The clouds were all fled, the beauty of the tropic day was spread upon Papeete; and the wall of breaking seas upon the reef, and the palms upon the islet, already trembled in the heat. A French man-of-war was going out, homeward bound; she lay in the middle distance of the port, an ant heap for activity. In the night a schooner2 had come in, and now lay far out, hard by the passage; and the yellow flag, the emblem3 of pestilence4, flew on her. From up the coast, a long procession of canoes headed round the point and towards the market, bright as a scarf with the many-coloured clothing of the natives and the piles of fruit. But not even the beauty and the welcome warmth of the morning, not even these naval5 movements, so interesting to sailors and to idlers, could engage the attention of the outcasts. They were still cold at heart, their mouths sour from the want of steep, their steps rambling6 from the lack of food; and they strung like lame7 geese along the beach in a disheartened silence. It was towards the town they moved; towards the town whence smoke arose, where happier folk were breakfasting; and as they went, their hungry eyes were upon all sides, but they were only scouting8 for a meal.
A small and dingy9 schooner lay snug10 against the quay11, with which it was connected by a plank12. On the forward deck, under a spot of awning13, five Kanakas who made up the crew, were squatted14 round a basin of fried feis, and drinking coffee from tin mugs.
‘Eight bells: knock off for breakfast!’ cried the captain with a miserable15 heartiness16. ‘Never tried this craft before; positively17 my first appearance; guess I’ll draw a bumper18 house.’
He came close up to where the plank rested on the grassy19 quay; turned his back upon the schooner, and began to whistle that lively air, ‘The Irish Washerwoman.’ It caught the ears of the Kanaka seamen20 like a preconcerted signal; with one accord they looked up from their meal and crowded to the ship’s side, fei in hand and munching21 as they looked. Even as a poor brown Pyrenean bear dances in the streets of English towns under his master’s baton22; even so, but with how much more of spirit and precision, the captain footed it in time to his own whistling, and his long morning shadow capered23 beyond him on the grass. The Kanakas smiled on thie performance; Herrick looked on heavy-eyed, hunger for the moment conquering all sense of shame; and a little farther off, but still hard by, the clerk was torn by the seven devils of the influenza24.
The captain stopped suddenly, appeared to perceive his audience for the first time, and represented the part of a man surprised in his private hour of pleasure.
‘Hello!’ said he.
The Kanakas clapped hands and called upon him to go on.
‘No, SIR!’ said the captain. ‘No eat, no dance. Savvy25?’
‘Poor old man!’ returned one of the crew. ‘Him no eat?’
‘Lord, no!’ said the captain. ‘Like-um too much eat. No got.’
‘All right. Me got,’ said the sailor; ‘you tome here. Plenty toffee, plenty fei. Nutha man him tome too.’
‘I guess we’ll drop right in,’ observed the captain; and he and his companions hastened up the plank. They were welcomed on board with the shaking of hands; place was made for them about the basin; a sticky demijohn of molasses was added to the feast in honour of company, and an accordion26 brought from the forecastle and significantly laid by the performer’s side.
‘Ariana,” said he lightly, touching27 the instrument as he spoke28; and he fell to on a long savoury fei, made an end of it, raised his mug of coffee, and nodded across at the spokesman of the crew. ‘Here’s your health, old man; you’re a credit to the South Pacific,’ said he.
With the unsightly greed of hounds they glutted29 themselves with the hot food and coffee; and even the clerk revived and the colour deepened in his eyes. The kettle was drained, the basin cleaned; their entertainers, who had waited on their wants throughout with the pleased hospitality of Polynesians, made haste to bring forward a dessert of island tobacco and rolls of pandanus leaf to serve as paper; and presently all sat about the dishes puffing30 like Indian Sachems.
‘When a man ‘as breakfast every day, he don’t know what it is,’ observed the clerk.
‘The next point is dinner,’ said Herrick; and then with a passionate31 utterance32: ‘I wish to God I was a Kanaka!’
‘There’s one thing sure,’ said the captain. ‘I’m about desperate, I’d rather hang than rot here much longer.’ And with the word he took the accordion and struck up. ‘Home, sweet home.’
‘O, drop that!’ cried Herrick, ‘I can’t stand that.’
‘No more can I,’ said the captain. ‘I’ve got to play something though: got to pay the shot, my son.’ And he struck up ‘John Brown’s Body’ in a fine sweet baritone: ‘Dandy Jim of Carolina,’ came next; ‘Rorin the Bold,’ ‘Swing low, Sweet Chariot,’ and ‘The Beautiful Land’ followed. The captain was paying his shot with usury33, as he had done many a time before; many a meal had he bought with the same currency from the melodious-minded natives, always, as now, to their delight.
