The one thing that struck me most about him was his love of the sea. If he was ill, he said, it114 must be by the sea. It was a boyish love evidently which had never died out of his heart. It seemed to be his sole fondness and the only thing of which he spoke7 tenderly.
He was born, I found, at Salcombe, in Devonshire. At that place, as many know, the sea rushes in between two headlands and, pouring over rocky terraces and around sandy bays, flows by the little town and thence away up the estuary8. At the last it creeps tamely among meadows and cornfields to the tottering9 quay10 at the foot of Kingsbridge.
On the estuary he had spent his early days, and here he and a boy after his own heart had made gracious acquaintance with the sea. When school was done the boys were ever busy among the creeks12, playing at smugglers or at treasure seekers so long as the light lasted. Or they hung about the wharf13, among the boats and the picturesque14 litter of the sea, where they recalled in ineffable15 colours the tales of pirates and the Spanish Main which they had read by the winter fire. The reality of the visions was made keener when they strutted16 about the deck of the poor semi-domestic coaling brig which leaned wearily against the harbour side or climbed over the bulwarks17 of the old schooner18, which had been wrecked19 on the115 beach before they were born, with all the dash of buccaneers.
In their hearts they were both resolved to “follow the sea” but fate turned their footsteps elsewhere, for one became a mining engineer in the colonies and the other a clerk in a stockbroker’s office in London.
In spite of years of uncongenial work and of circumstances which took them far beyond the paradise of tides and salt winds the two boys, as men, ever kept green the memory of the romance-abounding sea. He who was to be a clerk became a pale-faced man who wore spectacles and whose back was bent20 from much stooping over books. I can think of him at his desk in the City on some day in June, gazing through a dingy21 window at a palisade of walls and roofs. The clerk’s pen is still, for the light on the chimney-pots has changed to a flood of sun upon the Devon cliffs, and the noise of the streets to the sound of waves tumbling among rocks or bubbling over pebbles22. There are sea-gulls in the air, while far away a grey barque is blown along before the freshening breeze and the only roofs in view belong to the white cottages about the beach. Then comes the ring of a telephone bell and the dream vanishes.
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So with the man whose life was cast in unkindly lands. He would recall times when the heat in the camp was stifling24, when the heartless plain shimmered25 as if it burnt, when water was scarce and what there was of it was warm, while the torment26 of insects was beyond bearing. At such times he would wonder how the tide stood in the estuary at home. Was the flood swirling27 up from the Channel, bringing with its clear eddies28 the smell of the ocean as it hurried in and out among the piles of the old pier29? Or was it the time of the ebb23 when stretches of damp sand come out at the foot of cliffs and when ridges30 of rock, dripping with cool weed, emerge once more into the sun? What a moment for a swim! Yet here on the veldt there was but half a pint31 of water in his can and a land stretching before him that was scorched32 to cracking, dusty and shadowless.
It was in connexion with his illness that I came across him. His trouble was obscure, but after much consideration it was decided33 that an operation, although a forlorn hope, should be attempted. If the disease proved to be benign34 there was prospect5 of a cure; if a cancer was discovered the outlook was hopeless.
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He settled that he would have the operation performed at the seaside, at a town on the south coast, within easy reach of London. Rooms were secured for him in a house on the cliffs. From the windows stretched a fine prospect of the Channel, while from them also could be seen the little harbour of the place.
The surgeon and his assistant came down from London and I with them. The room in which the operation was to be performed was hard and unsympathetic. It had been cleared of all its accustomed furniture. On the bare floor a white sheet had been placed, and in the middle of this square stood the operation table like a machine of torture. Beyond the small bed the patient was to occupy and the tables set out for the instruments the room was empty. Two nurses were busy with the preparations for the operation and were gossiping genially35 in whispers. There was a large bow-window in the room of the type much favoured at seaside resorts. The window was stripped of its curtains so that the sunlight poured in upon the uncovered floor. It was a cloudless morning in July.
The hard-worked surgeon from London had a passion for sailing and had come with the hope that he might spend some hours on the sea after his118 work was done. His assistant and I were to go with him.
When all the preparations for the operation were completed the patient walked into the room erect36 and unconcerned. He stepped to the table and, mounting it jauntily37, sat on it bolt upright and gazed out earnestly at the sea. Following his eyes I could see that in the harbour the men were already hoisting38 the mainsail of the little yawl in which we were to sail.
