A blast in my ear, like the voice of fifty trombones, galvanised me into full consciousness. The musician, smiling and tousled, was at my bedside, raising a foghorn6 to his lips with deadly intention. “It’s a way we have in the Dulcibella,” he said, as I started up on one elbow. “I didn’t startle you much, did I?” he added.
“Well, I like the mattinata better than the cold douche,” I answered, thinking of yesterday.
“Fine day and magnificent breeze!” he answered. My sensations this morning were vastly livelier than those of yesterday at the same hour. My limbs were supple7 again and my head clear. Not even the searching wind could mar8 the ecstasy9 of that plunge10 down to smooth, seductive sand, where I buried greedy fingers and looked through a medium blue, with that translucent11 blue, fairy-faint and angel-pure, that you see in perfection only in the heart of ice. Up again to sun, wind, and the forest whispers from the shore; down just once more to see the uncouth12 anchor stabbing the sand’s soft bosom13 with one rusty14 fang15, deaf and inert16 to the Dulcibella’s puny17 efforts to drag him from his prey18. Back, holding by the cable as a rusty clue from heaven to earth, up to that bourgeoise little maiden’s bows; back to breakfast, with an appetite not to be blunted by condensed milk and somewhat passé bread. An hour later we had dressed the Dulcibella for the road, and were foaming20 into the grey void of yesterday, now a noble expanse of wind-whipped blue, half surrounded by distant hills, their every outline vivid in the rain-washed air.
I cannot pretend that I really enjoyed this first sail into the open, though I was keenly anxious to do so. I felt the thrill of those forward leaps, heard that persuasive21 song the foam19 sings under the lee-bow, saw the flashing harmonies of sea and sky; but sensuous22 perception was deadened by nervousness. The yacht looked smaller than ever outside the quiet fiord. The song of the foam seemed very near, the wave crests23 aft very high. The novice24 in sailing clings desperately25 to the thoughts of sailors—effective, prudent26 persons, with a typical jargon27 and a typical dress, versed28 in local currents and winds. I could not help missing this professional element. Davies, as he sat grasping his beloved tiller, looked strikingly efficient in his way, and supremely29 at home in his surroundings; but he looked the amateur through and through, as with one hand, and (it seemed) one eye, he wrestled30 with a spray-splashed chart half unrolled on the deck beside him. All his casual ways returned to me—his casual talk and that last adventurous31 voyage to the Baltic, and the suspicions his reticence32 had aroused.
“Do you see a monument anywhere?” he said, all at once; and, before I could answer; “We must take another reef.” He let go of the tiller and relit his pipe, while the yacht rounded sharply to, and in a twinkling was tossing head to sea with loud claps of her canvas and passionate33 jerks of her boom, as the wind leapt on its quarry34, now turning to bay, with redoubled force. The sting of spray in my eyes and the Babel of noise dazed me; but Davies, with a pull on the fore-sheet, soothed35 the tormented36 little ship, and left her coolly sparring with the waves while he shortened sail and puffed37 his pipe. An hour later the narrow vista38 of Als Sound was visible, with quiet old Sonderburg sunning itself on the island shore, and the Dybbol heights towering above—the Dybbol of bloody39 memory; scene of the last desperate stand of the Danes in ’64, ere the Prussians wrested40 the two fair provinces from them.
“It’s early to anchor, and I hate towns,” said Davies, as one section of a lumbering41 pontoon bridge opened to give us passage. But I was firm on the need for a walk, and got my way on condition that I bought stores as well, and returned in time to admit of further advance to a “quiet anchorage”. Never did I step on the solid earth with stranger feelings, partly due to relief from confinement42, partly to that sense of independence in travelling, which, for those who go down to the sea in small ships, can make the foulest43 coal-port in Northumbria seem attractive. And here I had fascinating Sonderburg, with its broad-eaved houses of carved woodwork, each fresh with cleansing44, yet reverend with age; its fair-haired Viking-like men, and rosy45, plain-faced women, with their bullet foreheads and large mouths; Sonderburg still Danish to the core under its Teuton veneer46. Crossing the bridge I climbed the Dybbol—dotted with memorials of that heroic defence—and thence could see the wee form and gossamer47 rigging of the Dulcibella on the silver ribbon of the Sound, and was reminded by the sight that there were stores to be bought. So I hurried down again to the old quarter and bargained over eggs and bread with a dear old lady, pink as a débutante, made a patriotic48 pretence49 of not understanding German, and called in her strapping50 son, whose few words of English, being chiefly nautical51 slang picked up on a British trawler, were peculiarly useless for the purpose. Davies had tea ready when I came aboard again, and, drinking it on deck, we proceeded up the sheltered Sound, which, in spite of its imposing52 name, was no bigger than an inland river, only the hosts of rainbow jelly-fish reminding us that we were threading a highway of ocean. There is no rise and fall of tide in these regions to disfigure the shore with mud. Here was a shelving gravel53 bank; there a bed of whispering rushes; there again young birch trees growing to the very brink54, each wearing a stocking of bright moss55 and setting its foot firmly in among golden leaves and scarlet56 fungus57.
