He remembered everything at once. It would almost have seemed that his mind behind the veil of sleep had been reasoning the matter out, for he had awakened1 saying to himself out loud, and as if he were continuing a conversation, “Yes—and what is more, I saved his life.” He crawled from the tent and stood erect2 beneath the palms. The morning, warm, sweet, and sunlit, lay around him; the sapphire3 sky and flashing sea; snow-white gulls4 and snow-white sands. A hot, gentle wind was stirring the palm fronds5. He collected some dry brushwood for the fire, lit it, and piled on some wood from the wreck6. When it was alight, flickering7 a hundred red tongues at the sun and staining the blue air with smoke, Gaspard was brought to his first pause. Of what use was the fire? He was no good as a cook. Yves had been the cook; he had cooked crabs8, tinned meat, and what-not, using an old tin for a billy; he was born for that sort of work and could do anything practical he turned his hand to.
Yves had always done the cooking whilst Gaspard had looked on. This fact struck Gaspard for the first time now. It was as though the dead Yves was still proclaiming his superiority. Yves had salved most of the31 stores, Yves had hunted for dead brushwood, Yves had found crabs, Yves had found the spring of water, Yves had found the boat sail, Yves had built the tent, Yves had found the ship of coral in the lagoon9, Yves had found the gold. Yves had done everything since their landing, and he, Gaspard, had done nothing but smoke and dream.
Far from being a waster, he had, still, left everything to the big blond man so full of energy and resource and the joy of life; the southern laziness had held possession of him. All the same, Yves had proved himself the better man and was proving the fact now, voiceless and dead amidst the bushes as he was.
Gaspard kicked the fire to pieces and flung sand on the embers; then he breakfasted on some ship’s biscuit and some tinned meat, lit his pipe and strolled down to the sea-edge.
It was eight o’clock and the gasping10 warm wind came in over the morning sea, the lazy, deep blue sea, so infinite, so beautiful, so desolate11.
He stood, and, shading his eyes, he swept the horizon—not a trace of sail or smoke could he see. The sky, of a burning emerald just above the sea-line, swept up into the burning blue, and from sea and sky, like the breath from a great blue mouth, came the warm wind. It felt like a woman’s hot fingers playing with his hair, like a woman’s warm arm cast round his neck.
From the southeast with the wind, now loud, now low, came the crying of the gulls. Though he had heard them since awakening12, he had not noticed them till now; he turned his eyes to where they were wheeling and flying spirit-white in the blue.
It was at this moment that Loneliness seized his heart. The fact of his utter isolation13 had not stood before him32 full square till just now. The gulls were explaining it to him.
“You are alone!—alone!—alone! Hi!—Hi!—Hi!—you there on the sands alone!—alone!—alone!—we have nothing to do with you—we are nothing to you—alone there on the sands—all day long and night and day, and night and day, who will you speak to—what will you do? You there on the sands alone!—alone!—alone!”
He drew his sleeve across his brow to wipe away the sweat that had suddenly started tingling14 through his skin; then he cast his eyes again over the sailless blue of the sea and, turning, came back to the tent. When he reached it the terror left him, fell from him suddenly like a dropped cloak. He cursed himself for his stupidity and, though his pipe was not half exhausted15, he tapped the tobacco out, re-filled and lit it. It was something to do. Then, to drive the thought of Yves away, he fell to imagining what sort of a ship would take him off the island, and then he stretched his hand into the tent and pulled out the belt and pouch16 of money. On the brass17 buckle18 of the belt, all green with verdigris19, there was something scratched. He cleaned the brass with sand—it was something to do—and made out what seemed the initials “S. S.” He pondered on these for a while and then, opening the pouch, he turned the contents on to the sand.
Though he knew the number of coins, he counted them again and again—it was something to do. Then he began to spend them in fancy, the remembrance of the tragedy of yesterday always standing20 like a ghost behind his thoughts and trying to obtrude21 itself.
This occupation lasted him an hour, and he was brought back from it suddenly by a tug22 at his heart. It was still morning; the awful day had scarcely progressed; the33 mantle23 of Loneliness had fallen on him again; the gulls were still crying, calling, wheeling, rising, falling, fishing mechanically and seeming part of a tireless mechanism24 fretting26 the speechless blue of the sky.
He put the coins back in the pouch and flung belt and pouch into the tent; then he rose to his feet and made towards the bushes.
On the sand still lay a mark as though a heavy sack had been dragged along it towards the bushes.