The patient still sat up rigidly39, and for so long that the surgeon placed a hand upon his shoulder to motion him to lie down. But he kept fixedly41 gazing out to sea. Minutes elapsed and yet he moved not. The surgeon, with some expression of anxiety, once more motioned him to lie down, but still he kept his look seawards. At last the rigid40 muscles relaxed, and as he let his head drop upon the pillow he said, “I have seen the last of it—the last of the sea—you can do what you like with me now.” He had, indeed, taken, as he thought, farewell of his old love, of the sea of his boyhood and of many happy memories. The eyes of the patient closed upon the sight of the English Channel radiant in the sun, and as the mask of the an?sthetist was placed over his face he muttered, “I have said good-bye.”
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The trouble revealed by the surgeon proved to be cancer, and when, some few days after the operation, the weary man was told the nature of his malady42 he said, with a smile, he would take no more trouble to live. In fourteen days he died.
Every day his bed was brought close to the window so that the sun could fall upon him, so that his eyes could rest upon the stretch of water and the sound of waves could fall upon his tired ears.
The friend of his boyhood, the clerk, came down from London to see him. They had very little to say to one another when they met. After the simplest greeting was over the sick man turned his face towards the sea and for long he and his old companion gazed at the blue Channel in silence. There was no need for speech. It was the sea that spoke for them. It was evident that they were both back again at Salcombe, at some beloved creek11, and that they were boys once more playing by the sea. The sick man’s hand moved across the coverlet to search for the hand of his friend, and when the fingers met they closed in a grip of gratitude43 for the most gracious memory of their lives.
The failing man’s last sight of the sea was120 one evening at sundown when the tide was swinging away to the west. His look lingered upon the fading waves until the night set in. Then the blind of the window was drawn44 down.
Next morning at sunrise it was not drawn up, for the lover of the sea was dead.
点击收听单词发音
1 gnawing | |
a.痛苦的,折磨人的 | |
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2 blanched | |
v.使变白( blanch的过去式 );使(植物)不见阳光而变白;酸洗(金属)使有光泽;用沸水烫(杏仁等)以便去皮 | |
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3 sleepless | |
adj.不睡眠的,睡不著的,不休息的 | |
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4 prospecting | |
n.探矿 | |
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5 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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6 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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7 spoke | |
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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8 estuary | |
n.河口,江口 | |
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9 tottering | |
adj.蹒跚的,动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 );踉跄;蹒跚;摇摇欲坠 | |
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10 quay | |
n.码头,靠岸处 | |
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11 creek | |
n.小溪,小河,小湾 | |
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12 creeks | |
n.小湾( creek的名词复数 );小港;小河;小溪 | |
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13 wharf | |
n.码头,停泊处 | |
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14 picturesque | |
adj.美丽如画的,(语言)生动的,绘声绘色的 | |
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15 ineffable | |
adj.无法表达的,不可言喻的 | |
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16 strutted | |
趾高气扬地走,高视阔步( strut的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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17 bulwarks | |
n.堡垒( bulwark的名词复数 );保障;支柱;舷墙 | |
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18 schooner | |
n.纵帆船 | |
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19 wrecked | |
adj.失事的,遇难的 | |
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20 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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21 dingy | |
adj.昏暗的,肮脏的 | |
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22 pebbles | |
[复数]鹅卵石; 沙砾; 卵石,小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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23 ebb | |
vi.衰退,减退;n.处于低潮,处于衰退状态 | |
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24 stifling | |
a.令人窒息的 | |
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25 shimmered | |
v.闪闪发光,发微光( shimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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26 torment | |
n.折磨;令人痛苦的东西(人);vt.折磨;纠缠 | |
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27 swirling | |
v.旋转,打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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28 eddies | |
(水、烟等的)漩涡,涡流( eddy的名词复数 ) | |
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29 pier | |
n.码头;桥墩,桥柱;[建]窗间壁,支柱 | |
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30 ridges | |
n.脊( ridge的名词复数 );山脊;脊状突起;大气层的)高压脊 | |
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31 pint | |
n.品脱 | |
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32 scorched | |
烧焦,烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 ); 使(植物)枯萎,把…晒枯; 高速行驶; 枯焦 | |
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33 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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34 benign | |
adj.善良的,慈祥的;良性的,无危险的 | |
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35 genially | |
adv.亲切地,和蔼地;快活地 | |
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36 erect | |
n./v.树立,建立,使竖立;adj.直立的,垂直的 | |
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37 jauntily | |
adv.心满意足地;洋洋得意地;高兴地;活泼地 | |
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38 hoisting | |
起重,提升 | |
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39 rigidly | |
adv.刻板地,僵化地 | |
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40 rigid | |
adj.严格的,死板的;刚硬的,僵硬的 | |
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41 fixedly | |
adv.固定地;不屈地,坚定不移地 | |
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42 malady | |
n.病,疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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43 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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44 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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