He stayed at a boarding-house in Castlereagh Street, not far from the Theatre where an Italian Opera Company was playing every evening. The Theatre had just been rebuilt; the pale fresh colors of the place seemed enchanting5 to him, as he sat usually in the third row of the Stalls, and listened to the music of Rossini or Meyerbeer or Verdi. He knew little of music; he thought “Il Trovatore” beautiful; to sit lazily there when the orchestra had started on its gay or melodiously6 tragic7 career, and the swift various play of actors passed across the stage, was enough. All the multitudinous possibilities of life seemed to rehearse themselves deliciously along his nerves; all the sensuous8 potentialities of his nature were summoned in a sweet vague stream, as though something within him stirred and responded to the far-off sexual cry in which music began. He cared little that he could not always understand the story; the shifting panorama9 of the stage, so close that it revealed all its nakedness — the tawdry costumes, the unclothed arms with their vaccination10 scars, the stage tricks — only accentuated11 the music. Even the preliminary booms and whirs of the instruments in the orchestra, the gloved uplifted hand of the conductor, the playbill, became soon mixed in the same glamor12. When the Opera was over he usually walked about the streets for a little while; in George Street near the Market he passed the woman who boldly sought to catch his attention, and he walked quickly and shyly on; in Castlereagh Street he saw the couples who glided13 up dark alleys14; all the frank licence of a colonial city came before him, and fascinated him, and was strange to him.
One evening he was accompanied to Rossini’s “Barbiere” by a young chemist who was living in the same boarding-house. Afterwards they strolled along the streets and the chemist introduced him to a young woman. They walked along together. She looked up at him at last in a tender, confiding15 way and said in a nasal voice.
“Aint the moon lovely?”
He replied, “Yes.”
There was a pause. Then he felt a sudden feeling of suffocation16, an irresistable longing17 for fresh air, and without venturing to look at his companion’s astonished face, he broke away, turning down the next street: “I must go in this direction. Good night.”
The boarding house was kept by a pale, pretty, weary-looking widow, who trailed in and out of the room with slipshod feet. Besides himself there were in the house only the young chemist and another young widow, a little woman, always dressed in black, who talked and went about with a quiet, prim18, consciously-composed air. She said that her husband had been a sea-captain and that she had a little boy at school. At frequent intervals19 she had visits from near relatives, now a brother, now an uncle, now a brother-in-law.
A large, coarse, fat woman, with double chin, came to dinner one day. She seemed to have business with the little widow. When dinner was over, by way of pleasantry, she threw a serviette from behind at the young schoolmaster’s head. They told him afterwards that thirty years ago that woman was the prettiest girl in Sydney. That vision of the prettiest girl in Sydney left an ineffaceable impression on the young schoolmaster’s mind, and he often pondered over it.
Once a man came in during the evening with a young woman — Mr. Shaw they called him — a fair, good-natured, middle-aged20 man. “Let me introduce you to Mrs. Shaw,” he said, and the tall, rather handsome young woman, dressed plainly, but with rather a gay hat, nodded and smiled, with a careless air, a trifle defiant21. They all chatted pleasantly for a while and when the visitors had gone, the landlady22, who had whispered with them in the hall, flared23 up indignantly.
“Now this is what I call disgusting,” she said fiercely, with an intensity24 that seemed to show something of personal bitterness, “to see a married man flaunting25 about the place like that with his housemaid; the headmaster of a big school, too, and his wife as nice a little woman as you’d wish to find.” And when her anger had died down the sympathetic little widow in black agreed.
On the last night of his stay in Sydney he went early to his room, where loud occasional bursts of merriment reached him till long past midnight. When he came down in the morning the room was disarranged, and the air close and heavy, with a vague odor of brandy; a woman’s chignon of those days lay on the floor, a neckhandkerchief on the sofa. He experienced a sudden shock, as though he had unexpectedly set his foot in a strange and unknown land. At breakfast the landlady did not appear and the chemist was not in his room; the young widow in black presided, and looked after his wants in her quiet, thoughtful fashion. She took two cups of coffee upstairs; then she disappeared into her own room behind, whence there came a report of two soda-water bottles; the breakfast-room door was quietly shut, and, standing at the window, he saw a tall man, with thick neck and red face, go quickly out of the front door. He noted26 these things, curiously27, impartially28, always accepting the transparent29 veil thrown over them. Without himself realising it, he shrank instinctively30 from contact with all that was not in the line of his own shy and solitary31 emotional life. Now he was back in Kanga Creek32, and the old life of mingled33 routine and freedom had begun again. He wandered again over the ridge34 of the range beyond which lay Blair’s Creek, or he walked up and down the path his feet had worn on the eastern side of the schoolhouse. Usually he had a book in his hand; perchance a little green volume called “Poems and Ballads,” bought in Sydney, which had repelled35 him at first, but whose large images and broad rhythmical36 sweep soon fascinated him; and after the children had gone, and the sun had sunk behind the western hills, he walked swiftly up and down the well-trodden path, shouting aloud enthusiastically the strong irresistible37 lines. And in the morning, when the sun looked over the ridge into that little valley of giant myrtles, as he came up from the well, over the dull grass, in trousers and flannel38 shirt, balancing two buckets of water in his hands, a fresh spirit leapt along his veins39 and he repeated softly to himself:
Nothing is better I well think
Than love; the hidden well water
Is not so delicate to drink.