Davies was preoccupied58, but he lighted up when I talked of the Danish war. “Germany’s a thundering great nation,” he said; “I wonder if we shall ever fight her.” A little incident that happened after we anchored deepened the impression left by this conversation. We crept at dusk into a shaded back-water, where our keel almost touched the gravel bed. Opposite us on the Alsen shore there showed, clean-cut against the sky, the spire59 of a little monument rising from a leafy hollow.
“I wonder what that is,” I said. It was scarcely a minute’s row in the dinghy, and when the anchor was down we sculled over to it. A bank of loam60 led to gorse and bramble. Pushing aside some branches we came to a slender Gothic memorial in grey stone, inscribed61 with bas-reliefs of battle scenes, showing Prussians forcing a landing in boats and Danes resisting with savage62 tenacity63. In the failing light we spelt out an inscription64: “Den bei dem Meeres Uebergange und der Eroberung von Alsen am 29. Juni 1864 heldenmüthig gefallenen zum ehrenden Gedächtniss.” “To the honoured memory of those who died heroically at the invasion and storming of Alsen.” I knew the German passion for commemoration; I had seen similar memorials on Alsatian battlefields, and several on the Dybbol only that afternoon; but there was something in the scene, the hour, and the circumstances, which made this one seem singularly touching65. As for Davies, I scarcely recognised him; his eyes flashed and filled with tears as he glanced from the inscription to the path we had followed and the water beyond. “It was a landing in boats, I suppose,” he said, half to himself. “I wonder they managed it. What does heldenmüthig mean?”—“Heroically.”—“Heldenmüthig gefallenen,” he repeated, under his breath, lingering on each syllable66. He was like a schoolboy reading of Waterloo.
Our conversation at dinner turned naturally on war, and in naval67 warfare68 I found I had come upon Davies’s literary hobby. I had not hitherto paid attention to the medley69 on our bookshelf, but I now saw that, besides a Nautical Almanack and some dilapidated Sailing Directions, there were several books on the cruises of small yachts, and also some big volumes crushed in anyhow or lying on the top. Squinting70 painfully at them I saw Mahan’s Life of Nelson, Brassey’s Naval Annual, and others.
“It’s a tremendously interesting subject,” said Davies, pulling down (in two pieces) a volume of Mahan’s Influence of Sea Power.
Dinner flagged (and froze) while he illustrated71 a point by reference to the much-thumbed pages. He was very keen, and not very articulate. I knew just enough to be an intelligent listener, and, though hungry, was delighted to hear him talk.
“I’m not boring you, am I?” he said, suddenly.
“I should think not,” I protested. “But you might just have a look at the chops.”
They had indeed been crying aloud for notice for some minutes, and drew candid72 attention to their neglect when they appeared. The diversion they caused put Davies out of vein73. I tried to revive the subject, but he was reserved and diffident.
The untidy bookshelf reminded me of the logbook, and when Davies had retired74 with the crockery to the forecastle, I pulled the ledger75 down and turned over the leaves. It was a mass of short entries, with cryptic76 abbreviations, winds, tides, weather, and courses appearing to predominate. The voyage from Dover to Ostend was dismissed in two lines: “Under way 7 p.m., wind W.S.W. moderate; West Hinder 5 a.m., outside all banks; Ostend 11 a.m.” The Scheldt had a couple of pages very technical and staccato in style. Inland Holland was given a contemptuous summary, with some half-hearted allusions77 to windmills, and so on, and a caustic78 word or two about boys, paint, and canal smells.