He avoided the pointing of the sinister27 path and struck across the islet, crushing the brushwood under foot. He had no object other than to get away from the place where he was, to keep in motion—to be doing something. The heat lay heavy over the bay cedars28, the air was shaking blanket-fashion under the fiery29 rays of the sun, the bushes were dense30, yet in a trice it seemed to him he had reached the northern beach. The islet seemed to have led him across it to explain its smallness, and as he stepped on to the beach a new sensation caught him in its grip. The sensation of being ringed in, enclosed in a small circle from which there is no escape.
Yet there were no bars, and around him on every hand stretched infinity31.
He came along the reef forming the edge of the lagoon; the tide was beginning to flood and the foretop of the ship was standing stark32 and dry from the water; the ship herself was clearly to be seen, in this light even more clearly than in the sunset glow. But the picture was far less beautiful.
Grey and dead she seemed, lying there in the diamond-clear emerald of the water, but the lagoon this morning was gay with fish, parrot-fish, gropers, flights of coloured arrows, sapphire, ruby33 and emerald-tinted ghosts.
34 The swell34 of the incoming tide came slobbering over the reef; shutting one’s eyes one might have fancied a giant shuddering35 and catching36 his breath and sobbing37 to himself.
Gaspard stood for a long time watching the moving life of the lagoon, absorbed, as a child might be before the contents of an aquarium38. He had forgotten Loneliness for a moment, but she had not forgotten him. As he stood with his eyes fixed39 on a large fish, sapphire and mist-grey, that had developed like a spirit and was now hanging motionless with moving gills above the ship, casting a vague shadow upon the coral-crusted deck; as he stood watching it, the breeze strengthened, stirring his hair, and on the breeze a voice hailed him, far away and weary.
“Hi! Hi! Hi!—you there on the reef. Hi! Hi! Hi!—you there alone!—alone!—alone!—see how the wind takes us, wheeling, fishing, forever—alone—alone—alone.”
He turned his face to where, across the islet, far away in the blue, the gulls’ white wings were winking40 and beckoning41 to him; their voices, thinned by distance, had a desolation rendered even more desolate by the gorgeour of the burning blue sky, the triumphant42 sunlight, the licking of the warm weak wind.
There is no desolation so terrible as the desolation that lies in summer warmth and blue skies. Here life ought to have been superabundant, but here there was no life or moving thing save the wind and the gulls and the waves.
“God!” said the Moco. He thrust his clenched43 fist in his pocket and, turning from the lagoon, made his way along the rocks to the shore.
He returned to the south of the islet, not through the bushes, but along the eastern sea-edge where the reefs were like rows of teeth and the rock edges like razors. Here35 it was that most of the wreckage44 of the Rhone had come ashore45, and here there was still wreckage enough, in all truth. Here was something to do.
In a moment he was up to his knees in water. The Rhone, when the explosion of the boilers46 rent her asunder47, had cast wreckage enough upon the water, but even still, as she lay beneath the surface, sinking more and more completely to ruin, things were breaking loose from her and rising as bubbles rise from a submerged body, and drifting ashore with the tide. Hencoops, boxes, spars, barrels, were pounding about in the surf. Heavy spars were here, all chawn and frayed48 by the reefs; the coral teeth had left their marks on everything; there was nothing worth salving, yet Gaspard worked like a dock labourer, hauling upon spars, heaving at barrels, forgetting Loneliness in the exertion49 of manual labour.
But she was there, and her voice forever speaking, subtle, like a music interpenetrating all things from the sound of the wave to the silence of the sky, made itself heard again.
As the power of friction50 brings a machine to a pause, so did this voice, which was a part of the sunlight, a part of the silence, a part of the blueness of sea and sky, bring Gaspard to a stand.
He wiped his brow and looked at the heap of things he had collected. He remembered how Yves had laboured at the same job, and now, for the first time since the tragedy, as he stood looking at the heap of spars and wreckwood, a feeling of pity came to his heart for the man lying there dead amidst the bay-cedar bushes.
The outburst of grief to which he had given way on the evening before was, to speak truth, an outpouring of his southern nature; anger suddenly checked and flung36 back by Death, inverted51 and bursting forth52 furiously at the sight of the irreparable result of his anger.
But this feeling of pity for Yves came from the depths of his soul, for it was born of pity for himself.
It was fatal for this feeling to enter his heart just now, for the heart, softening53 towards the dead, opened the door for superstition54 to enter.
He thought of the tent over there beneath the palms and how pleasant it would be if, on his return, he were to find Yves sitting by the tent. Then, with a chill of horror, came the idea—how awful it would be if on his return he were to find Yves sitting by the tent! His imaginative mind played with this idea for a moment and then cast it hurriedly away. He laughed out loud to reassure55 himself, and the steady wash of the sea made answer and the distant gulls. Then, leaving the salvage56 bleaching57 in the burning sunlight, he came towards the southern beach.
