And once, but once, she lifted her eyes, And suddenly, sweetly, strangely blush’d To find they were met by my own ...
—Tennyson, Maud (1855)
. . . with its green chasms1 between romantic rocks, where the scattered2 forest trees and orchards3 of luxu-riant growth declare that many a generation must have passed away since the first partial falling of the cliff prepared the ground for such a state, where a scene so wonderful and so lovely is exhibited, as may more than equal any of the resembling scenes of the far-famed Isle4 of Wight…
—Jane Austen, Persuasion5
There runs, between Lyme Regis and Axmouth six miles to the west, one of the strangest coastal6 landscapes in Southern England. From the air it is not very striking; one notes merely that whereas elsewhere on the coast the fields run to the cliff edge, here they stop a mile or so short of it. The cultivated chequer of green and red-brown breaks, with a kind of joyous7 undiscipline, into a dark cascade8 of trees and undergrowth. There are no roofs. If one flies low enough one can see that the terrain9 is very abrupt10, cut by deep chasms and accented by strange bluffs11 and towers of chalk and flint, which loom12 over the lush foliage13 around them like the walls of ruined castles. From the air ... but on foot this seemingly unimportant wilderness14 gains a strange extension. People have been lost in it for hours, and cannot believe, when they see on the map where they were lost, that their sense of isolation—and if the weather be bad, desolation—could have seemed so great.
The Undercliff—for this land is really the mile-long slope caused by the erosion of the ancient vertical15 cliff face—is very steep. Flat places are as rare as visitors in it. But this steepness in effect tilts16 it, and its vegetation, towards the sun; and it is this fact, together with the water from the countless17 springs that have caused the erosion, that lends the area its botanical strangeness—its wild arbutus and ilex and other trees rarely seen growing in England; its enormous ashes and beeches18; its green Brazilian chasms choked with ivy19 and the liana of wild clematis; its bracken that grows seven, eight feet tall; its flowers that bloom a month earlier than any-where else in the district. In summer it is the nearest this country can offer to a tropical jungle. It has also, like all land that has never been worked or lived on by man, its mysteries, its shadows, its dangers—only too literal ones geologically, since there are crevices20 and sudden falls that can bring disaster, and in places where a man with a broken leg could shout all week and not be heard. Strange as it may seem, it was slightly less solitary21 a hundred years ago than it is today. There is not a single cottage in the Undercliff now; in 1867 there were several, lived in by gamekeepers, woodmen, a pigherd or two. The roedeer, sure proof of abundant soli-tude, then must have passed less peaceful days. Now the Undercliff has reverted22 to a state of total wildness. The cottage walls have crumbled23 into ivied stumps24, the old branch paths have gone; no car road goes near it, the one remaining track that traverses it is often impassable. And it is so by Act of Parliament: a national nature reserve. Not all is lost to expedience25.
It was this place, an English Garden of Eden on such a day as March 29th, 1867, that Charles had entered when he had climbed the path from the shore at Pinhay Bay; and it was this same place whose eastern half was called Ware26 Commons.
When Charles had quenched27 his thirst and cooled his brow with his wetted handkerchief he began to look seriously around him. Or at least he tried to look seriously around him; but the little slope on which he found himself, the prospect28 before him, the sounds, the scents29, the unalloyed wildness of growth and burgeoning30 fertility, forced him into anti-science. The ground about him was studded gold and pale yellow with celandines and primroses31 and banked by the bridal white of densely32 blossoming sloe; where jubilantly green-tipped elders shaded the mossy banks of the little brook33 he had drunk from were clusters of moschatel and woodsorrel, most deli-cate of English spring flowers. Higher up the slope he saw the white heads of anemones35, and beyond them deep green drifts of bluebell36 leaves. A distant woodpecker drummed in the branches of some high tree, and bullfinches whistled quietly over his head; newly arrived chiffchaffs and willow37 warblers sang in every bush and treetop. When he turned he saw the blue sea, now washing far below; and the whole extent of Lyme Bay reaching round, diminishing cliffs that dropped into the endless yellow saber of the Chesil Bank, whose remote tip touched that strange English Gibraltar, Portland Bill, a thin gray shadow wedged between azures.