At Amsterdam technicalities began again, and a brisker tone pervaded79 the entries, which became progressively fuller as the writer cruised on the Frisian coast. He was clearly in better spirits, for here and there were quaint80 and laboured efforts to describe nature out of material which, as far as I could judge, was repellent enough to discourage the most brilliant and observant of writers; with an occasional note of a visit on shore, generally reached by a walk of half a mile over sand, and of talks with shop people and fishermen. But such lighter81 relief was rare. The bulk dealt with channels and shoals with weird82 and depressing names, with the centre-plate, the sails, and the wind, buoys83 and “booms”, tides and “berths” for the night. “Kedging off” appeared to be a frequent diversion; “running aground” was of almost daily occurrence.
It was not easy reading, and I turned the leaves rapidly. I was curious, too, to see the latter part. I came to a point where the rain of little sentences, pattering out like small shot, ceased abruptly84. It was at the end of September 9. That day, with its “kedging” and “boom-dodging”, was filled in with the usual detail. The log then leapt over three days, and went on: “Sept. 13. Wind W.N.W. fresh. Decided85 to go to Baltic. Sailed 4 a.m. Quick passage E. 1/2 S. to mouth of Weser. Anchored for night under Hohenhörn Sand. Sept. 14, nil86. Sept. 15, under way at 4 a.m. Wind East moderate. Course W. by S.; four miles; N.E. by N. fifteen miles. Norderpiep 9.30. Eider River 11.30.” This recital87 of naked facts was quite characteristic when “passages” were concerned, and any curiosity I had felt about his reticence on the previous night would have been rather allayed88 than stimulated89 had I not noticed that a page had been torn out of the book just at this point. The frayed90 edge left had been pruned91 and picked into very small limits; but dissimulation92 was not Davies’s strong point, and a child could have seen that a leaf was missing, and that the entries, starting from the evening of September 9 (where a page ended), had been written together at one sitting. I was on the point of calling to Davies, and chaffing him with having committed a grave offence against maritime93 law in having “cooked” his log; but I checked myself, I scarcely know why, probably because I guessed the joke would touch a sensitive place and fail. Delicacy94 shrank from seeing him compelled either to amplify95 a deception96 or blunder out a confession—he was too easy a prey; and, after all, the matter was of small moment. I returned the book to the shelf, the only definite result of its perusal97 being to recall my promise to keep a diary myself, and I then and there dedicated98 a notebook to the purpose.
We were just lighting99 our cigars when we heard voices and the splash of oars100, followed by a bump against the hull which made Davies wince101, as violations102 of his paint always did. “Guten Abend; wo fahren Sie hin?” greeted us as we climbed on deck. It turned out to be some jovial103 fishermen returning to their smack104 from a visit to Sonderburg. A short dialogue proved to them that we were mad Englishmen in bitter need of charity.
“Come to Satrup,” they said; “all the smacks105 are there, round the point. There is good punch in the inn.”
Nothing loth, we followed in the dinghy, skirted a bend of the Sound, and opened up the lights of a village, with some smacks at anchor in front of it. We were escorted to the inn, and introduced to a formidable beverage106, called coffee-punch, and a smoke-wreathed circle of smacksmen, who talked German out of courtesy, but were Danish in all else. Davies was at once at home with them, to a degree, indeed, that I envied. His German was of the crudest kind, bizarre in vocabulary and comical in accent; but the freemasonry of the sea, or some charm of his own, gave intuition to both him and his hearers. I cut a poor figure in this nautical gathering107, though Davies, who persistently108 referred to me as “meiner Freund”, tried hard to represent me as a kindred spirit and to include me in the general talk. I was detected at once as an uninteresting hybrid109. Davies, who sometimes appealed to me for a word, was deep in talk over anchorages and ducks, especially, as I well remember now, about the chance of sport in a certain Schlei Fiord. I fell into utter neglect, till rescued by a taciturn person in spectacles and a very high cap, who appeared to be the only landsman present. After silently puffing110 smoke in my direction for some time, he asked me if I was married, and if not, when I proposed to be. After this inquisition he abandoned me.
