Old as the time of Josephine, the street of the Precipice held in these morning hours the twilight of romance. The murmurs6 of the sea below and the woods above, the trickling7 and tinkling8 of the gouyave water flowing down its runnels seemed voices speaking of the past, times long gone, women vanished, men once brave—now ghosts.
In the full blaze of noon, the old street shone out bright with colours and moving with people; then, as the hour of siesta9 approached, it gradually emptied, the great heat of afternoon seemed to dry up its stream of life, the song of the calendeuse over her work, the note of a guitar, voices from the harbour side seemed less sounds than echoes of sound, green lizards10 slipped from shadow to123 shadow or basked11 openly in the heat. Then as the sun declined, the old street began to speak again and live, the sunset rushed up it like a torchbearer, setting fire to roof and gable, yellow house wall, coloured garments of women, up, up, lighting12 the woods far above—lighting the stars and leaving them burning and leaping in the dusky blue.
This was the children’s hour. You could hear their voices as they played, told their stories, sang their songs, whilst the blue above became more dark, more definite, more filled with stars.
It was here in this old street that Marie lived with her aunt, Man’m Charles, in a house on the right as you went up from the harbour and close to the passageway leading to the Rue13 Buonaparte.
Born sixteen years ago up at the village of Morne Rouge14, she had paid for life the greatest payment that life can extract from a human being. She had lost her mother. Her father, who owned the only shop in the village, had been fairly prosperous in a small way; besides the shop he owned a small farm, and three times a week he would come into the market at St. Pierre to sell his produce, leaving the shop to the care of his sister, Ti Finotte, a woman of forty, a woman once tall, stately, beautiful as any woman in Martinique, but now a cripple, broken down, slain15 by hard work. She had been a porteuse.
The porteuse of Martinique is a race apart; she is in reality a peddler, selling everything from fruit to ribbons. She carries her tray upon her head and her goods upon the tray, and her load would break an Englishman down were he to carry it half a dozen miles. She thinks nothing of it. Wonderful is not the word for the work done by these women, graceful16, sometimes slightly built, often beautiful, who, with their loads perfectly17 balanced, bare-footed,124 dressed in clothing slight as the clothing of the ancient Greeks, will travel fifty miles in a day from village to village, over hill and dale, under the tropical sun, joyous18 as children, pleasant, sweet to look upon, yet fated to die at last—from overwork!
Yet they do not complain, nor do they look back on their lives with bitterness; hard though the work is, it is free from constraint19 of walls and houses and masters; it is lonely passing from village to village amidst the mountains, but they have the companionship of sun and wind and distance. So Ti Finotte, though she was dying from the hardships of life and though she loved little Marie, made no opposition20 when Marie’s father declared his intention of making a porteuse of the child.
Marie was four years of age when he came to this decision, and he came to it because he could see no better future for her. Since the birth of Marie he had fallen upon evil days; wishing to extend his farm, he had borrowed money, and he had borrowed it from Sagesse, then a rising power in St. Pierre; a bad crop and a tornado21 crippled him in this new development of his business, he had to apply to Sagesse for another loan, and from that dated his ruin.
Things always worked in a diabolical22 manner in favour of Sagesse: If he lent a man money something was sure to happen to prevent that man paying the interest or working off the debt; then, when his business had been seized by the money-lender things would take a turn, trade would revive, crops would be splendid—and the benefit would fall to Sagesse.
It was so with the father of Marie. The year after his property had fallen into the hands of the money-lender a wave of prosperity passed over Martinique. He still125 lived at Morne Rouge, the paid servant of Sagesse, overseeing the little farm that once was his own, he saw the canes24 growing so heavy and so tall that the harvesters could scarcely make way amidst them, the bananas bending beneath the weight of their huge yellow clusters, yet he did not grumble25; it was Fate, and he made the best of the business for himself and Marie.
