The old servant met them at the door with uplifted finger. Father Fontanel was sleeping. They did not wish to disturb him but sat down to wait in the anteroom, which seemed to breathe of little tragedies of Saint Pierre. On one side of the room was the door that was never locked; on the other, the entrance to the sleeping-room of the priest. Thus he kept his ear to the city's pulse. Peter Stock drowsed in the suffocating1 air. Charter's mind slowly revolved2 and fitted to the great concept.... The woman was drawn3 to him, and there had been no need of words.... Each moment she was more wonderful and radiant. There had not been a glance, a word, a movement, a moment, a breath, an aspiration4, a lift of brow or shoulder or thought, that had not more dearly charmed his conception of her triune beauty.
The day had left in his brain a crowd of unassimilated actions, and into this formless company came the thrilling mystery of his last moment with her—a shining cord of happiness for the labyrinth5 of the late days.... There had been so much beyond words between them—an overtone of singing. He had seen in her eyes all the eager treasure of brimming womanhood, rising to burst the bonds of repression7 for the first time. Dawn was a far voyage, but he settled himself to wait with the will of a weathered voyager whose heart feels the hungry arms upon the waiting shore.
The volcano lost its monstrous8 rhythm again, and was ripping forth9 irregular crashes. Father Fontanel awoke and the Rue10 Victor Hugo became alive with voices, aroused by the rattling11 in the throat of the mountain. Charter went into the room where the priest lay.
"Come, Father," he said, "We have waited long for you. I want you to go out to the ship for the rest of the night. You must breathe true air for an hour. Do this for me."
"Ah, my son!" the old man murmured, drawing Charter's head down to his breast. "My mind was clouded, and I could not see you clearly in the travail12 of yesterday."
"Many of your people are in Fort de France, Father," the young man added. "They will be glad to see you. Then you may come back here—even to-morrow, if you are stronger. Besides, the stalwart friend who has done so much for your people, wants you one night on his ship."
"Yes, my son.... I was waiting for you. I shall be glad to breathe the dawn at sea."
Peter Stock pressed Charter's hand as they led Father Fontanel forth. The mountain was quieter again. The bells of Saint Pierre rang the hour of two.... The three reached the Sugar Landing where the Saragossa's launch lay.
"Hello, Ernst," Stock called to his man. "I've kept you waiting long, but top-speed to the ship—deep water and ocean air!"
The launch sped across the smoky harbor, riding down little isles13 of flotsam, dead birds from the sky and nameless mysteries from the roiled14 bed of the harbor. The wind was hot in their faces, like a stoke-hold blast. Often they heard a hissing15 in the water, like the sound of a wet finger touching16 hot iron. A burning cinder17 fell upon Charter's hand, a messenger from Pelée. He could not feel fire that night.... He was living over that last moment with her—gazing into her eyes as one who seeks to penetrate18 the mystery of creation, as if it were any clearer in a woman's eyes than in a Nile night, a Venetian song, or in the flow of gasolene to the spark, which filled the contemplation of Ernst.... He remembered the swift intaking of her breath at the last, and knew that she was close to tears.
The launch was swinging around to the Saragossa's ladder. Father Fontanel had not spoken. Wherever the ship-lights fell, the sheeting of ash could be seen—upon mast and railing and plates. They helped the good man up the ladder, and Stock ordered Laird, his first officer, to steam out of the blizzard19, a dozen miles if necessary. The anchor chain began to grind at once, and three minutes later, the Saragossa's screws were kicking the ugly harbor tide. Charter watched, strangely disconcerted, until only the dull red of Pelée pierced the thick veil behind. A star, and another, pricked20 the blue vault21 ahead, and the air blew in fragrant22 as wine from the rolling Caribbean, but each moment was an arraignment23 now.... He wanted none of the clean sea; and the mere24 fact that he would not rouse her before daylight, even if he were at the Palms, did not lessen25 the savage26 pressure of the time.... Father Fontanel would not sleep, but moved among his people on deck. The natives refused to stay below, now that the defiled27 harbor was behind. There was a humming of old French lullabies to the little ones. Cool air had brought back the songs of peace and summer to the lowly hearts. It was an hour before dawn, and the Saragossa was already putting back toward the roadstead, when Father Fontanel called Charter suddenly.
"Make haste and go to the woman, my son," he said strangely.
Charter could not answer. The priest had spoken little more than this, since they led him from the parish-house. The Saragossa crept into the edge of the smoke. The gray ghost of morning was stealing into the hateful haze28. They found anchorage. The launch was in readiness below. It was not yet six. Ernst was off duty, and another sailor,—one whose room was prepared in the dim pavilion—waited at the tiller. Charter waved at the pale mute face of the priest, leaning overside, and the fog rushed in between.
The launch gained the inner harbor, and the white ships at anchor were vague as phantoms29 in the vapor—French steamers, Italian barques, and the smaller West Indian craft—all with their work to do and their way to win. Charter heard one officer shout to another a whimsical inquiry—if Saint Pierre were in her usual place or had switched sites with hell. The day was clearing rapidly, however, and before the launch reached shore, the haze so lifted that Pelée could be seen, floating a pennant30 of black out to sea. In the city, a large frame warehouse31 was ablaze32. The tinder-dry structure was being destroyed with almost explosive speed.