It was eleven before we left this hospitable111 inn, escorted by the whole party to the dinghy. Our friends of the smack insisted on our sharing their boat out of pure good-fellowship—for there was not nearly room for us—and would not let us go till a bucket of fresh-caught fish had been emptied into her bottom. After much shaking of scaly112 hands, we sculled back to the Dulcibella, where she slept in a bed of tremulous stars.
Davies sniffed113 the wind and scanned the tree-tops, where light gusts114 were toying with the leaves.
“Sou’-west still,” he said, “and more rain coming. But it’s bound to shift into the north.”
“Will that be a good wind for us?”
“It depends where we go,” he said, slowly. “I was asking those fellows about duck-shooting. They seemed to think the best place would be Schlei Fiord. That’s about fifteen miles south of Sonderburg, on the way to Kiel. They said there was a pilot chap living at the mouth who would tell us all about it. They weren’t very encouraging though. We should want a north wind for that.”
“I don’t care where we go,” I said, to my own surprise.
“Don’t you really?” he rejoined, with sudden warmth. Then, with a slight change of voice. “You mean it’s all very jolly about here?”
Of course I meant that. Before we went below we both looked for a moment at the little grey memorial; its slender fretted115 arch outlined in tender lights and darks above the hollow on the Alsen shore. The night was that of September 27, the third I had spent on the Dulcibella.
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1
adaptable
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| adj.能适应的，适应性强的，可改编的 | |
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hull
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| n.船身；(果、实等的)外壳；vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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pyjamas
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| n.（宽大的）睡衣裤 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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foghorn
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| n..雾号（浓雾信号） | |
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supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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fang
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| n.尖牙，犬牙 | |
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inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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crests
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| v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的第三人称单数 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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novice
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| adj.新手的，生手的 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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versed
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| adj. 精通，熟练 | |
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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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wrestled
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| v.（与某人）搏斗( wrestle的过去式和过去分词 )；扭成一团；扭打；（与…）摔跤 | |
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adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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wrested
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| （用力）拧( wrest的过去式和过去分词 )； 费力取得； （从…）攫取； （ 从… ） 强行取去… | |
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lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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confinement
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| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
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foulest
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| adj.恶劣的( foul的最高级 )；邪恶的；难闻的；下流的 | |
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cleansing
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| n. 净化(垃圾) adj. 清洁用的 动词cleanse的现在分词 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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veneer
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| n.(墙上的)饰面，虚饰 | |
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gossamer
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| n.薄纱，游丝 | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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50
strapping
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| adj. 魁伟的, 身材高大健壮的 n. 皮绳或皮带的材料, 裹伤胶带, 皮鞭 动词strap的现在分词形式 | |
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51
nautical
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| adj.海上的，航海的，船员的 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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53
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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fungus
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| n.真菌，真菌类植物 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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spire
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| n.(教堂)尖顶，尖塔，高点 | |
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loam
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| n.沃土 | |
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inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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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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tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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65
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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66
syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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67
naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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medley
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| n.混合 | |
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squinting
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| 斜视( squint的现在分词 )； 眯着眼睛； 瞟； 从小孔或缝隙里看 | |
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illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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ledger
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| n.总帐，分类帐；帐簿 | |
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cryptic
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| adj.秘密的，神秘的，含义模糊的 | |
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allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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caustic
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| adj.刻薄的，腐蚀性的 | |
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pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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buoys
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| n.浮标( buoy的名词复数 )；航标；救生圈；救生衣v.使浮起( buoy的第三人称单数 )；支持；为…设浮标；振奋…的精神 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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nil
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| n.无，全无，零 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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allayed
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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stimulated
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| a.刺激的 | |
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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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pruned
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| v.修剪（树木等）( prune的过去式和过去分词 )；精简某事物，除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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dissimulation
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| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
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maritime
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| adj.海的，海事的，航海的，近海的，沿海的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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amplify
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| vt.放大，增强；详述，详加解说 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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perusal
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| n.细读，熟读；目测 | |
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dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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violations
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| 违反( violation的名词复数 )； 冒犯； 违反（行为、事例）； 强奸 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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105
smacks
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| 掌掴（声）( smack的名词复数 )； 海洛因； （打的）一拳； 打巴掌 | |
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beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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hybrid
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| n.(动，植）杂种，混合物 | |
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puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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111
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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112
scaly
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| adj.鱼鳞状的；干燥粗糙的 | |
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113
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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114
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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