He was in the middle of ‘Fifteen Dollars in the Inside Pocket,’ singing with dogged energy, for the task went sore against the grain, when a sensation was suddenly to be observed among the crew.
‘Tapena Tom harry34 my,’ said the spokesman, pointing.
And the three beachcombers, following his indication, saw the figure of a man in pyjama trousers and a white jumper approaching briskly from the town.
‘Captain Tom is coming.’
‘That’s Tapena Tom, is it?’ said the captain, pausing in his music. ‘I don’t seem to place the brute35.’
‘We’d better cut,’ said the clerk. “E’s no good.,
‘Well,’ said the musician deliberately36, ‘one can’t most generally always tell. I’ll try it on, I guess. Music has charms to soothe37 the savage38 Tapena, boys. We might strike it rich; it might amount to iced punch in the cabin.’
‘Hiced punch? O my!’ said the clerk. ‘Give him something ‘ot, captain. “Way down the Swannee River”; try that.’
‘No, sir! Looks Scotch,’ said the captain; and he struck, for his life, into ‘Auld Lang Syne39.’
Captain Tom continued to approach with the same business-like alacrity40; no change was to be perceived in his bearded face as he came swinging up the plank: he did not even turn his eyes on the performer.
‘We twa hae paidled in the burn
Frae morning tide till dine,’
went the song.
Captain Tom had a parcel under his arm, which he laid on the house roof, and then turning suddenly to the strangers: ‘Here, you!’ he bellowed42, ‘be off out of that!’
The clerk and Herrick stood not on the order of their going, but fled incontinently by the plank. The performer, on the other hand, flung down the instrument and rose to his full height slowly.
‘What’s that you say?’ he said. ‘I’ve half a mind to give you a lesson in civility.’
‘You set up any more of your gab43 to me,’ returned the Scotsman, ‘and I’ll show ye the wrong side of a jyle. I’ve heard tell of the three of ye. Ye’re not long for here, I can tell ye that. The Government has their eyes upon ye. They make short work of damned beachcombers, I’ll say that for the French.’
‘You wait till I catch you off your ship!’ cried the captain: and then, turning to the crew, ‘Good-bye, you fellows!’ he said. ‘You’re gentlemen, anyway! The worst nigger among you would look better upon a quarter-deck than that filthy44 Scotchman.’
Captain Tom scorned to reply; he watched with a hard smile the departure of his guests; and as soon as the last foot was off the plank; turned to the hands to work cargo45.
The beachcombers beat their inglorious retreat along the shore; Herrick first, his face dark with blood, his knees trembling under him with the hysteria of rage. Presently, under the same purao where they had shivered the night before, he cast himself down, and groaned46 aloud, and ground his face into the sand.
‘Don’t speak to me, don’t speak to me. I can’t stand it,’ broke from him.
The other two stood over him perplexed47.
‘Wot can’t he stand now?’ said the clerk. ‘‘Asn’t he ‘ad a meal? I’M lickin’ my lips.’
Herrick reared up his wild eyes and burning face. ‘I can’t beg!’ he screamed, and again threw himself prone48.
‘This thing’s got to come to an end,’ said the captain with an intake49 of the breath.
‘Looks like signs of an end, don’t it?’ sneered50 the clerk.
‘He’s not so far from it, and don’t you deceive yourself,’ replied the captain. ‘Well,’ he added in a livelier voice, ‘you fellows hang on here, and I’ll go and interview my representative.’
Whereupon he turned on his heel, and set off at a swinging sailor’s walk towards Papeete.
It was some half hour later when he returned. The clerk was dozing51 with his back against the tree: Herrick still lay where he had flung himself; nothing showed whether he slept or waked.
‘See, boys!’ cried the captain, with that artificial heartiness of his which was at times so painful, ‘here’s a new idea.’ And he produced note paper, stamped envelopes, and pencils, three of each. ‘We can all write home by the mail brigantine; the consul52 says I can come over to his place and ink up the addresses.’
‘Well, that’s a start, too,’ said the clerk. ‘I never thought of that.’
‘It was that yarning54 last night about going home that put me up to it,’ said the captain.
‘Well, ‘and over,’ said the clerk. ‘I’ll ‘ave a shy,’ and he retired55 a little distance to the shade of a canoe.
The others remained under the purao. Now they would write a word or two, now scribble56 it out; now they would sit biting at the pencil end and staring seaward; now their eyes would rest on the clerk, where he sat propped57 on the canoe, leering and coughing, his pencil racing58 glibly59 on the paper.