One day — it was Sunday — he set out in his old grey alpaca coat, and with the little green volume in his hand, on the path towards Ayr. He seldom walked that way, and today he kept at some distance from the path; he would rather not be passed by the Carrolls who, with their sisters, might be going into Ayr today. He only looked into his book now and then, and walked on, dreaming perhaps, yet always with an undercurrent of attention to possible snakes, and once he sprang instinctively forward as some dry Slick turned up beneath his foot and struck his leg. He was going towards a lagoon40 he had found out; for it seemed to him a pleasant place by which to sit and read. It was a silent spot, with an air of melancholy41 peace brooding over it. Sometimes the lagoon was full of water, and then it was soothing42 to look at; but often the water receded43 to the centre and left a great expanse of dark mud. Down the faint slopes that led to it the trees grew sparsely44; and near the edge there lay about great rotten trunks, the abodes45 of many snakes. Towards this spot the young schoolmaster slowly wandered with his book. Suddenly he was brought up by a large black snake almost at his feet. He stood still for a moment in admiration46 of the strong and lovely curves of its body, the perfect poise47 of its flattened48 and wedge-shaped head. Then he walked on slowly, keeping his eyes on the ground. When he next lifted them he saw, fifty yards to the side, a woman who lay on the ground. She was lying stretched beneath the slight shadow of a gum-tree, resting on her elbows, a broad straw hat on her head. It was a manna-gum, for now and again she slowly picked up and ate the small sweet fragments around. Involuntarily he turned and looked towards her; she saw him and swiftly jumping up walked away, upright and very deliberately49. A moment after he came upon an open book; he took it up; it was a well-worn anthology of French poetry. He felt already a curious attraction to this woman; now he had an excuse for speaking to her. He came up to her and said with a shy glance,
“I think this is your book.”
“Thank you,” she said, “I left it by the tree.”
Her eyes were brown; her complexion50 was of the common creamy brown Australian sort, faintly freckled51 and mottled; there were large buttons all the way down her plain and predominantly blue dress; at the breast a button was undone52 or gone, and there was a glimpse of white, as though she had grown out of her dress, but she was older than himself. So much he noticed, and not being able to think of anything more to say he was about to go away. He hesitated a moment; he could not at once cut the first link that had by chance connected him with this interesting intruder on his domain53, and at the moment that he was finally about to lift his hand to his hat he interrupted himself awkwardly, and caught at the last conversational54 straw.
“Do — do you read French?”
“I am learning to.”
These questions and responses were rather colorless. He looked round for an instant, again about to go yet trying to find something else to say. But she had now taken in the situation, and when he glanced at her he saw a smile in her brown eyes and it occurred to him, for the first time, that she was rather pretty. “I know you,” she said, with a touch of colonial assurance, “I saw you coming out of Ayr before you came here. My school is at Warrie Creek.”
This declaration at once threw their relations into a state of more stable equilibrium55. When a little later he thought it was time to go he boldly held out his hand and their eyes met and rested on each other for a perceptible instant, almost with a sense of camaraderie56. He meditated57 on this glance and tried to analyse it, while with rapid steps he traversed the miles that separated him from Kanga Creek, negligent58 of snakes and once nearly stepping into the midst of a gay party of parakeets absorbed in a family quarrel.
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1
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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3
elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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5
enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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melodiously
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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8
sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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10
vaccination
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| n.接种疫苗，种痘 | |
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11
accentuated
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| v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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12
glamor
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| n.魅力，吸引力 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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14
alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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15
confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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16
suffocation
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| n.窒息 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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19
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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20
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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23
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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24
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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25
flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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26
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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29
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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30
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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31
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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32
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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33
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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34
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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35
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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36
rhythmical
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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37
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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38
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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39
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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40
lagoon
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| n.泻湖，咸水湖 | |
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41
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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42
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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43
receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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44
sparsely
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| adv.稀疏地；稀少地；不足地；贫乏地 | |
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45
abodes
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| 住所( abode的名词复数 )； 公寓； （在某地的）暂住； 逗留 | |
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46
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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47
poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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48
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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49
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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50
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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51
freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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53
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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54
conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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55
equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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56
camaraderie
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| n.同志之爱，友情 | |
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57
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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58
negligent
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| adj.疏忽的；玩忽的；粗心大意的 | |
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