For ten or twelve glorious summers I went there to spend my Thursday holidays, and I dreamed of it during the dreary3 intervening days of study.
In May our friends the D——-s and Lucette went to their country home and remained until vintage time, usually until after the first October frost,—and regularly every Wednesday evening I was taken there.
Nothing in my estimation was so delightful4 as that journey to Limoise. We scarcely ever went in a carriage, for it was not more than three and a half miles distant; to me, however, it seemed very far, almost lost in the woods. It lay toward the south, in the direction of those distant, sunny lands I loved to think of. (I would have found it less charming had it been towards the north.)
Every Wednesday evening, at sunset, the hour therefore varying with the month, I left home accompanied by Lucette's elder brother, a grown boy of eighteen or twenty, who seemed to me a man of mature age. As far as I was able I tried to keep pace with him, and, in consequence, I was obliged to go more rapidly than when I walked with my father and sister; we went through the quiet streets lying near the ramparts, and passed the sailors' old barracks, the sounds of whose bugles5 and drums reached as far as my attic6 museum when the south wind blew; then we passed through the fortifications by the most ancient of its gray gates,—a gate almost abandoned, and used now principally by peasants with flocks of sheep and droves of cattle,—and finally we arrived at the road that led to the river.
A mile and a half of straight road stretched before us, and this path lay between stunted7 old trees yellow with lichens8 whose branches were blown to the left by the force of the sea-winds that almost constantly came from the west, sweeping9 over the broad and level meadows that lay between us and the ocean.
To those who have a conventionalized idea of country beauty, and to whom a charming landscape means a river winding10 its way between poplars, or a mountain crowned by an old castle, this level road would look very ugly.
But I found it exquisite11 in spite of its straight lines. Upon the left there was nothing to be seen but grassy12 meadow land over which herds13 of cattle strayed. And before us, in the distance, something that resembled a line of ramparts shut in the plains sadly: it was the edge of a rocky plateau at whose base flowed the river. The far bank of this river was higher than the side that we were on, and was, in some respects, of a different character, but for the most part it was as flat and monotonous14. And it is just this sameness that has so much charm for me, an attraction appreciated seemingly by few others. The great level plains with their calm and tranquil15 straight lines are deeply and profoundly inspiring.
There is nothing in our vicinity that I love any better than the old road; perhaps I have an affection for it because during my school-boy days I built so many castles-in-Spain upon those flat plains where, from time to time, I find them again. It is one of the few spots that has not been disfigured by factories, docks and railways. It seems a spot that belongs peculiarly to me, and certainly no one has the power to contest my spiritual right to it.
The sum of the charm of the sensuous17 world dwells in us, is an emanation from ourselves; it is we who diffuse18 it, each person for himself according to his power, and we have it back again in the measure of our out-giving. But I did not comprehend early enough the deep meaning of this well-known truth. . . . During my childhood and youth the charm seemed to reside in the thing itself, to have its habitation in the old walls and the honeysuckle of my garden; I thought it lay along the sandy shores of the Island and upon the grassy meadows and rocky moorland about me. Later on, in pouring out my admiration19 every where, as I did, I drew too heavily upon the well-spring—I exhausted20 it at the source. And, alas21! I find the land of my childhood, to which I will no doubt return to die, changed and shrunken, and only for a moment, in certain spots, am I able to recreate the illusions I have lost;—there I am for the most part weighed down by the crushing memories of bygone days. . . .
As I was saying before my digression, every Wednesday evening I walked with a light and joyous22 step along the road that led towards those distant rocks lying at the boundary of the plains, I went gayly towards that region of oak trees and mossy stones in which Limoise was situated,—my imagination greatly magnified it in those days.
The river we had to cross was at the end of the straight avenue of lichened23 trees so harried24 by the west winds. The river was very changeable, being subject to the tides and to all the moods of the neighboring ocean. We crossed in a ferry-boat or a yawl, always having for our oarsmen old sailors with bleached25 beards and sunburnt faces whom we had known from earliest childhood.