When Marie was fifteen and old enough to begin the business of porteuse, Ti Finotte died, and Marie came to live with the aunt in the Street of the Precipice and to act as porteuse in the employ of M. Sartine, the dealer26 in foulards, ribbons, madras handkerchiefs, and women’s apparel, whose shop was in the Rue Victor Hugo. The death of Ti Finotte had stricken the child to the heart, for she was still but a child despite her fifteen years and her figure, tall, straight, supple—almost the figure of a woman; the change from the sun-blaze of Morne Rouge to the shadowy old street of the Precipice had seemed part of the mournful change that had come in her life with the death of the woman who had been a second mother to her; her aunt, Man’m Charles, a calendeuse by trade, was a stern woman, religious, a devotee, and without much heart or sympathy for young people—yet in a fortnight the girl had adapted herself to her new life and had come to love the old street, its voices, its colours, its dimness, and its mystery.
It had told her its secret. A secret that could only be told to a poet or a child. Man’m Charles knew nothing of this secret, the traders and hawkers, the brazier who lived by the passageway into the Rue Buonaparte, the baker27 whose shop was opposite the brazier’s, knew nothing of it. For them it was just a street, for Marie it was a mystery half understood. The old houses, the126 shadows, the steps moss-grown and tread-worn, the twilight of early morning, the whispering of the gouyave water, all these spoke28 to her, telling her things—things about the past, things about the future, hints of the mystery of life—as though the people who had once lived there and loved there had left some voice behind them, some echo of their story.
Three days a week, early in the morning, just as Pelée was showing hard against the dawn, she would leave for M. Sartine’s, receive her tray of goods and start on her journey, carrying it as though it were a thing of no weight.
To see her life and work, one must follow her as, leaving the Rue Victor Hugo, up through the steep and twilit streets, she passes, moving as no woman can move who does not walk bare-footed, passing with the silence of a ghost and the grace of Atalanta, giving good-day to every one she meets, friends or strangers, up, up, past the Rue Peysette, the Rue Petit Versailles, till the houses begin to disappear and the road turns from a street to a country road set on either side with balisiers, gigantic ferns, whispering canes; scented29 with damp earth and the perfume of the night jasmine.
Up here, were she to look back, she would see the city at her feet still twilit and half asleep, the bay blue but still filled with night, and beyond the shadow of the island, away to the west, the sea sparkling in the sunlight.
But she does not look back nor turn her head. Her eyes, ever on the watch for the dreaded30 fer de lance, are fixed31 on the roadway before her.
Every moment, the sky above is becoming more filled with light, and as she climbs it seems to her that she is climbing to the sunlight; now, the road, more level, is turning the great shadow of Pelée, and before her the twilight of morning is turning to the blue of day.
127 The road takes a sharp bend, she turns it, and she is enveloped32 in a flame of sunshine, the warm blowing trade wind which the mountains shut off from St. Pierre blows in her face. Zombis, snakes, evil spirits, all the Fears that haunt darkness, are banished33 by the sunlight, blown away by the wind.
Away up here, so high above everything, she seems the only person in the world; there is not a soul in sight; cane23 fields, valleys, mornes, mountains purple and blue, the dazzling azure34 sea—distances and colours lie before her. Silence and sunlight.
She always pauses here as one pauses when one meets a friend. The greatest poet, the meanest man, would do the same in face of this supreme35 loveliness.
As she looks from the blue sea to the green mornes and from the mornes to the blue mountains over which La Trace, the great white highroad, passes like a narrow white ribbon, she talks to it all in an undertone. She knows nothing of where the sea leads to, she knows nothing of the sun, or whether the earth moves round him or he round the earth, she is ignorant of these things as the prehistoric36 woman. That is perhaps why she understands it all so well, this great picture to which she speaks in an undertone, caressingly37 as a child speaks to its mother.
Then the road draws her back again and she passes on with her burden on her head, walking swiftly and easily, straight as a flame, a beautiful picture against the whispering canes that line the road, the palmistes, and the ferns.
Her journey may be as far as Grande Anse, she may be going to sell her goods at Calabasse, at Marigot, or Vauclin; far or near, it is all the same to her.