No; there was nobody by the tent, but the wind was playing with a loose corner of the sail-cloth, flapping it about. The tent seemed beckoning to him as he came towards it across the white, blazing sands. Everything—every sound, every gesture of animate58 or inanimate nature, was beginning to have a deep and extraordinary significance for Gaspard. The silence, the sunlight, and the blueness had first conspired59 to shew him his loneliness; the gulls had insisted on it, gloated over it, explained it; but now, since over there by the wreckwood the pity for Yves and his fate had entered into his heart, the gulls, the silence, the sunlight, and the blueness were speaking a language less assured. “Are you alone? Hi! you there on the sands, what’s that beckoning to you? Hi! Hi! The wind flaps the tent? Ha! ha! Hi!”—and then silence37 for a moment, and then, weak, weary, querulous, from the circling white spirits away there in the smoky blue of midday—“Yves—Yves—Yves.”
The very poetry of Loneliness, Distance, Blueness, Regret—fatal regret.
Gaspard fastened up the flap, and the wind, as if vexed60 at being robbed of its plaything, shook the palm fronds, and then some of the finest of the sand on the beach gathered itself up into a little sand devil and danced away on the wind. An unseen hand seemed moving everywhere fitfully, now here, now there, touching61 the sand, touching the trees, touching the bay-cedar bushes. Gaspard, as he lay with his head in the shade of the tent resting after his exertion, listened to the faint patter of the palm fronds and the whisper of the sand; sometimes the sail-cloth of the tent would lift a bit to the wind.
It was only the wind, yet it moved like a living thing. Sometimes he imagined a hand lifting the tent-cloth back and a voice saying, “Hullo! what are you doing here?” He imagined Yves as the possessor of the voice, and he drove the imagination from his mind.
Never for a moment did he feel fear of the body lying away there amidst the bushes; not for the worth of the Rhone would he have gone through the bushes to look at it and see how it was faring at the hands of corruption62, yet he felt no fear of it; on the contrary, it was the thing he dwelt on when he wished to allay63 fear. For fear, faint and indefinable, was taking hold upon him now. He had no compunction about the part he had played in the death of Yves. The thing was an accident, so he told himself; all the same, men who die suddenly and violently have a habit of haunting the place where they die.
You can run from a haunted house, but you cannot run38 from a haunted island. This dread64 of no escape was what formed the true basis of his fear, a thing on which to build terrible and fantastic edifices65. He lit a pipe and, smoking it, he fell asleep, awakening in an hour or so refreshed and fearless. Sleep seemed to have wiped away Loneliness, superstition, and all their attendant evils. He felt hungry, and getting some tinned meat and biscuit from the store of provisions which lay close to the trees he dined after a fashion, and then lit a pipe.
It was now half-past three, the gulls had ceased crying and afternoon lay on the island like a hot, heavy hand. So still seemed everything that one might have fancied the islet wrapped in idyllic66 peace; but it was the peace that broods over fermentation. The air over the sands was shaking in waves and a faint hum of insect life came from the bushes. A torrid and tremendous pyramid of light stood upon nature, crushing her to silence yet unable to stifle67 her faint fret25 and murmur68.
At four o’clock Gaspard was standing at the end of the little pier69 of coral reef just at the place where he had been standing yesterday, when Yves’ voice had called him to see the treasure. There were no fish visible in the water to-day, nothing floated there but an occasional scrap70 of seaweed. The clear water, bright as a diamond and green as an emerald, held the gaze with the fascination71 that lies in a globe of crystal. Out here at the end of the projecting spur of reef, with the sea on either side, one felt as though one were standing on the deck of a boat.
It was pleasant out here with the sea coming in gently around the rocks, leaving scarcely a trace of foam72, scarcely a trace of sound; the islet was singing to the little waves, but the reef only gurgled, slobbered slightly when a higher ridge73 of swell lapped the more exposed portions, and39 sighed as the water sinking exposed the weeds, the clinging shells, and the coralline growths.
Gaspard, standing, looking into the green depths, mesmerized74 by their crystal clearness and thinking of nothing, was suddenly brought to consciousness by the feeling that someone was standing close behind him. He wheeled round. Nothing. The reef, the islet, sea and sky were destitute75 of life, yet distinctly he had felt as though someone were standing behind him, almost in touch with him, almost breathing upon his neck; and he felt that if he had turned more sharply he would have caught sight of the viewless one; and the reef, the islet, sea and sky, had for a moment a simpering look, as though they had succeeded in the trick of snatching the Unseen One away before he could be glimpsed.
The absurdity76 of this idea destroyed it almost as soon as it was born. He shook the sensation off with a little shiver and, casting his eyes over the sea-line again as if in search for a ship, he began to walk along the reef back to the shore.
