There was apparently8 comfort, abundance and quiet[187] everywhere. They were seen in the rickyards where grand haystacks, newly thatched, stood around ancient walnut-trees. Even the beeches9 had a decorous look in their smooth boles and perfect lavish10 foliage5. The little patches of flowery turf by the roadside and at corners were brighter and warmer than ever, as the black bees and the tawny11 skipper butterflies flew from bloom to bloom of the crimson13 knapweed. Amplest and most unctuous14 of all in their expression of the ceremonious leisure of the day and the maturity15 of the season were the cart-horses. They leaned their large heads benignly16 over the rails or gates; their roan or chestnut17 flanks were firm and polished; manes, tails and fetlocks spotless; now and then they lifted up their feet and pressed their toes into the ground, showing their enormous shoes that shone and were of girth sufficient to make a girdle for the lightest of the maids passing by.
Sunday with not too strict a rod of black and white ruled the land and made it all but tedious except in the longest of the green lanes, which dipped steeply under oaks to a brook18 muffled19 in leaves and rose steeply again, a track so wet in spring—and full of the modest golden green of saxifrage flowers—that only the hottest Sunday ever saw it disturbed except by carter and horses. In a hundred yards the oak-hidden windings20 gave the traveller a feeling of reclusion21 as if he were coiled in a spool22; very soon a feeling of possession ripened23 into one of armed tyranny if another’s steps clattered24 on the stones above. Sometimes in a goodly garden a straight alley25 of shadows leads away from the bright frequented borders to—we know not quite whither, and perhaps, too much delighted with half-sad reverie, never learn, smother26 even the[188] guesses of fancy, lest they should bring some old unpleasant truth in their train; but if the fancy will thread the alley and pass the last of the shadows it is into some such lane as this that it would gladly emerge, to come at last upon the pure wild. It seemed that I had come upon the pure wild in this lane, for in a bay of turf alongside the track, just large enough for a hut and thickly sheltered by an oak, though the south-west sun crept in, was a camp. Under the oak and at the edge of the tangled27 bramble and brier and bracken was a low purple light from those woodside flowers, self-heal and wood-betony. A perambulator with a cabbage in it stood at one corner; leaning against it was an ebony-handled umbrella and two or three umbrella-frames; underneath28 it an old postman’s bag containing a hammer and other tools. Close by stood half a loaf on a newspaper, several bottles of bright water, a black pot of potatoes ready for boiling, a tin of water steaming against a small fire of hazel twigs29. Out on the sunny grass two shirts were drying. In the midst was the proprietor30, his name revealed in fresh chalk on the side of his perambulator: “John Clark, Hampshire.”
He had spent his last pence on potatoes and had been given the cabbage. No one would give him work on a Sunday. He had no home, no relations. Being deaf, he did not look for company. So he stood up, to get dry and to think, think, think, his hands on his hips31, while he puffed32 at an empty pipe. During his meditation33 a snail34 had crawled half-way up his trousers, and was now all but down again. He was of middle height and build, the crookedest of men, yet upright, like a branch of oak which comes straight with all its twistings. His head[189] was small and round, almost covered by bristly grey hair like lichen35, through which peered quiet blue eyes; the face was irregular, almost shapeless, like dough36 being kneaded, worn by travel, passion, pain, and not a few blows; where the skin was visible at all through the hair it was like red sandstone; his teeth were white and strong and short like an old dog’s. His rough neck descended37 into a striped half-open shirt, to which was added a loose black waistcoat divided into thin perpendicular38 stripes by ribs39 of faded gold; his trousers, loose and patched and short, approached the colour of a hen pheasant; his bare feet were partly hidden by old black boots. His voice was hoarse40 and, for one of his enduring look, surprisingly small, and produced with an effort and a slight jerk of the head.
He was a Sussex man, born in the year 1831, on June the twenty-first (it seemed a foppery in him to remember the day, and it was impossible to imagine with what ceremony he had remembered it year by year, during half a century or near it, on the roads of Sussex, Kent, Surrey and Hampshire). His mother was a Wild—there were several of them buried not far away under the carved double-headed tombstones by the old church with the lancet windows and the four yews41. He was a labourer’s son, and he had already had a long life of hoeing and reaping and fagging when he enlisted42 at Chatham. He had kept his musket43 bright, slept hard and wet, and starved on thirteenpence a day, moving from camp to camp every two years. He had lost his youth in battle, for a bullet went through his knee; he lay four months in hospital, and they took eighteen pieces of bone out of his wound—he was still indignant because he was[190] described as only “slightly wounded” when he was discharged after a “short service” of thirteen years. He showed his gnarled knee to explain his crookedness45. Little he could tell of the battle except the sobbing46 of the soldier next to him—“a London chap from Haggerston way. Lord! he called for his mother and his God and me to save him, and the noise he made was worse than the firing and the groaning47 of the horses, and I was just thinking how I could stop his mouth for him when a bullet hits me, and down I goes like a baby.”
He had been on the road forty years. For a short time after his discharge he worked on the land and lived in a cottage with his wife and one child. The church bells were beginning to ring, and I asked him if he was going to church. At first he said nothing, but looked down at his striped waistcoat and patched trousers; then, with a quick violent gesture of scorn, he lifted up his head and even threw it back before he spoke48. “Besides,” he said, “I remember how it was my little girl died——My little girl, says I, but she would have been a big handsome woman now, forty-eight years old on the first of May that is gone. She was lying in bed with a little bit of a cough, and she was gone as white as a lily, and I went in to her when I came home from reaping. I saw she looked bad and quiet-like—like a fish in a hedge—and something came over me, and I caught hold of both her hands in both of mine and held them tight, and put my head close up to hers and said, ‘Now look here, Polly, you’ve got to get well. Your mother and me can’t stand losing you. And you aren’t meant to die; such a one as you be for a lark.’ And I squeezed her little hands, and all my nature seemed to rise up and try to make her get[191] well. Polly she looked whiter than ever and afraid; I suppose I was a bit rough and dirty and sunburnt, for ’twas a hot harvest and ’twas the end of the second week of it, and I was that fierce I felt I ought to have had my way.... All that night I thought I had done a wrong thing trying to keep her from dying that way, and I tell you I cried in case I had done any harm by it.... That very night she died without our knowing it. She was a bonny maid, that fond of flowers. The night she was taken ill she was coming home with me from the Thirteen Acre, where I’d been hoeing the mangolds, and she had picked a rose for her mother. All of a sudden she looks at it and says, ‘It’s gone, it’s broke, it’s gone, it’s gone, gone, gone,’ and she kept on, ‘It’s broke, it’s gone, it’s gone,’ and when she got home she ran up to her mother, crying, ‘The wild rose is broke, mother; broke, gone, gone,’ she says, just like that,” said the old man, in a high finical voice more like that of a bird than a child....
“Then my old woman—well, she was only a bit of a wench too; seventeen when we were married—she took ill and died within a week after.... There was a purpose in it.... It was then the end of harvest. I spent all my wages down at the Fighting Cocks, and then I set out to walk to Mildenhall in Wiltshire, where my wife came from. On the way I met a chap I had quarrelled with in Egypt, and he says to me, ‘Hullo, Scrammy-handed Jack,’ with a sort of look, and I, not thinking what I did, I set about him, and before I knew it he was lying there as might be dead, and I went and gave myself up, and I don’t mind saying that I wished I might be hanged for it. However, I did six months. That was how I came to be in the umbrella line. I took up with[192] a chap who did a bit of tinkering and umbrella-mending and grinding in the roving way, and a job of hoeing or mowing49 now and then. He died not so very long after in the year of the siege of Paris, and I have been alone ever since. Nor I haven’t been to church since, any more than a blackbird would go and perch50 on the shoulder of one of those ladies with feathers and wings and a bit of a fox in their hats.”
Labourer, soldier, labourer, tinker, umbrella man, he had always wandered, and knew the South Country between Fordingbridge and Dover as a man knows his garden. Every village, almost every farmhouse51, especially if there were hops52 on the land, he knew, and could see with his blue eyes as he remembered them and spoke their names. I never met a man who knew England as he did. As he talked of places his eyes were alight and turned in their direction, and his arm stretched out to point, moving as he went through his itinerary53, so that verily, wherever he was, he seemed to carry in his head the relative positions of all the other places where he had laboured and drunk and lit his solitary54 fire. “Was you ever at H——?” he said, pointing to the Downs, through which he seemed to see H—— itself. “General ——, that commanded us, lived there. He died there three years ago at the age of eighty-eight, and till he died I was always sure of a half-crown if I called there on a Christmas Eve, as I generally managed to do.” Of any place mentioned he could presently remember something significant—the words of a farmer, a song, a signboard, a wonderful crop, the good ale—the fact that forty-nine years ago the squire55 used to go to church in a smock frock. All the time his face was moved with free and broad[193] expressions as he thought and remembered, like an animal’s face. Living alone and never having to fit himself into human society, he had not learnt to keep his face in a vice44. He was returning—if the grave was not too near at the age of seventy-seven—to a primeval wildness and simplicity56. It was a pleasure to see him smoke—to note how it eased his chest—to see him spit and be the better for it. The outdoor life had brought him rheumatism57, but a clear brain also and a wild purity, a physical cleanliness too, and it was like being with a well-kept horse to stand beside him; and this his house was full of the scent of the bracken growing under the oaks. Earth had not been a kind but a stern mother, like some brawny58 full-bosomed housewife with many children, who spends all her long days baking and washing, and making clothes, and tending the sick one, and cutting bread and pouring out tea, and cuffing59 one and cuddling another and listening to one’s tale, and hushing their unanimous chatter60 with a shout or a bang of her enormous elbow on the table. The blows of such a one are shrewd, but they are not as the sweetness of her nursing voice for enduring in the memory of bearded men and many-childed women.
