyrolese, trembling violently in his grasp, stammered81 out in deadly fear: “Wy, o’ course, in London.”
“Pa was a waiter at the Criterion,” the younger sister volunteered in a shrill82 little voice from a safe distance; “and ma’s an Englishwoman. We’ve come ’ere to retire. Pa’s tiken the farm. But we can’t none of us speak any German.”
Florian relaxed his grasp, a dejected, dispirited, disappointed mannikin. “Go, wretched little mudlark!” he exclaimed, with a frank gesture of discomfiture83, flinging her from him as he spoke. “There isn’t, there never was, any objective Tyrol!”
The child retreated prudently84 to the safe shelter of the doorway85, before venturing on a repartee86. Then she put out her tongue and took up a stone in her hand. “Who are you a-callin’ a mudlark?” she answered, with the just indignation of injured innocence. “If my pa was ’ere ’e’d punch yer bloomin’ ’ead for yer.”
It ill became Florian Wood, that man of taste, to bandy words before the eternal hills with social waifs from the slums of Drury Lane. He strode on up the path in moody87 silence. It was some minutes, indeed, before he had sufficiently88 recovered from this crushing blow to murmur22 in a subdued89 voice: “What an incongruous circumstance!”
“Not so unusual as you’d suppose, though,” his companion answered with a smile; for he knew the Tyrol. “There are no people on earth so vagrant90 in their ways as the Tyrolese. They go away as pedlars, musicians, or waiters; but when they’ve made their pile, almost without exception, they come back in the end to their native valleys. I’ve more than once met hunters or farmers in these upland glens who spoke to me in English, not always without a tinge91 of American accent. Perhaps it’s not so much that these people emigrate as that they always come back again. They think other countries good enough to make money in, but the Zillerthal’s the one place where they’d care to spend it.”
Florian answered nothing. He strode on, sore distressed92. The only Tyrol worth tuppence, he now knew to his cost, was the one he had erected93, anterior94 to experience, in his own imagination.
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1
majestically
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| 雄伟地； 庄重地； 威严地； 崇高地 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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itinerant
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| adj.巡回的；流动的 | |
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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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pervade
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| v.弥漫，遍及，充满，渗透，漫延 | |
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braces
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| n.吊带，背带；托架( brace的名词复数 )；箍子；括弧；（儿童）牙箍v.支住( brace的第三人称单数 )；撑牢；使自己站稳；振作起来 | |
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blithely
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| adv.欢乐地，快活地，无挂虑地 | |
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lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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cosmopolitan
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| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
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attics
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| n. 阁楼 | |
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elicit
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| v.引出,抽出,引起 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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jauntily
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| adv.心满意足地；洋洋得意地；高兴地；活泼地 | |
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saucily
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| adv.傲慢地，莽撞地 | |
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hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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fodder
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| n.草料；炮灰 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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geographically
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| adv.地理学上，在地理上，地理方面 | |
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boor
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| n.举止粗野的人；乡下佬 | |
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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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maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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restrictions
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| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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cataracts
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| n.大瀑布( cataract的名词复数 )；白内障 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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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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idyllic
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| adj.质朴宜人的，田园风光的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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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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altruistic
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| adj.无私的，为他人着想的 | |
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derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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averred
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| v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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45
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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46
modulated
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| 已调整[制]的，被调的 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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48
dubbing
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| n.配音v.给…起绰号( dub的现在分词 )；把…称为；配音；复制 | |
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49
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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50
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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51
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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52
begets
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| v.为…之生父( beget的第三人称单数 )；产生，引起 | |
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53
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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56
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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glossiest
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| 光滑的( glossy的最高级 )； 虚有其表的； 浮华的 | |
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pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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glaciers
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| 冰河，冰川( glacier的名词复数 ) | |
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theatrically
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| adv.戏剧化地 | |
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62
ramifications
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| n.结果，后果( ramification的名词复数 ) | |
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dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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prate
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| v.瞎扯，胡说 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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emphasise
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| vt.加强...的语气，强调，着重 | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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68
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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basking
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| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的现在分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
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70
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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obtrusively
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| adv.冒失地，莽撞地 | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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suppleness
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| 柔软； 灵活； 易弯曲； 顺从 | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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bracing
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| adj.令人振奋的 | |
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lissom
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| adj.柔软的，轻快而优雅的 | |
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puddle
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| n.(雨)水坑，泥潭 | |
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reptile
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| n.爬行动物；两栖动物 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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83
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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prudently
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| adv. 谨慎地，慎重地 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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repartee
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| n.机敏的应答 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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93
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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anterior
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| adj.较早的；在前的 | |
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