He was stepping from the reef on to the sand, when upon the sand he saw something that brought his breathing to a stop. The imprint77 of a naked foot.
It was a foot-mark left by Yves, and there was nothing supernatural about it at all; it had been left on the previous day, and it was still sharp and clear, for a ledge78 of the reef had protected it from the wind and the blowing sand; but to Gaspard it was more terrible than the naked face of Death.
He walked away from the terrible thing with his hand clutching at his heart, his eyes cast from side to side, not daring to look back. He did not know where he was going, but his feet led him to the palm clump79.
40 Here he sat down with his back to a tree bole. The terror was behind him and the tree seemed to fend80 it off. The tree was a living thing; all at once it had stepped out of the semi-inanimate world where trees dwell and flowers, and had become a living personality. In his supreme81 terror he could have turned and embraced it, but he was afraid for a moment to move from his position, just as a man is afraid to move who, attacked by enemies, has his back to a wall.
Such terror does not last in its entirety for more than a brief space of time. Reason came to his assistance. He remembered that Yves had been by the reef end on the day before. The foot-mark was a real thing. No ghost could have left it.
He was telling himself this when,
“Hi! Hi! Hi!”
Loud, shrill82, heart-snatching came a hail right from behind him. It was the voice of Yves, and springing to his feet with a scream, Gaspard, clinging to the tree-bole, looked.
A great black man-o’-war bird with bright eyes and coral-red beak83 was passing over the islet and hailing it as it passed.
Tremendous, definite, and strong against the blue, yet more soundless in flight than an arrow, it passed overhead without a motion of the wings.
As it passed it hailed the island once again, and once again from far out at sea, motionless, but fast dwindling84 till it became a faint speck85 and was lost in the blue to southward.
Gaspard, breathing freely again, watched the great bird losing itself in nothingness, lifting veil after veil of sky,41 and horizon after horizon of sea, bound for some port of call in the Windwards or beyond.
The shock had been better than medicine to him, shewing him his own superstition and the stupidity of his alarm. The island seemed suddenly freed from the haunting presence; he began to doubt himself. If a bird could make a fool of him like that, he must be a fool indeed.
A year seemed to have passed since sunrise and the sun was now dropping to the sea, bringing to its end that vast blue day so filled with loneliness and the terrors of the unknown.
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1
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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3
sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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gulls
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| n.鸥( gull的名词复数 )v.欺骗某人( gull的第三人称单数 ) | |
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5
fronds
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| n.蕨类或棕榈类植物的叶子( frond的名词复数 ) | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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7
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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8
crabs
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| n.蟹( crab的名词复数 )；阴虱寄生病；蟹肉v.捕蟹( crab的第三人称单数 ) | |
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lagoon
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| n.泻湖，咸水湖 | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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11
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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12
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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13
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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14
tingling
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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15
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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pouch
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| n.小袋，小包，囊状袋；vt.装...入袋中，用袋运输；vi.用袋送信件 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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verdigris
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| n.铜锈；铜绿 | |
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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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21
obtrude
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| v.闯入；侵入；打扰 | |
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tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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23
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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24
mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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25
fret
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| v.(使)烦恼；(使)焦急；(使)腐蚀，(使)磨损 | |
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26
fretting
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| n. 微振磨损 adj. 烦躁的, 焦虑的 | |
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27
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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28
cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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29
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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30
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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32
stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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34
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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35
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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36
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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37
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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38
aquarium
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| n.水族馆，养鱼池，玻璃缸 | |
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39
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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40
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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41
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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42
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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43
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
wreckage
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| n.（失事飞机等的）残骸，破坏，毁坏 | |
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45
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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46
boilers
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| 锅炉，烧水器，水壶( boiler的名词复数 ) | |
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47
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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48
frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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50
friction
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| n.摩擦，摩擦力 | |
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51
inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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53
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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salvage
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| v.救助，营救，援救；n.救助，营救 | |
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bleaching
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| 漂白法，漂白 | |
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animate
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| v.赋于生命，鼓励；adj.有生命的，有生气的 | |
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conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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allay
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| v.消除，减轻(恐惧、怀疑等) | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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edifices
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| n.大建筑物( edifice的名词复数 ) | |
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idyllic
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| adj.质朴宜人的，田园风光的 | |
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stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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mesmerized
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| v.使入迷( mesmerize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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imprint
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| n.印痕，痕迹；深刻的印象；vt.压印，牢记 | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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fend
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| v.照料（自己），（自己）谋生，挡开，避开 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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dwindling
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| adj.逐渐减少的v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的现在分词 ) | |
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speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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