(1915)
There was a thick fog, acrid1 and abominable2, all over London when I set out for the West. And at the heart of the fog, as it were, was the shudder3 of the hard frost that made one think of those winters in Dickens that had seemed to have become fabulous4. It was a day on which to hear in dreams the iron ring of the horses’ hoofs5 on the Great North Road, to meditate6 on the old inns with blazing fires, the coach going onward7 into the darkness, into a frozen world.
A few miles out of London the fog lifted. The horizon was still vague in a purple mist of cold, but the sun shone brilliantly from a pale clear sky of blue, and all the earth was a magic of whiteness: white fields stretched to that dim violet mist far away, white hedges divided them, and the trees were all snowy white with the winter blossom of the frost. The train had been delayed a little by the thick fog about London; now it was rushing at a tremendous speed through this strange white world.
My business with the famous town in the West was to attempt to make some picture of it as it faced the stress of war, to find out whether it prospered8 or not. From what I had seen in other large towns, I expected to find it all of a bustle9 on the Saturday, its shops busy, its streets thronged10 and massed with people. Therefore, it was with no small astonishment11 that I found the atmosphere of Westpool wholly different from anything I had observed at Sheffield or Birmingham. Hardly anybody seemed to leave the train at the big station, and the broad road into the town wore a shy, barred-up air; it reminded one somewhat of the streets by which the traveller passes into forgotten places, little villages that once were great cities. I remember how in the town of my birth, Caerleon-on-Usk, the doctor’s wife would leave the fire and run to the window if a step sounded in the main street outside; and strangely I was reminded of this as I walked from the Westpool station. Save for one thing: at intervals12 there were silent parties huddled13 together as if for help and comfort, and all making for the outskirts14 of the city.
There is a fair quarter of an hour’s walk between Westpool station and the centre of the town. And here I would say that though Westpool is one of the biggest and busiest cities in England, it is also, in my judgment15, one of the most beautiful. Not only on account of the ancient timbered houses that still overhang many of its narrower streets, not only because of its glorious churches and noble old traditions of splendour — I am known to be weak and partial where such things are concerned — but rather because of its site. For through the very heart of the great town a narrow, deep river runs, full of tall ships, bordered by bustling16 quays17; and so you can often look over your garden wall and see-a cluster of masts, and the shaking out of sails for a fair wind. And this bringing of deep-sea business into the middle of the dusty streets has always seemed to me an enchantment19; there is something of Sindbad and Basra and Bagdad and the Nights in it. But this is not all the delight of Westpool; from the very quays of the river the town rushes up to great heights, with streets so steep that often they are flights of steps as in St. Peter Port, and ladder-like ascents20. And as I came to Middle Quay18 in Westpool that winter day, the sun hovered21 over the violet mists, and the windows of the houses on the heights flamed and flashed red, vehement22 fires.
But the slight astonishment with which I had noted23 the shuttered and dismal24 aspect of the station road now became bewilderment. Middle Quay is the heart of Westpool, and all its business. I had always seen it swarm25 like an anthill. There were scarcely half a dozen people there on Saturday afternoon; and they seemed to be hurrying away. The Vintry and the Little Vintry, those famous streets, were deserted26. I saw in a moment that I had come on a fool’s errand: in Westpool assuredly there was no hurry or rush of war-business, no swarm of eager shoppers for me to describe. I had an introduction to a well-known Westpool man. “Oh, no,” he said, “we are very slack in Westpool. We are doing hardly anything. There’s an aeroplane factory out at Oldham, and they’re making high explosives by Portdown, but that doesn’t affect us. Things are quiet, very quiet.” I suggested that they might brighten up a little at night. “No,” he said, “it really wouldn’t be worth your while to stay on; you wouldn’t find anything to write about, I assure you.”
I was not satisfied. I went out and about the desolate27 streets of the great city; I made inquiries28 at random29, and always heard the same story —“Things were very slack.” And I began to receive an extraordinary impression: that the few I met were frightened, and were making the best of their way, either out of the town, or to the safety of their own bolted doors and barred shutters30. It was only the very special mention of a friendly commercial traveller of my acquaintance that got me a room for the night at the Pineapple on Middle Quay, overlooking the river. The landlord assented31 with difficulty, after praising the express to town. “It’s a noisy place, this,” he said, “if you’re not used to it.” I looked at him. It was as quiet as if we were in the heart of the forest or the desert. “You see,” he said, “we don’t do much in munitions32, but there’s a lot of night transport for the docks at Portdown. You know those climbing motors that they use in the Army, caterpillars33 or whatever they call them. We get a lot of them through Westpool; we get all sorts of heavy stuff, and I expect they’ll wake you at night. I wouldn’t go to the window, if I were you, if you do wake up. They don’t like anybody peering about.”
And I woke up in the dead of night. There was a thundering and a rumbling34 and a trembling of the earth such as I had never heard. And shouting too; and rolling oaths that sounded like judgment. I got up and drew the blind a little aside, in spite of the landlord’s warning, and there was that desolate Middle Quay swarming35 with men, and the river full of great ships, faint and huge in the frosty mist, and sailing-ships too. Men were rolling casks by the hundred down to the ships. “Hurry up, you lazy lubbers, you damned sons of guns, damn ye!” bellowed36 a huge voice. “Shall the King’s Majesty37 lack powder?” “No, by God, he shall not!” roared the answer. “I rolled it aboard for old King George, and young King George shall be none the worse for me.”
“And who the devil are you to speak so bold?”
“Blast ye, bos’n; I fell at Trafalgar.”
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1
acrid
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| adj.辛辣的，尖刻的，刻薄的 | |
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2
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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3
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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13
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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ascents
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| n.上升( ascent的名词复数 )；（身份、地位等的）提高；上坡路；攀登 | |
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21
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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munitions
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| n.军火，弹药；v.供应…军需品 | |
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caterpillars
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| n.毛虫( caterpillar的名词复数 )；履带 | |
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rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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35
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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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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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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