Only one art has ever caught such scenes—that of the Renaissance38; it is the ground that Botticelli’s figures walk on, the air that includes Ronsard’s songs. It does not matter what that cultural revolution’s conscious aims and purposes, its cruelties and failures were; in essence the Renaissance was simply the green end of one of civilization’s hardest winters. It was an end to chains, bounds, frontiers. Its device was the only device: What is, is good. It was all, in short, that Charles’s age was not; but do not think that as he stood there he did not know this. It is true that to explain his obscure feeling of malaise, of inappropriateness, of limitation, he went back closer home—to Rousseau, and the childish myths of a Golden Age and the Noble Savage39. That is, he tried to dismiss the inadequacies of his own time’s approach to nature by supposing that one cannot reenter a legend. He told himself he was too pampered40, too spoiled by civilization, ever to inhabit nature again; and that made him sad, in a not unpleasant bittersweet sort of way. After all, he was a Victo-rian. We could not expect him to see what we are only just beginning—and with so much more knowledge and the lessons of existentialist philosophy at our disposal—to realize ourselves: that the desire to hold and the desire to enjoy are mutually destructive. His statement to himself should have been, “I possess this now, therefore I am happy,” instead of what it so Victorianly was: “I cannot possess this forever, and therefore am sad.”
Science eventually regained43 its hegemony, and he began to search among the beds of flint along the course of the stream for his tests. He found a pretty fragment of fossil scallop, but the sea urchins44 eluded45 him. Gradually he moved through the trees to the west, bending, carefully quartering the ground with his eyes, moving on a few paces, then repeating the same procedure. Now and then he would turn over a likely-looking flint with the end of his ashplant. But he had no luck. An hour passed, and his duty towards Ernestina began to outweigh46 his lust34 for echinoderms. He looked at his watch, repressed a curse, and made his way back to where he had left his rucksack. Some way up the slope, with the declining sun on his back, he came on a path and set off for Lyme. The path climbed and curved slightly inward beside an ivy-grown stone wall and then—in the unkind manner of paths— forked without indication. He hesitated, then walked some fifty yards or so along the lower path, which lay sunk in a transverse gully, already deeply shadowed. But then he came to a solution to his problem—not knowing exactly how the land lay—for yet another path suddenly branched to his right, back towards the sea, up a steep small slope crowned with grass, and from which he could plainly orientate47 him-self. He therefore pushed up through the strands48 of bramble— the path was seldom used—to the little green plateau.
It opened out very agreeably, like a tiny alpine49 meadow. The white scuts of three or four rabbits explained why the turf was so short.
Charles stood in the sunlight. Eyebright and birdsfoot starred the grass, and already vivid green clumps50 of marjoram reached up to bloom. Then he moved forward to the edge of the plateau.
And there, below him, he saw a figure.
For one terrible moment he thought he had stumbled on a corpse51. But it was a woman asleep. She had chosen the strangest position, a broad, sloping ledge41 of grass some five feet beneath the level of the plateau, and which hid her from the view of any but one who came, as Charles had, to the very edge. The chalk walls behind this little natural balcony made it into a sun trap, for its widest axis52 pointed53 southwest. But it was not a sun trap many would have chosen. Its outer edge gave onto a sheer drop of some thirty or forty feet into an ugly tangle54 of brambles. A little beyond them the real cliff plunged55 down to the beach.
Charles’s immediate56 instinct had been to draw back out of the woman’s view. He did not see who she was. He stood at a loss, looking at but not seeing the fine landscape the place commanded. He hesitated, he was about to withdraw; but then his curiosity drew him forward again.
The girl lay in the complete abandonment of deep sleep, on her back. Her coat had fallen open over her indigo57 dress, unrelieved in its calico severity except by a small white collar at the throat. The sleeper’s face was turned away from him, her right arm thrown back, bent58 in a childlike way. A scattered handful of anemones lay on the grass around it. There was something intensely tender and yet sexual in the way she lay; it awakened59 a dim echo of Charles of a moment from his time in Paris. Another girl, whose name now he could not even remember, perhaps had never known, seen sleeping so, one dawn, in a bedroom overlooking the Seine.