A blistering33 heat rushed down from the expiring building to the edge of the land. Crowds watched the destruction. Many of the people were in holiday attire34. This was the Day of Ascension, and Saint Pierre would shortly pray and praise at the cathedral; and at Notre Dame35 des Lourdes, where Father Fontanel would be missed quite the same as if they had taken the figure of Saint Anne from the altar.... Even now the cathedral bells were calling, and there was low laughter from a group of Creole maidens36. Was it not good to live, since the sun was trying to shine again and the mountain did not answer the ringing of the bells? It was true that Pelée poured forth a black streamer with lightning in its folds; true that the people trod upon the hot, gray dust of the volcano's waste; that the heat was such as no man had ever felt before, and many sat in misery37 upon the ground; true, indeed, that voices of hysteria came from the hovels, and the weaker were dying too swiftly for the priests to attend them all—but the gala-spirit was not dead. The bells were calling, the mountain was still, bright dresses were abroad—for the torrid children of France must laugh.
A carriage was not procurable38, so Charter fell in with the procession on the way to the cathedral. Many of the natives nodded to him; and may have wondered at the color in his skin, the fire in his eyes, and the glad ring of his voice. Standing39 for a moment before the church, he hurled40 over the little gathering41 the germ of flight; told them of the food and shelter in Fort de France, begged them laughingly to take their women and children out of this killing42 air.... It was nearly eight—eight on the morning of Ascension Day.... She would be ready. He hoped to find a carriage at the hotel.... At nine they would be in the launch again, speeding out toward the Saragossa.
Twenty times a minute she recurred43 to him as he walked. There was no waning44 nor wearing—save a wearing brighter, perhaps—of the images she had put in his mind. Palaces, gardens, treasure-houses—with the turn of every thought, new riches of possibility identified with her, were revealed. Thoughts of her, winged in and out his mind like bright birds that had a cote within—until he was lifted to heights of gladness which seemed to shatter the dome45 of human limitations—and leave him crown and shoulders emerged into illimitable ether.
The road up the Morne stretched blinding white before him. The sun was braver. Panting and spent not a little, he strode upward through the vicious pressure of heat, holding his helmet free from his head, that air might circulate under the rim6. Upon the crest46 of the Morne, he perceived the gables of the old plantation-house, above the palms and mangoes, strangely yellowed in the ashen47 haze.
Pelée roared. Sullen48 and dreadful out of the silence voiced the Monster roused to his labor49 afresh. Charter darted50 a glance back at the darkening North, and began to run.... The crisis was not past; the holiday darkened. The ship would fill with refugees now, and the road to Fort de France turn black with flight. These were his thoughts as he ran.
The lights of the day burned out one by one. The crust of the earth stretched to a cracking tension. The air was beetling51 with strange concussions52. In the clutch of realization53, Charter turned one shining look toward the woman hurrying forward on the veranda54 of the Palms.... Detonations55 accumulated into the crash of a thousand navies.
She halted, her eyes fascinated, lost in the North. He caught her up like a child. Across the lawn, through the roaring black, he bore her, brushing her fingers and her fallen hair from his eyes. He reached the curbing56 of the old well with his burden, crawled over and caught the rusty57 chain. Incandescent58 tongues lapped the cistern's raised coping. There was a scream as from the souls of Night and Storm and Chaos59 triumphant—a mighty60 planetary madness—shocking magnitudes from the very core of sound! Air was sucked from the vault, from their ears and lungs by the shrieking61 vacuums, burned through the cushion of atmosphere by the league-long lanes of electric fire.... Running streams of red dust filtered down.
It was eight on the morning of Ascension Day. La Montagne Pelée was giving birth to death.
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1
suffocating
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| a.使人窒息的 | |
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revolved
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| v.（使）旋转( revolve的过去式和过去分词 )；细想 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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7
repression
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| n.镇压，抑制，抑压 | |
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8
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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9
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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11
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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12
travail
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| n.阵痛；努力 | |
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13
isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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14
roiled
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| v.搅混（液体）( roil的过去式和过去分词 )；使烦恼；使不安；使生气 | |
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15
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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16
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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17
cinder
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| n.余烬，矿渣 | |
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18
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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19
blizzard
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| n.暴风雪 | |
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pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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22
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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arraignment
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| n.提问，传讯，责难 | |
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24
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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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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27
defiled
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| v.玷污( defile的过去式和过去分词 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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28
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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29
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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30
pennant
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| n.三角旗；锦标旗 | |
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31
warehouse
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| n.仓库；vt.存入仓库 | |
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32
ablaze
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| adj.着火的，燃烧的；闪耀的，灯火辉煌的 | |
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33
blistering
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| adj.酷热的；猛烈的；使起疱的；可恶的v.起水疱；起气泡；使受暴晒n.[涂料] 起泡 | |
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34
attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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35
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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36
maidens
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| 处女( maiden的名词复数 )； 少女； 未婚女子； （板球运动）未得分的一轮投球 | |
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37
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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38
procurable
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| adj.可得到的，得手的 | |
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39
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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40
hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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41
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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42
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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43
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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44
waning
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| 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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45
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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46
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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47
ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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48
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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49
labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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50
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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51
beetling
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| adj.突出的，悬垂的v.快速移动( beetle的现在分词 ) | |
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52
concussions
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| n.震荡( concussion的名词复数 )；脑震荡；冲击；震动 | |
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53
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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54
veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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55
detonations
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| n.爆炸 （声）( detonation的名词复数 ) | |
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56
curbing
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| n.边石，边石的材料v.限制，克制，抑制( curb的现在分词 ) | |
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57
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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58
incandescent
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| adj.遇热发光的， 白炽的，感情强烈的 | |
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59
chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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60
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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61
shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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