Note you here, humans, that in reality you do not, even the richest of you, try to get away from your brothers. You do not like solitudes2; you like sham3, theatrical4 solitudes. You like the Highlands on condition that you have driven away the people rooted there, but also on condition that you may have there the wine called champagne5. Now if you had seen that wine made, the gathering6 of the apples in the orchards7 of the Rhine and the Moselle, the adding of the sugar, the watching of the fermentation, and the corking8 with a curious machine, you would appreciate that if you insist upon champagne in the Highlands, then you are certainly[202] taking humanity with you. If you could follow the thing farther and see them all passing the stuff on, each a little afraid of being found out, then you would know that as you drank your champagne in the most solitary9 valley you had done far from getting rid of humanity. All the grotesque11 of man and all his jollity, all his stupidity and all his sin, went with you into your hermitage and it would have gone with you anyhow without the champagne. You cannot make a desert except by staying away from it yourself. All of which leads me to the Barber.
First, then, to give you the true framework of that astonishing man. For exactly thirty-six hours there had been nothing at all in the way of men; and if thirty-six hours seems but a short time to you as you read it, it certainly was a mighty12 long time for me who am writing this. Of those thirty-six hours the first few had been enlivened (that is, from five in the morning till about noon) with the sight of a properly made road, of worked stone, of mown grass, and of all that my fellow beings are busily at throughout the world. For though I had not seen a man, yet the marks of men were all around, and at last as I went into the Uplands I bade farewell to my kind in the shape of an old rusty13 pair of rails still united by little iron sleepers14, one link of a Decauville railway which a generation before had led to a now abandoned mine.
My way over the mountains lay up a gulley which[203] turned as unexpectedly as might the street of a medi?val town; and which was quite as narrow and as enwalled as the street of any city; but instead of houses there were ugly rocks, and instead of people very probably viewless devils. Still, though I hated to be away from men I went on because I desired to cross the high ridge15 which separated me from a dear pastoral people, of whom I had heard from poets and of whom I had read in old books. They were a democracy simple and austere16, though a little given to thieving, and every man was a master of his house and a citizen within the State. This curious little place I determined17 to see, though the approach to it was difficult. There are many such in Europe, but this one lies peculiarly alone, and is respected, and I might say in a sense worshipped, by the powerful Government to which it is nominally18 subject.
Well, then, I went on up over the ridge and, by that common trick of mountains, the great height and the very long way somehow missed me; it grew dark before I was aware, and when I could have sworn I was about four thousand feet up I was close upon eight thousand. I had hoped to manage the Farther Valleys before nightfall, but when I found it was impossible what I did was this: I scrambled20 down the first four or five hundred feet of the far side before it was quite dark, until I came to the beginnings of a stream that leapt from ledge21 to ledge. It was not large enough to supply a cottage[204] well, but it would do to camp by, for all one needs is water, and there was a little brushwood to burn. Next morning with the first of the light I went on my scramble19 downwards—and it was the old story (which everyone who has wandered in the great mountains of Europe knows so well), I was in the Wrong Valley. I was used to that sort of thing, and I recognised the signs of it at once. I made up my mind for a good day’s effort, which, when one is by oneself, is an exasperating22 thing; I tried to guess from my map what sort of error I had made (and failed). I knew that if I followed running water I should come at last to men. At about three o’clock in the afternoon I made a good meal of stale bread, wine, and my companion the torrent23, which had now grown to be a sort of river and made as much noise as though it were a politician. Then I thought I would sleep a little, and did so (you must excuse so many details, they are all necessary). It was five when I rose and took up my journey again. I shouldered the pack and stolidly24 determined that another night out in these warmer lowlands would not hurt me, when I saw something which is quite unmistakable upon the grass of those particular hills, a worn patch, and another worn patch a yard or two ahead. That meant a road, and a road means men—sooner or later.
Sure enough, within half a mile, the worn patches having become now almost continuous, I rounded a big rock and there was a group of huts.
[205]There were perhaps two dozen of them, perhaps more. Three-quarters were built of great logs with large, very flat roofs over them held down by stones; one quarter were built of the same rough stones, and there was a tiny church of dirt colour, with two windows; and neither window had glass in it. I had found men. And I had found something more.
For as I went down the main street of this Polity (they had “Main Street” stuck up in their language at the corner of the only possible mud alley10 of their town) I saw that blessed sight which sings to the heart and is one of the thirteen signs of civilisation25, a barber’s pole. It was not very good; it was not planed or polished; the bark was still upon the chestnut26 wood of it; but there was a spiral of red round it in the orthodox fashion, at the end of it a tuft of red wool, and underneath27 it in very faded rough letters upon a board the words, “Here it is barbered.” More was to follow. I confess that I desired to draw, for beyond the little huts the mountains, once dreadful, now, being so far above me, compelled my attention. But just as I had sat down upon a great stone to draw their outline, there appeared through the disgusting little door under the barber’s pole one of those humans whom I have mentioned so often in these lines.
