Panther Canyon was the home of innumerable swallows. They built nests in the wall far above the hollow groove6 in which Thea’s own rock chamber7 lay. They seldom ventured above the rim8 of the canyon, to the flat, wind-swept tableland. Their world was the blue air-river between the canyon walls. In that blue gulf9 the arrow-shaped birds swam all day long, with only an occasional movement of the wings. The only sad thing about them was their timidity; the way in which they lived their lives between the echoing cliffs and never dared to rise out of the shadow of the canyon walls. As they swam past her door, Thea often felt how easy it would be to dream one’s life out in some cleft10 in the world.
From the ancient dwelling11 there came always a dignified12, unobtrusive sadness; now stronger, now fainter,—like the aromatic13 smell which the dwarf14 cedars16 gave out in the sun,—but always present, a part of the air one breathed. At night, when Thea dreamed about the canyon,—or in the early morning when she hurried toward it, anticipating it,—her conception of it was of yellow rocks baking in sunlight, the swallows, the cedar15 smell, and that peculiar17 sadness—a voice out of the past, not very loud, that went on saying a few simple things to the solitude18 eternally.
Standing19 up in her lodge20, Thea could with her thumb nail dislodge flakes21 of carbon from the rock roof—the cooking-smoke of the Ancient People. They were that near! A timid, nest-building folk, like the swallows. How often Thea remembered Ray Kennedy’s moralizing about the cliff cities. He used to say that he never felt the hardness of the human struggle or the sadness of history as he felt it among those ruins. He used to say, too, that it made one feel an obligation to do one’s best. On the first day that Thea climbed the water trail she began to have intuitions about the women who had worn the path, and who had spent so great a part of their lives going up and down it. She found herself trying to walk as they must have walked, with a feeling in her feet and knees and loins which she had never known before,—which must have come up to her out of the accustomed dust of that rocky trail. She could feel the weight of an Indian baby hanging to her back as she climbed.
The empty houses, among which she wandered in the afternoon, the blanketed one in which she lay all morning, were haunted by certain fears and desires; feelings about warmth and cold and water and physical strength. It seemed to Thea that a certain understanding of those old people came up to her out of the rock shelf on which she lay; that certain feelings were transmitted to her, suggestions that were simple, insistent22, and monotonous23, like the beating of Indian drums. They were not expressible in words, but seemed rather to translate themselves into attitudes of body, into degrees of muscular tension or relaxation24; the naked strength of youth, sharp as the sunshafts; the crouching25 timorousness26 of age, the sullenness27 of women who waited for their captors. At the first turning of the canyon there was a half-ruined tower of yellow masonry28, a watch-tower upon which the young men used to entice29 eagles and snare30 them with nets. Sometimes for a whole morning Thea could see the coppery breast and shoulders of an Indian youth there against the sky; see him throw the net, and watch the struggle with the eagle.
Old Henry Biltmer, at the ranch31, had been a great deal among the Pueblo32 Indians who are the descendants of the Cliff-Dwellers. After supper he used to sit and smoke his pipe by the kitchen stove and talk to Thea about them. He had never found any one before who was interested in his ruins. Every Sunday the old man prowled about in the canyon, and he had come to know a good deal more about it than he could account for. He had gathered up a whole chestful of Cliff-Dweller relics33 which he meant to take back to Germany with him some day. He taught Thea how to find things among the ruins: grinding-stones, and drills and needles made of turkey-bones. There were fragments of pottery34 everywhere. Old Henry explained to her that the Ancient People had developed masonry and pottery far beyond any other crafts. After they had made houses for themselves, the next thing was to house the precious water. He explained to her how all their customs and ceremonies and their religion went back to water. The men provided the food, but water was the care of the women. The stupid women carried water for most of their lives; the cleverer ones made the vessels35 to hold it. Their pottery was their most direct appeal to water, the envelope and sheath of the precious element itself. The strongest Indian need was expressed in those graceful37 jars, fashioned slowly by hand, without the aid of a wheel.