When we reached the other bank, the rocky one, I always had a curious optical illusion: it seemed to me that the town from which we had come, and whose gray ramparts we still could see, suddenly drew very far away from us, for in my young head distances exaggerated themselves strangely. Upon this side all was different, the soil, the grass, the wild flowers and even the butterflies that hovered26 over them; nothing here was like those approaches to our town in whose fens27 and meadows I took my daily walk. And the differences, which perhaps others would not have noticed, thrilled and charmed me, for it had been my habit to spend, perhaps to waste, my time in observing the infinitesimally small things in nature, and I had often lost myself in contemplation of the lowliest mosses28. Even the twilights of these Wednesday evenings had about them something distinctive30 and peculiar16 which I cannot express; generally we reached the far shore just as the sun was setting, and we watched it, from the height of the lonely plateau, disappear behind the tall meadow-grass through which we had but newly come, and as it sunk its great ruddy dish seemed uncommonly31 large.
After crossing the river we turned off the high-road and took an unfrequented way that led through a region called “Chaumes,” a very beautiful place at that time but horribly profaned32 to-day.
“Chaumes” lay at the entrance of a village whose ancient church we saw in the distance. As it was public property it had kept intact its native wildness. This “Chaumes” was a sort of table-land composed of a single stone, and this rock, which undulated slightly, was covered with a carpet of short, dry fragrant33 plants that snapped under our feet; and a whole world of tiny gayly-colored butterflies and tinier moths34 fluttered among the rare and delicate flowers growing there.
Sometimes we passed a flock of sheep guarded by a shepherd much more countrified looking and tanned than those seen in the meadows about our town. Lonely and sun-scorched, Chaumes seemed to me the very threshold of Limoise: it had its very odor, the mingled36 scent37 of wild thyme and sweet marjoram.
At the end of the rocky moor2 was the hamlet of Frelin. I love this name of Frelin, for I think of it as being derived38 from those large and fierce hornets (frelons) that build their nests in the heart of a certain species of oak tree found in the forests of Limoise; to get rid of these pests it is necessary, in the springtime, to build great fires around the infested39 trees. This hamlet was composed of three or four cottages. They were all low, as is the custom of our country, and they were old, very old and gray; above the little rounded doorways40 were half-effaced ornamental41 Gothic scrolls42 and blazonments. I scarcely ever saw them except at dusk, as twilight29 was falling, and the hour and the quaint43 little houses themselves awoke in me an appreciation44 of the mystery of their past; above all these humble45 dwellings47 attested48 to the antiquity49 of this rocky ground, so much older than the meadows of our town which had been won from the sea, and where nothing that dates before the time to Louis XIV is to be found.
As soon as we left Frelin I commenced to look eagerly along the path ahead of me, for after that we usually spied Lucette, either afoot or in a carriage, coming to meet us. As soon as I caught a glimpse of her I would run ahead to embrace her.
On our way through the village we passed the tiny church, a wonder of the twelfth century, built in the rarest and most ancient Romanesque style;—and then as the shadows of evening deepened we saw, in the semi-darkness before us, something that had the form of tall dark legions: it was the forest of Limoise, composed almost wholly of evergreen50 oaks, whose foliage51 is very dark and sombre. We then came into the road leading directly to the house; on our way we passed the well where the patient, thirsty cattle awaited their turn to drink. And finally we opened the little old gate, and traversed the first grassy courtyard which the shadowing trees, a century old, plunged52 into almost total darkness.
The house lay between this courtyard and a large uncultivated garden that extended to the edge of the oak forest. As we entered the ancient dwelling46, with its whitewashed53 walls and old-fashioned wainscoting, I always looked eagerly for my butterfly-net that was usually to be found hanging in the place where I had left it, ready for the next day's chase.
After dinner it was our custom to go to the foot of the garden, and there we sat in an arbor54 that was built against the old wall encircling the yard,—this bower55 faced away from the unfriendly darkness of the woods where the owls56 hooted57. And while we were seated in the beautiful, mild, star-bespangled night, suddenly upon the air, musical with the chirping58 of myriad59 crickets, there was heard the tolling60 of a bell,—heard very clearly by us although it came from afar off,—it was the church bell in the village announcing the evening service.