‘I can’t do it,’ said Herrick suddenly. ‘I haven’t got the heart.’
‘See here,’ said the captain, speaking with unwonted gravity; ‘it may be hard to write, and to write lies at that; and God knows it is; but it’s the square thing. It don’t cost anything to say you’re well and happy, and sorry you can’t make a remittance60 this mail; and if you don’t, I’ll tell you what I think it is — I think it’s about the high-water mark of being a brute beast.’
‘It’s easy to talk,’ said Herrick. ‘You don’t seem to have written much yourself, I notice.’
‘What do you bring in me for?’ broke from the captain. His voice was indeed scarce raised above a whisper, but emotion clanged in it. ‘What do you know about me? If you had commanded the finest barque that ever sailed from Portland; if you had been drunk in your berth61 when she struck the breakers in Fourteen Island Group, and hadn’t had the wit to stay there and drown, but came on deck, and given drunken orders, and lost six lives — I could understand your talking then! There,’ he said more quietly, ‘that’s my yarn53, and now you know it. It’s a pretty one for the father of a family. Five men and a woman murdered. Yes, there was a woman on board, and hadn’t no business to be either. Guess I sent her to Hell, if there is such a place. I never dared go home again; and the wife and the little ones went to England to her father’s place. I don’t know what’s come to them,’ he added, with a bitter shrug62.
‘Thank you, captain,’ said Herrick. ‘I never liked you better.’
They shook hands, short and hard, with eyes averted63, tenderness swelling64 in their bosoms65.
‘Now, boys! to work again at lying!’ said the captain.
‘I’ll give my father up,’ returned Herrick with a writhen smile. ‘I’ll try my sweetheart instead for a change of evils.’
And here is what he wrote:
‘Emma, I have scratched out the beginning to my father, for I think I can write more easily to you. This is my last farewell to all, the last you will ever hear or see of an unworthy friend and son. I have failed in life; I am quite broken down and disgraced. I pass under a false name; you will have to tell my father that with all your kindness. It is my own fault. I know, had I chosen, that I might have done well; and yet I swear to you I tried to choose. I could not bear that you should think I did not try. For I loved you all; you must never doubt me in that, you least of all. I have always unceasingly loved, but what was my love worth? and what was I worth? I had not the manhood of a common clerk, I could not work to earn you; I have lost you now, and for your sake I could be glad of it. When you first came to my father’s house — do you remember those days? I want you to — you saw the best of me then, all that was good in me. Do you remember the day I took your hand and would not let it go — and the day on Battersea Bridge, when we were looking at a barge66, and I began to tell you one of my silly stories, and broke off to say I loved you? That was the beginning, and now here is the end. When you have read this letter, you will go round and kiss them all good-bye, my father and mother, and the children, one by one, and poor uncle; And tell them all to forget me, and forget me yourself. Turn the key in the door; let no thought of me return; be done with the poor ghost that pretended he was a man and stole your love. Scorn of myself grinds in me as I write. I should tell you I am well and happy, and want for nothing. I do not exactly make money, or I should send a remittance; but I am well cared for, have friends, live in a beautiful place and climate, such as we have dreamed of together, and no pity need be wasted on me. In such places, you understand, it is easy to live, and live well, but often hard to make sixpence in money. Explain this to my father, he will understand. I have no more to say; only linger, going out, like an unwilling67 guest. God in heaven bless you. Think of me to the last, here, on a bright beach, the sky and sea immoderately blue, and the great breakers roaring outside on a barrier reef, where a little isle1 sits green with palms. I am well and strong. It is a more pleasant way to die than if you were crowding about me on a sick-bed. And yet I am dying. This is my last kiss. Forgive, forget the unworthy.’
So far he bad written, his paper was all filled, when there returned a memory of evenings at the piano, and that song, the masterpiece of love, in which so many have found the expression of their dearest thoughts. ‘Einst, O wunder!’ he added. More was not required; he knew that in his love’s heart the context would spring up, escorted with fair images and harmony; of how all through life her name should tremble in his ears, her name be everywhere repeated in the sounds of nature; and when death came, and he lay dissolved, her memory lingered and thrilled among his elements.
‘Once, O wonder! once from the ashes of my heart
Arose a blossom —’
Herrick and the captain finished their letters about the same time; each was breathing deep, and their eyes met and were averted as they closed the envelopes.
‘Sorry I write so big,’ said the captain gruffly. ‘Came all of a rush, when it did come.’
‘Same here,’ said Herrick. ‘I could have done with a ream when I got started; but it’s long enough for all the good I had to say.’