He moved round the curving lip of the plateau, to where he could see the sleeper’s face better, and it was only then that he realized whom he had intruded60 upon. It was the French Lieutenant’s Woman. Part of her hair had become loose and half covered her cheek. On the Cobb it had seemed to him a dark brown; now he saw that it had red tints61, a rich warmth, and without the then indispensable gloss62 of feminine hair oil. The skin below seemed very brown, almost ruddy, in that light, as if the girl cared more for health than a fashion-ably pale and languid-cheeked complexion63. A strong nose, heavy eyebrows64 ... the mouth he could not see. It irked him strangely that he had to see her upside down, since the land would not allow him to pass round for the proper angle.
He stood unable to do anything but stare down, tranced by this unexpected encounter, and overcome by an equally strange feeling—not sexual, but fraternal, perhaps paternal65, a certainty of the innocence66 of this creature, of her being unfairly outcast, and which was in turn a factor of his intuition of her appalling67 loneliness. He could not imagine what, besides despair, could drive her, in an age where women were semistatic, timid, incapable68 of sustained physical effort, to this wild place.
He came at last to the very edge of the rampart above her, directly over her face, and there he saw that all the sadness he had so remarked before was gone; in sleep the face was gentle, it might even have had the ghost of a smile. It was precisely69 then, as he craned sideways down, that she awoke.
She looked up at once, so quickly that his step back was in vain. He was detected, and he was too much a gentleman to deny it. So when Sarah scrambled70 to her feet, gathering71 her coat about her, and stared back up at him from her ledge, he raised his wideawake and bowed. She said nothing, but fixed72 him with a look of shock and bewilderment, perhaps not untinged with shame. She had fine eyes, dark eyes.
They stood thus for several seconds, locked in a mutual42 incomprehension. She seemed so small to him, standing73 there below him, hidden from the waist down, clutching her collar, as if, should he take a step towards her, she would turn and fling herself out of his sight. He came to his sense of what was proper.
“A thousand apologies. I came upon you inadvertently.” And then he turned and walked away. He did not look back, but scrambled down to the path he had left, and back to the fork, where he wondered why he had not had the presence of mind to ask which path he was to take, and waited half a minute to see if she was following him. She did not appear. Very soon he marched firmly away up the steeper path.
Charles did not know it, but in those brief poised74 seconds
above the waiting sea, in that luminous75 evening silence bro-ken only by the waves’ quiet wash, the whole Victorian Age was lost. And I do not mean he had taken the wrong path.
收听单词发音 |
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chasms
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| 裂缝( chasm的名词复数 )； 裂口； 分歧； 差别 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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coastal
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| adj.海岸的，沿海的，沿岸的 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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cascade
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| n.小瀑布，喷流；层叠；vi.成瀑布落下 | |
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terrain
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| n.地面，地形，地图 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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bluffs
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| 恐吓( bluff的名词复数 )； 悬崖； 峭壁 | |
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loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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vertical
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| adj.垂直的，顶点的，纵向的；n.垂直物，垂直的位置 | |
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tilts
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| （意欲赢得某物或战胜某人的）企图，尝试( tilt的名词复数 ) | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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beeches
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| n.山毛榉( beech的名词复数 )；山毛榉木材 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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expedience
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| n.方便，私利，权宜 | |
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ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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burgeoning
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| adj.迅速成长的，迅速发展的v.发芽，抽枝( burgeon的现在分词 )；迅速发展；发（芽），抽（枝） | |
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primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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densely
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| ad.密集地；浓厚地 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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anemones
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| n.银莲花( anemone的名词复数 )；海葵 | |
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bluebell
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| n.风铃草 | |
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willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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urchins
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| n.顽童( urchin的名词复数 )；淘气鬼；猬；海胆 | |
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eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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outweigh
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| vt.比...更重，...更重要 | |
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orientate
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| v.给…定位；使适应 | |
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strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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axis
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| n.轴，轴线，中心线；坐标轴，基准线 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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indigo
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| n.靛青，靛蓝 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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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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intruded
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| n.侵入的，推进的v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的过去式和过去分词 )；把…强加于 | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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gloss
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| n.光泽，光滑；虚饰；注释；vt.加光泽于；掩饰 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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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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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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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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