Oh! the vesper bell of Enchillais heard in that beautiful garden long ago! Oh! the sound of that bell, a little cracked but still silvery, like the once beautiful voices of very old people which still retain something of their sweetness. What charm of past times, and half sad meditations61 of peaceful death, were awakened62 by that music which spread itself into the limpid63 darkness of the surrounding country! And we heard the bell chiming for a long time, but its sound reached us fitfully; one while it seemed to be near, and then again it seemed far away, as it obeyed the will of the soft night wind that was stirring. I bethought me of all those who, on their lonely farms, were listening to it; I bethought me, too, of all the unpeopled places round about where it would be heard by no one, and a shudder64 passed through me at the thought of the near-by forest, where the sweet vibrations65 of the bell would die.
The municipal council, composed of very superior spirits, after having first put its everlasting66 tri-colored flag upon the steeple of the little Roman Catholic Church, then suppressed its vesper bell. Its day is done; and we shall never again, upon summer evenings, hear that call to prayers.
Going to bed there was always a very enlivening proceeding67, especially when there was the prospect68 of a whole Thursday of play before me. I would, I am sure, have been very much afraid in the guest chamber69, which was on the ground floor of the great, isolated70 house; but until my twelfth year I slept on the floor above, in the spacious71 room occupied by Lucette's mother;—with the aid of screens they had made for me a little room of my own. In this retreat there was a book-case with glass doors that belonged to the time of Louis XIV; this was filled with treatises72, a century old, upon navigation, and with sailors' log-books that had not been opened for a hundred years. Tiny, scarce visible butterflies, that entered by the open windows, were to be found here all summer long, sleeping with extended wings upon the whitewashed walls. And often the most exciting incident of the day happened just as I was falling asleep; sometimes then an unwelcome bat found his way into the room and circled wildly about the lighted candles; or an enormous moth35 buzzed in and we would chase him with a cobweb-broom. Or again a storm descended73 upon us and the great trees lashed74 their branches against the house, and the old shutters75 slammed back and forth76, and we waked with a start.
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1
initiation
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| n.开始 | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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bugles
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| 妙脆角，一种类似薯片但做成尖角或喇叭状的零食； 号角( bugle的名词复数 )； 喇叭； 匍匐筋骨草； （装饰女服用的）柱状玻璃（或塑料）小珠 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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lichens
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| n.地衣( lichen的名词复数 ) | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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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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diffuse
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| v.扩散；传播；adj.冗长的；四散的，弥漫的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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lichened
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| adj.长满地衣的，长青苔的 | |
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harried
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| v.使苦恼( harry的过去式和过去分词 )；不断烦扰；一再袭击；侵扰 | |
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bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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hovered
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| 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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fens
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| n.（尤指英格兰东部的）沼泽地带( fen的名词复数 ) | |
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mosses
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| n. 藓类, 苔藓植物 名词moss的复数形式 | |
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29
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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32
profaned
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| v.不敬( profane的过去式和过去分词 )；亵渎，玷污 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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mingled
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| 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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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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38
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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39
infested
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| adj.为患的，大批滋生的（常与with搭配）v.害虫、野兽大批出没于( infest的过去式和过去分词 )；遍布于 | |
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40
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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41
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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42
scrolls
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| n.（常用于录写正式文件的）纸卷( scroll的名词复数 )；卷轴；涡卷形（装饰）；卷形花纹v.（电脑屏幕上）从上到下移动（资料等），卷页( scroll的第三人称单数 )；（似卷轴般）卷起；（像展开卷轴般地）将文字显示于屏幕 | |
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43
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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45
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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46
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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dwellings
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| n.住处，处所( dwelling的名词复数 ) | |
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48
attested
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| adj.经检验证明无病的，经检验证明无菌的v.证明( attest的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；声称…属实；使宣誓 | |
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49
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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50
evergreen
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| n.常青树；adj.四季常青的 | |
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51
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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52
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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53
whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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arbor
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| n.凉亭；树木 | |
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bower
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| n.凉亭，树荫下凉快之处；闺房；v.荫蔽 | |
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owls
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| n.猫头鹰( owl的名词复数 ) | |
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57
hooted
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| （使）作汽笛声响，作汽车喇叭声( hoot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
chirping
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| 鸟叫，虫鸣( chirp的现在分词 ) | |
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myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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60
tolling
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| [财]来料加工 | |
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61
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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62
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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limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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65
vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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treatises
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| n.专题著作，专题论文，专著( treatise的名词复数 ) | |
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73
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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75
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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