They were still at the addresses when the clerk strolled up, smirking68 and twirling his envelope, like a man well pleased. He looked over Herrick’s shoulder.
‘Hullo,’ he said, ‘you ain’t writing ‘ome.’
‘I am, though,’ said Herrick; ‘she lives with my father. Oh, I see what you mean,’ he added. ‘My real name is Herrick. No more Hay’— they had both used the same alias69 —‘no more Hay than yours, I dare say.’
‘Clean bowled in the middle stump70!’ laughed the clerk. ‘My name’s ‘Uish if you want to know. Everybody has a false nyme in the Pacific. Lay you five to three the captain ‘as.’
‘So I have too,’ replied the captain; ‘and I’ve never told my own since the day I tore the title page out of my Bowditch and flung the damned thing into the sea. But I’ll tell it to you, boys. John Davis is my name. I’m Davis of the Sea Ranger41.’
‘Dooce you are!’ said Hush71. ‘And what was she? a pirate or a slyver?’
‘She was the fastest barque out of Portland, Maine,’ replied the captain; ‘and for the way I lost her, I might as well have bored a hole in her side with an auger72.’
‘Oh, you lost her, did you?’ said the clerk. ‘‘Ope she was insured?’
No answer being returned to this sally, Huish, still brimming over with vanity and conversation, struck into another subject.
‘I’ve a good mind to read you my letter,’ said he. ‘I’ve a good fist with a pen when I choose, and this is a prime lark73. She was a barmaid I ran across in Northampton; she was a spanking74 fine piece, no end of style; and we cottoned at first sight like parties in the play. I suppose I spent the chynge of a fiver on that girl. Well, I ‘appened to remember her nyme, so I wrote to her, and told her ‘ow I had got rich, and married a queen in the Hislands, and lived in a blooming palace. Such a sight of crammers! I must read you one bit about my opening the nigger parliament in a cocked ‘at. It’s really prime.’
The captain jumped to his feet. ‘That’s what you did with the paper that I went and begged for you?’ he roared.
It was perhaps lucky for Huish — it was surely in the end unfortunate for all — that he was seized just then by one of his prostrating75 accesses of cough; his comrades would have else deserted76 him, so bitter was their resentment77. When the fit had passed, the clerk reached out his hand, picked up the letter, which had fallen to the earth, and tore it into fragments, stamp and all.
‘Does that satisfy you?’ he asked sullenly78.
‘We’ll say no more about it,’ replied Davis.
收听单词发音 |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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emblem
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| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
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pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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scouting
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| 守候活动，童子军的活动 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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snug
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| 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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11
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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awning
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| n.遮阳篷；雨篷 | |
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squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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heartiness
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| 诚实，热心 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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bumper
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| n.(汽车上的)保险杠；adj.特大的，丰盛的 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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seamen
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| n.海员 | |
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munching
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的现在分词 ) | |
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baton
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| n.乐队用指挥杖 | |
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capered
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| v.跳跃，雀跃( caper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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influenza
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| n.流行性感冒，流感 | |
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savvy
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| v.知道，了解；n.理解能力，机智，悟性；adj.有见识的，懂实际知识的，通情达理的 | |
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accordion
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| n.手风琴；adj.可折叠的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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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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29
glutted
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| v.吃得过多( glut的过去式和过去分词 )；（对胃口、欲望等）纵情满足；使厌腻；塞满 | |
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puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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usury
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| n.高利贷 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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ranger
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| n.国家公园管理员，护林员；骑兵巡逻队员 | |
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bellowed
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的过去式和过去分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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gab
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| v.空谈，唠叨，瞎扯；n.饶舌，多嘴，爱说话 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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cargo
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| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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intake
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| n.吸入，纳入；进气口，入口 | |
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sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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52
consul
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| n.领事；执政官 | |
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53
yarn
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| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
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yarning
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| vi.讲故事（yarn的现在分词形式） | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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56
scribble
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| v.潦草地书写，乱写，滥写；n.潦草的写法，潦草写成的东西，杂文 | |
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57
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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59
glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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60
remittance
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| n.汇款，寄款，汇兑 | |
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61
berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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62
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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63
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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64
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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65
bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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66
barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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67
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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68
smirking
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| v.傻笑( smirk的现在分词 ) | |
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69
alias
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| n.化名；别名；adv.又名 | |
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70
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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71
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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72
auger
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| n.螺丝钻，钻孔机 | |
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73
lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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74
spanking
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| adj.强烈的，疾行的；n.打屁股 | |
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75
prostrating
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的现在分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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76
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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77
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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78
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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