Noon found him heading for the sea over the wooded hills that rolled north to Rilchester. A brisk breeze tempered the summer heat and reclaimed5 the hour from languor6. Gabriel had certain Roman ruins as his goal—a mouldering7 wall, some scattered8 capitols, broken strands9 of stone, the flower-grown site of an old forum10. Ruins accorded with the spirit of romance, though sentiment is not always disinterested11 in the consideration of things inanimate. Could Troy spare the glamour12 of a Helen? On the hills above Rilchester dark trees held within their shadows a house that was magical for elemental reasons. Perhaps Gabriel could have gainsaid13 his soul the relics14 of an ancient empire. Instincts more ancient perpetuated15 in him their power.
The woods had poured down to possess this city of the dead. Crumbling16 flints showed amid the claws of some huge oak’s roots. The old walls were bowered17 in green, mantled18 in ivy19, plumed20 with gilliflower, snap-dragon, and flowering grass. The forum, an open square closed with grass banks, stood almost free of the trees. Its roadway and the foundation of its shops still showed in the turf. Fragments of pillars and pediments lay sunken in the sward. Flowers bloomed over the dead pavements, a mist of daisies, harebells, and golden ragwort. On the summit of the central mound21 stood the ruins of an altar, wreathed and overrun by masses of purple nightshade. Southward the sea glimmered22. Around rolled the wooden hills, nebulous and haze-wrapped, guardians24 of mystery.
Gabriel climbed the altar mound and sentinelled himself on the mouldering stone. To the romantic mind a tender melancholy25 wraps the infinite with all the idyllic26 colors of twilight. To the eye of the poet seas are bluer, skies more splendid, moons more magical, roses more ravishing to the soul. It is only the dullard who beholds27 in a cloud nothing but visible vapor28. Primeval man was more spiritual in many of his notions than the commercial gentleman of to-day.
Hope is often father to the fact. Desire and dream of a thing, and in some strange fashion the imagined fruit bends sudden to the hand. Day-dreams are the first dawn-shafts of great minds. Those who live for the present deserve nothing of the future. As for Gabriel, the stars would have fallen in his lap if his dreams had gotten a proportionate reward.
Thought-waves or no, there is some strong influence flowing from importunate29 thought. Spiritual waves of desire move betwixt soul and soul, drawing them imperceptibly towards each other. Love beacons30 unto love, even over hill and sea. As water to the moon, so Joan Gildersedge had been drawn31 from her home that day. Some vibrating lustre32-light of the soul had set her wandering on the hills above the sea. Even from childhood she had haunted the gray ruins by the woods, weaving idyls out of the past, listening like Joan of France to the mysterious utterances33 of nature.
Thus it befell that morning that Gabriel, seated on the crumbling altar, saw the figure of a girl moving in the shadows under the trees. She moved slowly, with eyes downcast. Even in miniature her form had that superb eloquence34 of grace that was more than Grecian, seeing that a more than Grecian spirit abode35 there in the flesh.
Gabriel’s memory hailed her with that hurrying of the heart that comes with the inspiration of the breath of life. His cheeks burned in the sun. Fear touched him as with the finger of prophecy. Scoff36 who will, there is a divine dread37 that seizes on strong men in the sanctuary38 of passion. Even as the harp39 trembles as it bears the burden of some solemn song, so the highly strung soul vibrates to melodies, perilous40 yet divine. Only clay is passive and unfearful. The mere23 animal loves with his loins, and is of the earth earthy. That man is indeed to be pitied who has never felt the splendid awe41 that the pure loveliness of a woman can inspire.
Gabriel left the mound, color in his cheeks and on his lips a half-shy smile. If he had never believed in Schopenhauer, the faith of a pessimist42 failed him ignominiously43 at that moment. He was medi?val to the core. Nor did he believe Shakespeare to be a fool.
A warmer color had risen to Joan Gildersedge’s face. Her eyes had a lustre in the sunlight, such a light that makes a woman a thousand times more desirable than of yore.
“You are a long way from home,” she said, considering him with an ingenuous44 gravity that was very magical, “and yet I had a presentiment45 that I should meet you here to-day.”
“And so you came?”
“Yes.”