When Thea took her bath at the bottom of the canyon, in the sunny pool behind the screen of cottonwoods, she sometimes felt as if the water must have sovereign qualities, from having been the object of so much service and desire. That stream was the only living thing left of the drama that had been played out in the canyon centuries ago. In the rapid, restless heart of it, flowing swifter than the rest, there was a continuity of life that reached back into the old time. The glittering thread of current had a kind of lightly worn, loosely knit personality, graceful and laughing. Thea’s bath came to have a ceremonial gravity. The atmosphere of the canyon was ritualistic.
One morning, as she was standing upright in the pool, splashing water between her shoulder-blades with a big sponge, something flashed through her mind that made her draw herself up and stand still until the water had quite dried upon her flushed skin. The stream and the broken pottery: what was any art but an effort to make a sheath, a mould in which to imprison38 for a moment the shining, elusive39 element which is life itself,—life hurrying past us and running away, too strong to stop, too sweet to lose? The Indian women had held it in their jars. In the sculpture she had seen in the Art Institute, it had been caught in a flash of arrested motion. In singing, one made a vessel36 of one’s throat and nostrils40 and held it on one’s breath, caught the stream in a scale of natural intervals41.
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1 faculty | |
n.才能;学院,系;(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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2 physically | |
adj.物质上,体格上,身体上,按自然规律 | |
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3 subconscious | |
n./adj.潜意识(的),下意识(的) | |
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4 canyon | |
n.峡谷,溪谷 | |
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5 destined | |
adj.命中注定的;(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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6 groove | |
n.沟,槽;凹线,(刻出的)线条,习惯 | |
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7 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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8 rim | |
n.(圆物的)边,轮缘;边界 | |
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9 gulf | |
n.海湾;深渊,鸿沟;分歧,隔阂 | |
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10 cleft | |
n.裂缝;adj.裂开的 | |
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11 dwelling | |
n.住宅,住所,寓所 | |
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12 dignified | |
a.可敬的,高贵的 | |
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13 aromatic | |
adj.芳香的,有香味的 | |
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14 dwarf | |
n.矮子,侏儒,矮小的动植物;vt.使…矮小 | |
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15 cedar | |
n.雪松,香柏(木) | |
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16 cedars | |
雪松,西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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17 peculiar | |
adj.古怪的,异常的;特殊的,特有的 | |
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18 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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19 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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20 lodge | |
v.临时住宿,寄宿,寄存,容纳;n.传达室,小旅馆 | |
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21 flakes | |
小薄片( flake的名词复数 ); (尤指)碎片; 雪花; 古怪的人 | |
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22 insistent | |
adj.迫切的,坚持的 | |
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23 monotonous | |
adj.单调的,一成不变的,使人厌倦的 | |
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24 relaxation | |
n.松弛,放松;休息;消遣;娱乐 | |
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25 crouching | |
v.屈膝,蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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26 timorousness | |
n.羞怯,胆怯 | |
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27 sullenness | |
n. 愠怒, 沉闷, 情绪消沉 | |
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28 masonry | |
n.砖土建筑;砖石 | |
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29 entice | |
v.诱骗,引诱,怂恿 | |
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30 snare | |
n.陷阱,诱惑,圈套;(去除息肉或者肿瘤的)勒除器;响弦,小军鼓;vt.以陷阱捕获,诱惑 | |
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31 ranch | |
n.大牧场,大农场 | |
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32 pueblo | |
n.(美国西南部或墨西哥等)印第安人的村庄 | |
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33 relics | |
[pl.]n.遗物,遗迹,遗产;遗体,尸骸 | |
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34 pottery | |
n.陶器,陶器场 | |
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35 vessels | |
n.血管( vessel的名词复数 );船;容器;(具有特殊品质或接受特殊品质的)人 | |
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36 vessel | |
n.船舶;容器,器皿;管,导管,血管 | |
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37 graceful | |
adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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38 imprison | |
vt.监禁,关押,限制,束缚 | |
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39 elusive | |
adj.难以表达(捉摸)的;令人困惑的;逃避的 | |
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40 nostrils | |
鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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41 intervals | |
n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 );间隔时间;[数学]区间;(戏剧、电影或音乐会的)幕间休息 | |
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