At noon, she is travelling still; across those blue hills in the torrid light of midday you will find her passing128 on her way; she has sold some of her goods, and there are coins in the little bag at her girdle. But she is not thinking of them. Of what is she thinking? Ah, if you were to lead her life, always active, always in the open air, you would know that thought can live in suspension. Not the suspension of sleep, but of half slumber38, wide awake to all external things, yet dwelling39 on none especially. She would see, as she went, the hills change as the road turned, far mountains vanish as the road dipped, and reappear as it rose again, distant vistas40 of blue sea peeping at her between the mornes, fields of green cane waving to the breeze, woods breaking into view; and the woods would push the sea aside and the cane fields take the place of the woods, and the green mornes of the cane fields, and the sea of the mornes. So full was she of life and energy that movement, so far from tiring her, was more pleasant than rest, mesmerising her, lulling41 her, till at times it almost seemed as though she were not moving at all, that it was the scenery which was moving, hills, fields, mountains, and sea, shifting, altering, giving place one to the other to peep at her on her journey.
In a year she was known all over the island. The negroes cutting the cane would pause to look at Marie of Morne Rouge, the prettiest porteuse in Martinique, and give her good-day; at the villages where she called with her wares42, she did a better trade than any other porteuse; her prettiness had little to do with this success, for her customers were women, but she had a way with her, an innocence43, a sweetness, that made her pleasant as a rose.
Needless to say, in Martinique, where hearts are as inflammable as tinder, she had admirers, scores, hundreds—but she had no lover.
When young men came to talk to her they found themselves129 at a loss before this girl who spoke to them eye to eye, frankly44, freely, as a friend might speak to a friend. She did not seem to know that she was a girl; other girls—all the girls in St. Pierre of her age—had lovers, visions of Love, visions of Cupids with tinsel wings, wedding wreaths, all the frippery that goes to make marriage the woman’s pageant45. Marie had no visions of these things. Her mind was of that rare order of woman’s mind which holds all the love of heaven in solution, but no image of Love till the man she is fated to meet meets her, glances at her, speaks to her, and at a stroke makes her his forever.
These are the women who are the heroines of the real tragedies of life—and of the immortal46 tales of Love.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
precipice
|
|
| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
literally
|
|
| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
upwards
|
|
| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
downwards
|
|
| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
twilight
|
|
| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
murmurs
|
|
| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
trickling
|
|
| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
tinkling
|
|
| n.丁当作响声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
siesta
|
|
| n.午睡 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
lizards
|
|
| n.蜥蜴( lizard的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
basked
|
|
| v.晒太阳，取暖( bask的过去式和过去分词 )；对…感到乐趣；因他人的功绩而出名；仰仗…的余泽 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
lighting
|
|
| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
rue
|
|
| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
rouge
|
|
| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
slain
|
|
| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
graceful
|
|
| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
joyous
|
|
| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
constraint
|
|
| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
opposition
|
|
| n.反对，敌对 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
tornado
|
|
| n.飓风，龙卷风 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
diabolical
|
|
| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
cane
|
|
| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
canes
|
|
| n.（某些植物，如竹或甘蔗的）茎( cane的名词复数 )；（用于制作家具等的）竹竿；竹杖 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
grumble
|
|
| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
dealer
|
|
| n.商人，贩子 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
baker
|
|
| n.面包师 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
scented
|
|
| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
dreaded
|
|
| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
fixed
|
|
| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
enveloped
|
|
| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
banished
|
|
| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
azure
|
|
| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
supreme
|
|
| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
prehistoric
|
|
| adj.（有记载的）历史以前的，史前的，古老的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
caressingly
|
|
| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
slumber
|
|
| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
dwelling
|
|
| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
vistas
|
|
| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
lulling
|
|
| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的现在分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
wares
|
|
| n. 货物, 商品 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
innocence
|
|
| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
frankly
|
|
| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
pageant
|
|
| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
immortal
|
|
| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |