The hands that cling and the feet that follow,
The voice of the child's blood crying yet,
WHO HATH REMEMBERED ME? WHO HATH FORGOTTEN?
Thou hast forgotten, O summer swallow,
But the world shall end when I forget.
SWINBURNE.
"Unto you a child is born," sang the bit of yellow paper that fluttered into my room one brown October morning. Then the fear of fatherhood mingled1 wildly with the joy of creation; I wondered how it looked and how it felt—what were its eyes, and how its hair curled and crumpled2 itself. And I thought in awe3 of her,—she who had slept with Death to tear a man-child from underneath4 her heart, while I was unconsciously wandering. I fled to my wife and child, repeating the while to myself half wonderingly, "Wife and child? Wife and child?"—fled fast and faster than boat and steam-car, and yet must ever impatiently await them; away from the hard-voiced city, away from the flickering6 sea into my own Berkshire Hills that sit all sadly guarding the gates of Massachusetts.
Up the stairs I ran to the wan5 mother and whimpering babe, to the sanctuary7 on whose altar a life at my bidding had offered itself to win a life, and won. What is this tiny formless thing, this newborn wail8 from an unknown world,—all head and voice? I handle it curiously9, and watch perplexed10 its winking11, breathing, and sneezing. I did not love it then; it seemed a ludicrous thing to love; but her I loved, my girl-mother, she whom now I saw unfolding like the glory of the morning—the transfigured woman. Through her I came to love the wee thing, as it grew strong; as its little soul unfolded itself in twitter and cry and half-formed word, and as its eyes caught the gleam and flash of life. How beautiful he was, with his olive-tinted12 flesh and dark gold ringlets, his eyes of mingled blue and brown, his perfect little limbs, and the soft voluptuous13 roll which the blood of Africa had moulded into his features! I held him in my arms, after we had sped far away from our Southern home,—held him, and glanced at the hot red soil of Georgia and the breathless city of a hundred hills, and felt a vague unrest. Why was his hair tinted with gold? An evil omen14 was golden hair in my life. Why had not the brown of his eyes crushed out and killed the blue?—for brown were his father's eyes, and his father's father's. And thus in the Land of the Color-line I saw, as it fell across my baby, the shadow of the Veil.
Within the Veil was he born, said I; and there within shall he live,—a Negro and a Negro's son. Holding in that little head—ah, bitterly!—he unbowed pride of a hunted race, clinging with that tiny dimpled hand—ah, wearily!—to a hope not hopeless but unhopeful, and seeing with those bright wondering eyes that peer into my soul a land whose freedom is to us a mockery and whose liberty a lie. I saw the shadow of the Veil as it passed over my baby, I saw the cold city towering above the blood-red land. I held my face beside his little cheek, showed him the star-children and the twinkling lights as they began to flash, and stilled with an even-song the unvoiced terror of my life.
So sturdy and masterful he grew, so filled with bubbling life, so tremulous with the unspoken wisdom of a life but eighteen months distant from the All-life,—we were not far from worshipping this revelation of the divine, my wife and I. Her own life builded and moulded itself upon the child; he tinged17 her every dream and idealized her every effort. No hands but hers must touch and garnish18 those little limbs; no dress or frill must touch them that had not wearied her fingers; no voice but hers could coax19 him off to Dreamland, and she and he together spoke16 some soft and unknown tongue and in it held communion. I too mused20 above his little white bed; saw the strength of my own arm stretched onward21 through the ages through the newer strength of his; saw the dream of my black fathers stagger a step onward in the wild phantasm of the world; heard in his baby voice the voice of the Prophet that was to rise within the Veil.
And so we dreamed and loved and planned by fall and winter, and the full flush of the long Southern spring, till the hot winds rolled from the fetid Gulf22, till the roses shivered and the still stern sun quivered its awful light over the hills of Atlanta. And then one night the little feet pattered wearily to the wee white bed, and the tiny hands trembled; and a warm flushed face tossed on the pillow, and we knew baby was sick. Ten days he lay there,—a swift week and three endless days, wasting, wasting away. Cheerily the mother nursed him the first days, and laughed into the little eyes that smiled again. Tenderly then she hovered23 round him, till the smile fled away and Fear crouched24 beside the little bed.
Then the day ended not, and night was a dreamless terror, and joy and sleep slipped away. I hear now that Voice at midnight calling me from dull and dreamless trance,—crying, "The Shadow of Death! The Shadow of Death!" Out into the starlight I crept, to rouse the gray physician,—the Shadow of Death, the Shadow of Death. The hours trembled on; the night listened; the ghastly dawn glided25 like a tired thing across the lamplight. Then we two alone looked upon the child as he turned toward us with great eyes, and stretched his stringlike hands,—the Shadow of Death! And we spoke no word, and turned away.
He died at eventide, when the sun lay like a brooding sorrow above the western hills, veiling its face; when the winds spoke not, and the trees, the great green trees he loved, stood motionless. I saw his breath beat quicker and quicker, pause, and then his little soul leapt like a star that travels in the night and left a world of darkness in its train. The day changed not; the same tall trees peeped in at the windows, the same green grass glinted in the setting sun. Only in the chamber26 of death writhed27 the world's most piteous thing—a childless mother.
I shirk not. I long for work. I pant for a life full of striving. I am no coward, to shrink before the rugged28 rush of the storm, nor even quail29 before the awful shadow of the Veil. But hearken, O Death! Is not this my life hard enough,—is not that dull land that stretches its sneering30 web about me cold enough,—is not all the world beyond these four little walls pitiless enough, but that thou must needs enter here,—thou, O Death? About my head the thundering storm beat like a heartless voice, and the crazy forest pulsed with the curses of the weak; but what cared I, within my home beside my wife and baby boy? Wast thou so jealous of one little coign of happiness that thou must needs enter there,—thou, O Death?
A perfect life was his, all joy and love, with tears to make it brighter,—sweet as a summer's day beside the Housatonic. The world loved him; the women kissed his curls, the men looked gravely into his wonderful eyes, and the children hovered and fluttered about him. I can see him now, changing like the sky from sparkling laughter to darkening frowns, and then to wondering thoughtfulness as he watched the world. He knew no color-line, poor dear—and the Veil, though it shadowed him, had not yet darkened half his sun. He loved the white matron, he loved his black nurse; and in his little world walked souls alone, uncolored and unclothed. I—yea, all men—are larger and purer by the infinite breadth of that one little life. She who in simple clearness of vision sees beyond the stars said when he had flown, "He will be happy There; he ever loved beautiful things." And I, far more ignorant, and blind by the web of mine own weaving, sit alone winding31 words and muttering, "If still he be, and he be There, and there be a There, let him be happy, O Fate!"
Blithe32 was the morning of his burial, with bird and song and sweet-smelling flowers. The trees whispered to the grass, but the children sat with hushed faces. And yet it seemed a ghostly unreal day,—the wraith33 of Life. We seemed to rumble34 down an unknown street behind a little white bundle of posies, with the shadow of a song in our ears. The busy city dinned35 about us; they did not say much, those pale-faced hurrying men and women; they did not say much,—they only glanced and said, "Niggers!"
We could not lay him in the ground there in Georgia, for the earth there is strangely red; so we bore him away to the northward36, with his flowers and his little folded hands. In vain, in vain!—for where, O God! beneath thy broad blue sky shall my dark baby rest in peace,—where Reverence37 dwells, and Goodness, and a Freedom that is free?
All that day and all that night there sat an awful gladness in my heart,—nay, blame me not if I see the world thus darkly through the Veil,—and my soul whispers ever to me saying, "Not dead, not dead, but escaped; not bond, but free." No bitter meanness now shall sicken his baby heart till it die a living death, no taunt38 shall madden his happy boyhood. Fool that I was to think or wish that this little soul should grow choked and deformed39 within the Veil! I might have known that yonder deep unworldly look that ever and anon floated past his eyes was peering far beyond this narrow Now. In the poise40 of his little curl-crowned head did there not sit all that wild pride of being which his father had hardly crushed in his own heart? For what, forsooth, shall a Negro want with pride amid the studied humiliations of fifty million fellows? Well sped, my boy, before the world had dubbed41 your ambition insolence42, had held your ideals unattainable, and taught you to cringe and bow. Better far this nameless void that stops my life than a sea of sorrow for you.
