Such a people lived in Timgad and left it probably about the time that waning2 Rome began to call home her outposts. Long after the citizens left the city stood on that high plateau in Africa, teaching shepherd Arabs what Rome had been: even to-day its great arches and parts of its temples stand: its paved streets are still grooved3 clearly with the wheel-ruts of chariots, and beaten down on each side of the centre by the pairs of horses that drew them two thousand years ago. When all the clatter4 had died away Timgad stood there in silence.
At Pompeii, city and citizens ended together. Pompeii did not mourn among strangers, a city without a people: but was buried at once, closed like an ancient book.
I doubt if anyone knows why its gods deserted5 Luxor, or Luxor lost faith in its gods, or in itself; conquest from over the desert or down the Nile, I suppose, or corruption6 within. Who knows? But one day I saw a woman come out from the back of her house and empty a basket full of dust and rubbish right into the temple at Luxor, where a dark green god is seated, three times the size of a man, buried as high as his waist. I suppose that what I saw had been happening off and on pretty well every morning for the last four thousand years. Safe under the dust that that woman threw, and the women that lived before her, Time hid his secrets.
And then I have seen the edges of stones in deserts that might or might not have been cities: they had fallen so long that you could hardly say.
At all these cities, whether disaster met them, and ruin came suddenly on to crowded streets; or whether they passed slowly out of fashion, and grew quieter year by year while the jackals drew nearer and nearer; at all these cities one can look with interest and not be saddened by the faintest sorrow—for anything that happened to such a different people so very long ago. Ram-headed gods, although their horns be broken and all their worshippers gone; armies whose elephants have turned against them; kings whose ancestors have eclipsed their faces in heaven and left them helpless against the onslaught of the stars; not a tear is given for one of these to-day.
But when in ruins as complete as Pompeii, as desolate7 as Timgad amongst its African hills, you see the remnant of a pack of cards lying with what remains8 of the stock of a draper's shop; and the front part of the shop and the snug9 room at the back gape10 side by side together in equal, misery11, as though there had never been a barrier between the counter with its wares12 and the good mahogany table with its decanters; then in the rustling13 of papers that blow with dust along long-desolate floors one hears the whisper of Disaster, saying, "See; I have come." For under plaster shaken down by calamity14, and red dust that once was bricks, it is our own age that is lying; and the little things that lie about the floors are relics15 of the twentieth century. Therefore in the streets of Bethune the wistful appeal that is in all things lost far off and utterly16 passed away cries out with an insistence17 that is never felt in the older fallen cities. No doubt to future times the age that lies under plaster in Bethune, with thin, bare laths standing18 over it, will appear an age of glory; and yet to thousands that went one day from its streets, leaving all manner of small things behind, it may well have been an age full of far other promises, no less golden to them, no less magical even, though too little to stir the pen of History, busy with batteries and imperial dooms19. So that to these, whatever others may write, the twentieth-century will not be the age of strategy, but will only seem to have been those fourteen lost quiet summers whose fruits lie under the plaster.
That layer of plaster and brick-dust lies on the age that has gone, as final, as fatal, as the layer of flints that covers the top of the chalk and marks the end of an epoch20 and some unknown geologic21 catastrophe22.
It is only by the little things in Bethune, lying where they were left, that one can trace at all what kind of house each was, or guess at the people who dwelt in it. It is only by a potato growing where Pavement was, and flowering vigorously under a vacant window, that one can guess that the battered23, house beside it was once a fruiterer's shop, whence the potato rolled away when man fell on evil days, and found the street, no longer harsh and unfriendly; but soft and fertile like the primal24 waste, and took root and throve there as its forbears throve before it in another continent before the coming of man.
Across the street, in the dust of a stricken house, the implements25 of his trade show where a carpenter lived when disaster came so suddenly, quite good tools, some still upon shelves, some amongst broken things that lie all over the floor. And further along the street in which these things are someone has put up a great iron shutter26 that was to protect his shop. It has a graceful27 border of painted, irises28 all the way up each side. It might have been a jeweller that would have had such a shutter. The shutter alone remains standing straight upright, and the whole shop is gone.
And just here the shaken street ends and all the streets end together. The rest is a mound29 of white stones and pieces of bricks with low, leaning walls surrounding it, and the halves of hollow houses; and eyeing it round a comer, one old tower of the cathedral, as though still gazing over its congregation of houses, a mined, melancholy30 watcher. Over the bricks lie tracks, but no more streets. It is about the middle of the town, a hawk31 goes over, calling as though he flew over the waste, and as though the waste were his. The breeze that carries him opens old shutters32 and flaps them to again. Old, useless hinges moan; wall-paper whispers. Three French soldiers trying to find their homes walk over the bricks and groundsel.
It is the Abomination of Desolation, not seen by prophecy far off in some fabulous33 future, nor remembered from terrible ages by the aid of papyrus34 and stone, but fallen on our own century, on the homes of folk like ourselves: common things that we knew are become the relics of bygone days. It is our own time that has ended in blood and broken bricks.
点击收听单词发音
1 prying | |
adj.爱打听的v.打听,刺探(他人的私事)( pry的现在分词 );撬开 | |
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2 waning | |
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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3 grooved | |
v.沟( groove的过去式和过去分词 );槽;老一套;(某种)音乐节奏 | |
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4 clatter | |
v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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5 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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6 corruption | |
n.腐败,堕落,贪污 | |
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7 desolate | |
adj.荒凉的,荒芜的;孤独的,凄凉的;v.使荒芜,使孤寂 | |
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8 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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9 snug | |
adj.温暖舒适的,合身的,安全的;v.使整洁干净,舒适地依靠,紧贴;n.(英)酒吧里的私房 | |
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10 gape | |
v.张口,打呵欠,目瞪口呆地凝视 | |
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11 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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12 wares | |
n. 货物, 商品 | |
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13 rustling | |
n. 瑟瑟声,沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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14 calamity | |
n.灾害,祸患,不幸事件 | |
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15 relics | |
[pl.]n.遗物,遗迹,遗产;遗体,尸骸 | |
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16 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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17 insistence | |
n.坚持;强调;坚决主张 | |
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18 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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19 dooms | |
v.注定( doom的第三人称单数 );判定;使…的失败(或灭亡、毁灭、坏结局)成为必然;宣判 | |
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20 epoch | |
n.(新)时代;历元 | |
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21 geologic | |
adj.地质的 | |
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22 catastrophe | |
n.大灾难,大祸 | |
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23 battered | |
adj.磨损的;v.连续猛击;磨损 | |
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24 primal | |
adj.原始的;最重要的 | |
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25 implements | |
n.工具( implement的名词复数 );家具;手段;[法律]履行(契约等)v.实现( implement的第三人称单数 );执行;贯彻;使生效 | |
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26 shutter | |
n.百叶窗;(照相机)快门;关闭装置 | |
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27 graceful | |
adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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28 irises | |
n.虹( iris的名词复数 );虹膜;虹彩;鸢尾(花) | |
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29 mound | |
n.土墩,堤,小山;v.筑堤,用土堆防卫 | |
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30 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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31 hawk | |
n.鹰,骗子;鹰派成员 | |
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32 shutters | |
百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 ); (照相机的)快门 | |
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33 fabulous | |
adj.极好的;极为巨大的;寓言中的,传说中的 | |
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34 papyrus | |
n.古以纸草制成之纸 | |
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