They turned back with spontaneous consent, climbed the mound together, and seated themselves side by side upon the altar stone. The scene seemed utterly46 natural, yet quick with a rare unreality that kindled47 beauty. Joan unpinned her hat and laid it beside her. A great oak overarched the mound and reared a shadowy canopy48 above them.
“It is nearly a month since we met,” she said.
Gabriel was staring over the sea. A wilderness49 of romance had risen about his soul, a wild shadow-land drowned in moonlight, swept by a complaining wind.
“It seems as yesterday,” he answered her.
“Strange that we should meet so.”
“Perhaps.”
She smiled, half mysteriously, yet with a frankness that imaged truth.
“I have passed through trouble since I spoke50 with you by the river,” she said.
Gabriel listened in silence as she spoke to him of much that had passed at the house amid the yews51. The twain might have been in each other’s hearts for years. When he questioned her at the end thereof she showed him her hands, less white than of yore and roughened with toil52.
“I am alone now,” she said.
“No one to help.”
“I do all for my father’s sake. It is better so. He is growing very decrepit53.”
“You must be utterly lonely.”
“I am—at times.”
“And yet you have no friends?”
“None.”
“It is over hard.”
She smiled, and there was a look of strange happiness upon her face. Perhaps the man’s sympathy was more to her than either of them had realized. Gabriel had forgotten for a moment the eternal bathos of modernity.
“I would that I could help you,” he said.
Joan’s eyes were turned suddenly to his.
“You have helped me,” she answered.
“I?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“You have often been in my thoughts,” she said. “Pardon me if I seem too much a child. I have never been taught the shame of speaking what is uppermost in my mind. I am vastly ignorant.”
“You are wiser than I am.”
“No.”
“Pardon me, the world has not stiffened54 you with its multitudinous hypocrisies55. We society fools are jointed56 up in false affectations. We cannot live like honest human beings.”
“You do not seem false to me,” she said.
“God forbid!” he answered, with a sudden stirring of his conscience.
They were both silent a season. The girl’s words had rent the sky above the man’s head. He was conscious of the perilous egotism that had taken the guise57 of a darkling vision to lead him onward58 into a shadow-land of desire.
“You should not dream too much,” he said.
His voice startled her; she looked him in the face, her instincts probing his meaning.
“Why do you say that?” she said.
“By reason of a certain melancholy wisdom.”
“And yet—”
“I have been a dreamer,” he said, “but I have played the traitor59 to my dreams. I suppose it was inevitable60 in a land such as this. One cannot always stand with one’s back to the wall and fight orthodox dullards. I have not the energy to exist as a living protest against Philistinism. We men are often fools. Have you ever read of Tantalus?”
She pondered a moment and her face lightened.
“Tantalus?”
“The man in hades.”
“Who clutched at grapes when thirst tormented61 him, but was baffled ever.”
“Even so.”
“Cursed by the gods.”
“I am Tantalus,” he said.
She looked into the woods, solemn as a prophetess lost in dreams. A cloud had fallen upon Gabriel’s face. The girl felt its presence, though she had not looked into his eyes again.
“I should not have imagined it,” she said; “you did not seem to me to be unhappy.”
“Perhaps not.”
“I am sorry.”
“I do not deserve that you should be sorry for my sake.”
“I cannot think that.”
Gabriel mastered self with a grimness that would have served him well on certain other occasions had he been more the man. In negative fashion this girl gave him strength to adjudicate against his own dreams. She inspired and condemned62 by the same pure ravishment of beauty.
“I would have you know,” he said, “that I am a man bound by chains of my own forging. The blame is mine; I accept it. I may not say, ‘Lo, here is my heart; I may surrender it into the hand of her whose head touches the stars.’ My eyes must remain mute, my soul untongued. I am no longer myself. Think over these words and you may understand in measure.”
Joan Gildersedge did not answer him for several minutes.
“I understand,” she said; “and yet you are not happy.”
“That is the mockery of life. Men think I have everything; I have nothing.”
“Then we are both lonely.”
“Nor may we help each other.”
The sky had darkened; a cloud seemed to have dimmed the sun. A wind woke restless in the woods and the flowers shivered in the waning63 sunlight. Joan had risen from the altar. She held her hat in her hand, but did not look at Gabriel as he stood in silence at her side.
“I wonder if I shall ever see you again,” she said.
The man had grown pale, and his eyes were stern, yet miserable64.
“Perhaps,” he answered.
“I shall think of you.”
“And I also.”
“Good-bye.”
As by a sudden inspiration he kissed her hand as he had kissed it by the Mallan water. When she had left him he remained by the crumbling altar, with its screen of purple nightshade, staring out over the sea. Man-wise, he would have given heaven to have left unsaid the words he had spoken to the girl that day.
The same night he read a letter from Ophelia, a letter garrulous65 with vapid66 passion, decreeing the day when they should wed2. Gabriel sat by the window as the dusk came down and watched the night embalm67 the world in gloom. A sonnet68 fell from his lips as he brooded. He wrote it down, a rough scrawl69 in the twilight.
??“Shall I despair because the day is dead,
And all thy strange, sad witchery has passed
Into the gold of visions! Shall I cast
My soul to where the hands of Night outspread
Those cosmic epics70, the emotions dread
Of panting planets and of stars aghast!
Shall I bemoan71 the raptures72 that outlast73
The sun’s swift splendors74 that so soon are sped!
“Have I not felt the magic of thy hand,
And watched the sun make amber75 of thy hair!
Have I not touched thee! For thy laughter planned,
And delved76 thy glances with a grand despair!
Never near mine may thy pure bosom77 sleep.
Since thou art woe78, then let me live to weep.”
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收听单词发音
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1
aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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2
wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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3
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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4
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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5
reclaimed
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| adj.再生的；翻造的；收复的；回收的v.开拓( reclaim的过去式和过去分词 )；要求收回；从废料中回收（有用的材料）；挽救 | |
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6
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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7
mouldering
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| v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 )；腐烂，崩塌 | |
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8
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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9
strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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10
forum
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| n.论坛，讨论会 | |
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11
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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12
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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13
gainsaid
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| v.否认，反驳( gainsay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14
relics
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| [pl.］n.遗物，遗迹，遗产；遗体，尸骸 | |
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15
perpetuated
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| vt.使永存（perpetuate的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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16
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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17
bowered
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| adj.凉亭的，有树荫的 | |
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18
mantled
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| 披着斗篷的，覆盖着的 | |
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19
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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20
plumed
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| 饰有羽毛的 | |
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21
mound
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| n.土墩，堤，小山；v.筑堤，用土堆防卫 | |
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22
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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23
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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24
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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25
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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26
idyllic
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| adj.质朴宜人的，田园风光的 | |
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27
beholds
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| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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28
vapor
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| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
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29
importunate
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| adj.强求的；纠缠不休的 | |
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30
beacons
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| 灯塔( beacon的名词复数 )； 烽火； 指路明灯； 无线电台或发射台 | |
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31
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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32
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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33
utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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34
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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35
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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36
scoff
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| n.嘲笑，笑柄，愚弄；v.嘲笑，嘲弄，愚弄，狼吞虎咽 | |
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37
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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38
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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39
harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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40
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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41
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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42
pessimist
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| n.悲观者；悲观主义者；厌世 | |
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43
ignominiously
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| adv.耻辱地，屈辱地，丢脸地 | |
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44
ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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45
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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46
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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47
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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48
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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49
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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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
yews
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| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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52
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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53
decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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54
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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55
hypocrisies
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| n.伪善，虚伪( hypocrisy的名词复数 ) | |
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56
jointed
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| 有接缝的 | |
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57
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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58
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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59
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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60
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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61
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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62
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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63
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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64
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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65
garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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66
vapid
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| adj.无味的；无生气的 | |
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67
embalm
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| v.保存（尸体）不腐 | |
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68
sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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69
scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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70
epics
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| n.叙事诗( epic的名词复数 )；壮举；惊人之举；史诗般的电影（或书籍） | |
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71
bemoan
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| v.悲叹，哀泣，痛哭；惋惜，不满于 | |
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72
raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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73
outlast
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| v.较…耐久 | |
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74
splendors
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| n.华丽( splendor的名词复数 )；壮丽；光辉；显赫 | |
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75
amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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76
delved
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| v.深入探究，钻研( delve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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78
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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