Idle words; he might have borne his burden more bravely than we,—aye, and found it lighter43 too, some day; for surely, surely this is not the end. Surely there shall yet dawn some mighty44 morning to lift the Veil and set the prisoned free. Not for me,—I shall die in my bonds,—but for fresh young souls who have not known the night and waken to the morning; a morning when men ask of the workman, not "Is he white?" but "Can he work?" When men ask artists, not "Are they black?" but "Do they know?" Some morning this may be, long, long years to come. But now there wails45, on that dark shore within the Veil, the same deep voice, THOU SHALT FOREGO! And all have I foregone at that command, and with small complaint,—all save that fair young form that lies so coldly wed15 with death in the nest I had builded.
If one must have gone, why not I? Why may I not rest me from this restlessness and sleep from this wide waking? Was not the world's alembic, Time, in his young hands, and is not my time waning46? Are there so many workers in the vineyard that the fair promise of this little body could lightly be tossed away? The wretched of my race that line the alleys47 of the nation sit fatherless and unmothered; but Love sat beside his cradle, and in his ear Wisdom waited to speak. Perhaps now he knows the All-love, and needs not to be wise. Sleep, then, child,—sleep till I sleep and waken to a baby voice and the ceaseless patter of little feet—above the Veil.
点击收听单词发音
1 mingled | |
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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2 crumpled | |
adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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3 awe | |
n.敬畏,惊惧;vt.使敬畏,使惊惧 | |
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4 underneath | |
adj.在...下面,在...底下;adv.在下面 | |
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5 wan | |
(wide area network)广域网 | |
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6 flickering | |
adj.闪烁的,摇曳的,一闪一闪的 | |
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7 sanctuary | |
n.圣所,圣堂,寺庙;禁猎区,保护区 | |
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8 wail | |
vt./vi.大声哀号,恸哭;呼啸,尖啸 | |
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9 curiously | |
adv.有求知欲地;好问地;奇特地 | |
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10 perplexed | |
adj.不知所措的 | |
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11 winking | |
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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12 tinted | |
adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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13 voluptuous | |
adj.肉欲的,骄奢淫逸的 | |
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14 omen | |
n.征兆,预兆;vt.预示 | |
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15 wed | |
v.娶,嫁,与…结婚 | |
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16 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 | |
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17 tinged | |
v.(使)发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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18 garnish | |
n.装饰,添饰,配菜 | |
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19 coax | |
v.哄诱,劝诱,用诱哄得到,诱取 | |
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20 mused | |
v.沉思,冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 );沉思自语说(某事) | |
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21 onward | |
adj.向前的,前进的;adv.向前,前进,在先 | |
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22 gulf | |
n.海湾;深渊,鸿沟;分歧,隔阂 | |
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23 hovered | |
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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24 crouched | |
v.屈膝,蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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25 glided | |
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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26 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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27 writhed | |
(因极度痛苦而)扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28 rugged | |
adj.高低不平的,粗糙的,粗壮的,强健的 | |
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29 quail | |
n.鹌鹑;vi.畏惧,颤抖 | |
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30 sneering | |
嘲笑的,轻蔑的 | |
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31 winding | |
n.绕,缠,绕组,线圈 | |
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32 blithe | |
adj.快乐的,无忧无虑的 | |
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33 wraith | |
n.幽灵;骨瘦如柴的人 | |
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34 rumble | |
n.隆隆声;吵嚷;v.隆隆响;低沉地说 | |
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35 dinned | |
vt.喧闹(din的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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36 northward | |
adv.向北;n.北方的地区 | |
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37 reverence | |
n.敬畏,尊敬,尊严;Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称;v.尊敬,敬畏,崇敬 | |
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38 taunt | |
n.辱骂,嘲弄;v.嘲弄 | |
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39 deformed | |
adj.畸形的;变形的;丑的,破相了的 | |
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40 poise | |
vt./vi. 平衡,保持平衡;n.泰然自若,自信 | |
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41 dubbed | |
v.给…起绰号( dub的过去式和过去分词 );把…称为;配音;复制 | |
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42 insolence | |
n.傲慢;无礼;厚颜;傲慢的态度 | |
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43 lighter | |
n.打火机,点火器;驳船;v.用驳船运送;light的比较级 | |
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44 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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45 wails | |
痛哭,哭声( wail的名词复数 ) | |
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46 waning | |
adj.(月亮)渐亏的,逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 );(月)亏;变小;变暗淡 | |
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47 alleys | |
胡同,小巷( alley的名词复数 ); 小径 | |
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