Once or twice again I met him in later summers near the same place. The last time he had been in the infirmary, and was much older. His fire was under the dense61 shelf of a spruce bough62 in a green deserted63 road worn deep in the chalk, blocked at both ends, and trodden by few mortal feet. Only a few yards away, under another spruce, lay a most ancient sheep who had apparently been turned into the lane to browse64 at peace. She was lame65 in one leg, and often fed as she knelt. Her[194] head was dark grey and wise, her eyes pearly green and iridescent66 with an oblong pupil of blackish-blue, quiet, yet full of fear; her wool was dense but short and of a cinder67 grey; her dark horny feet were overgrown from lack of use. She would not budge68 even when a dog sniffed69 at her, but only bowed her head and threatened vainly to butt12. She was huge and heavy and content, though always all alone. As she lay there, her wool glistening70 with rain, I had often wondered what those eyes were aware of, what part she played in the summer harmonies of night and day, the full night heavens and cloudless noon, storm and dawn, and the long moist heat of dewy mornings. She was now shorn, and the old man watched her as he drank the liquor in which a cabbage and a piece of bacon had been boiled. “I often thinks,” he said, “that I be something like that sheep ... ‘slightly wounded’ ... but not ‘short service’ now ... haha! ... left alone in this here lane to browse a bit while the weather’s fine and folks are kind.... But I don’t know but what she is better off. Look there,” he said, pointing to a wound which the shearer71 had made in one of her nipples, where flies clustered like a hideous72 flower of crape, “I have been spending this hour and more flicking73 the flies off her.... Nobody won’t do that for me—unless I come in for five shillings a week Old Age Pension. But I reckon that won’t be for a roving body like me without a letter-box.” In the neighbouring field a cart-horse shook herself with a noise of far-off thunder and laughed shrilly74 and threw up her heels and raced along the hedge. A bee could be seen going in and out of the transparent75 white flowers of convolvulus. The horse had her youth and strength and a workless day before her; the[195] bee its business, in which was its life, among sunbeams and flowers; and they were glad. The old man smacked76 his lips as he drained the salty broth77, tried three times to light his empty pipe and then knocked out the ashes and spat78 vigorously, and took a turn up the lane alone in the scent of the bracken.
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1
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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footpaths
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| 人行小径，人行道( footpath的名词复数 ) | |
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3
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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7
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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8
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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11
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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13
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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14
unctuous
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| adj.油腔滑调的，大胆的 | |
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15
maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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16
benignly
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| adv.仁慈地，亲切地 | |
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chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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18
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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windings
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| （道路、河流等）蜿蜒的，弯曲的( winding的名词复数 )； 缠绕( wind的现在分词 )； 卷绕； 转动（把手） | |
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reclusion
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| n.隐居遁世，隐居生活；隐退 | |
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spool
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| n.（缠录音带等的）卷盘（轴）；v.把…绕在卷轴上 | |
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23
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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25
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle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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29
twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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proprietor
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| n.所有人；业主；经营者 | |
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31
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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32
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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snail
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| n.蜗牛 | |
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lichen
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| n.地衣, 青苔 | |
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dough
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| n.生面团；钱，现款 | |
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37
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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38
perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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39
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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40
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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41
yews
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| n.紫杉( yew的名词复数 ) | |
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42
enlisted
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| adj.应募入伍的v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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43
musket
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| n.滑膛枪 | |
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44
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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45
crookedness
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| [医]弯曲 | |
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46
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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47
groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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48
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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49
mowing
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| n.割草，一次收割量，牧草地v.刈，割( mow的现在分词 ) | |
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50
perch
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| n.栖木，高位，杆；v.栖息，就位，位于 | |
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51
farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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52
hops
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| 跳上[下]( hop的第三人称单数 )； 单足蹦跳； 齐足（或双足）跳行； 摘葎草花 | |
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53
itinerary
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| n.行程表，旅行路线；旅行计划 | |
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54
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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55
squire
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| n.护卫, 侍从, 乡绅 | |
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56
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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57
rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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58
brawny
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| adj.强壮的 | |
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59
cuffing
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| v.掌打，拳打( cuff的现在分词 )；袖口状白血球聚集 | |
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60
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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61
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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62
bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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63
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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64
browse
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| vi.随意翻阅，浏览；(牛、羊等)吃草 | |
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65
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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66
iridescent
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| adj.彩虹色的，闪色的 | |
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67
cinder
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| n.余烬，矿渣 | |
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68
budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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69
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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70
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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71
shearer
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| n.剪羊毛的人；剪切机 | |
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72
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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73
flicking
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的现在分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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74
shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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75
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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76
smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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78
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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