He was about thirty, but he had never known care; his complexion28 was pink and white, his eyes were lively, his brown hair was short, curled, trimmed[206] and oily, and some fifteen degrees from the middle of his head to the eastward29 went a very clear white line which was the parting of his hair. His two little moustaches curled upwards30 like rams’ horns; his chin was square and firm, but very full and healthy. He was looking out for customers. Oh, Humanity, my brothers, Divine Object of the Positivists, Plaything of the Theologians, Food of the God of War, Great of Destiny, Victim of Experience, Doubtful of Doom31, Foreknowing of Death, Humanity enslaved, exultant32, always on the march, never arriving, the only thing yet made that can laugh and can cry, Humanity, in fine, which was generously designed as matter for poets, hear! He was looking out for customers! Even to the railways of his own land it was nearly a hundred miles; no one read print; beyond Latin no foreign language perhaps was known. No vehicle on wheels had ever been into that place, even the maps were wrong, no one therein had seen a metalled road, a ship of any kind, nor perhaps one polished stone. But he was looking out for customers.
He spotted33 me. He used no subterfuge34; he smiled and beckoned35 with his finger, and I went at once, as men do when the Figure appears at the Doorway36 of the Feast and beckons37 some one of the revellers into the darkness. I obeyed. He put a towel round my neck; he lathered38 my chin; I gazed at the ceiling, and he began to shave.
On the ceiling was an advertisement in the English[207] tongue. I am inured39 by this time to the inconceivable stupidity of modern commerce, but (as the Pwca said to the Acorn) “the like of this I never saw.” There most certainly was not a man in the whole place who had ever heard of the English language, nor, I will bet a boot, had anyone been there before me who did, at any rate not since the pilgrimages stopped. Yet there was this advertisement staring me in the face, and what it told me to do was to buy a certain kind of bicycle. It gave no evidence in favour of the thing. It asserted. It said that this bicycle was the best. There was a picture of a young man riding on the bicycle, and under it in very small letters in the language of the country an address where such bicycles might be bought. The address was in a town as far away as Bristol is from Hull40, and between it was range upon range of mountains, and never a road.
I watched this advertisement, and the Barber all the while talked to me of the things of this world.
He would have it that I was a stranger. He mentioned the place—it was about eighty miles away—from which I came. He said he knew it at once by my accent and my hesitation41 over their tongue. He asked me questions upon the politics of the place, and when I could not reply he assured me that he meant no harm; he knew that politics were not to be discussed among gentlemen. He recommended to me what barbers always recommend, and I saw that his bottles were from the ends of the earth—some[208] French, some German, some American—at least their labels were. Then when he had shaved me he very politely began to whistle a tune42.
It was a music-hall tune. I had heard it first eighteen months before in Glasgow, but it had come there from New York. It was already beginning to be stale in London—it did not seem very new to the Barber, for he whistled it with thorough knowledge, and he added trills and voluntary passages of merit and originality43. I asked him how much there was to pay. He named so considerable a sum that I looked at him doubtfully, but he still smiled, and I paid him.
I asked him next how far it might be to the next village down the valley. He said three hours. I went on, and found that he had spoken the truth.
In that next village I slept, and I went forward all the next day and half the next before I came to what you would call a town. But all the while the Barber remained in my mind. There are people like this all over the world, even on the edges of eternity44. How can one ever be lonely?
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1
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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2
solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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6
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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7
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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corking
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| adj.很好的adv.非常地v.用瓶塞塞住( cork的现在分词 ) | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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10
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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12
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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sleepers
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| n.卧铺（通常以复数形式出现）；卧车( sleeper的名词复数 )；轨枕；睡觉（呈某种状态）的人；小耳环 | |
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15
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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nominally
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| 在名义上，表面地； 应名儿 | |
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19
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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21
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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stolidly
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| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
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civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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26
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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27
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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28
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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29
eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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30
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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31
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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32
exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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33
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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34
subterfuge
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| n.诡计；藉口 | |
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35
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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beckons
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的第三人称单数 ) | |
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38
lathered
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| v.（指肥皂）形成泡沫( lather的过去式和过去分词 )；用皂沫覆盖；狠狠地打 | |
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39
inured
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| adj.坚强的，习惯的 | |
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40
hull
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| n.船身；(果、实等的)外壳；vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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41
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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42
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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43
originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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44
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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