For no very intelligible1 reason, Mr. Lucas had hurried ahead of his party. He was perhaps reaching the age at which independence becomes valuable, because it is so soon to be lost. Tired of attention and consideration, he liked breaking away from the younger members, to ride by himself, and to dismount unassisted. Perhaps he also relished2 that more subtle pleasure of being kept waiting for lunch, and of telling the others on their arrival that it was of no consequence.
So, with childish impatience3, he battered4 the animal's sides with his heels, and made the muleteer bang it with a thick stick and prick6 it with a sharp one, and jolted7 down the hill sides through clumps8 of flowering shrubs9 and stretches of anemones10 and asphodel, till he heard the sound of running water, and came in sight of the group of plane trees where they were to have their meal.
Even in England those trees would have been remarkable11, so huge were they, so interlaced, so magnificently clothed in quivering green. And here in Greece they were unique, the one cool spot in that hard brilliant landscape, already scorched12 by the heat of an April sun. In their midst was hidden a tiny Khan or country inn, a frail13 mud building with a broad wooden balcony in which sat an old woman spinning, while a small brown pig, eating orange peel, stood beside her. On the wet earth below squatted14 two children, playing some primaeval game with their fingers; and their mother, none too clean either, was messing with some rice inside. As Mrs. Forman would have said, it was all very Greek, and the fastidious Mr. Lucas felt thankful that they were bringing their own food with them, and should eat it in the open air.
Still, he was glad to be there—the muleteer had helped him off—and glad that Mrs. Forman was not there to forestall15 his opinions—glad even that he should not see Ethel for quite half an hour. Ethel was his youngest daughter, still unmarried. She was unselfish and affectionate, and it was generally understood that she was to devote her life to her father, and be the comfort of his old age. Mrs. Forman always referred to her as Antigone, and Mr. Lucas tried to settle down to the role of Oedipus, which seemed the only one that public opinion allowed him.
He had this in common with Oedipus, that he was growing old. Even to himself it had become obvious. He had lost interest in other people's affairs, and seldom attended when they spoke16 to him. He was fond of talking himself but often forgot what he was going to say, and even when he succeeded, it seldom seemed worth the effort. His phrases and gestures had become stiff and set, his anecdotes17, once so successful, fell flat, his silence was as meaningless as his speech. Yet he had led a healthy, active life, had worked steadily18, made money, educated his children. There was nothing and no one to blame: he was simply growing old.
At the present moment, here he was in Greece, and one of the dreams of his life was realized. Forty years ago he had caught the fever of Hellenism, and all his life he had felt that could he but visit that land, he would not have lived in vain. But Athens had been dusty, Delphi wet, Thermopylae flat, and he had listened with amazement19 and cynicism to the rapturous exclamations20 of his companions. Greece was like England: it was a man who was growing old, and it made no difference whether that man looked at the Thames or the Eurotas. It was his last hope of contradicting that logic21 of experience, and it was failing.
Yet Greece had done something for him, though he did not know it. It had made him discontented, and there are stirrings of life in discontent. He knew that he was not the victim of continual ill-luck. Something great was wrong, and he was pitted against no mediocre22 or accidental enemy. For the last month a strange desire had possessed23 him to die fighting.
"Greece is the land for young people," he said to himself as he stood under the plane trees, "but I will enter into it, I will possess it. Leaves shall be green again, water shall be sweet, the sky shall be blue. They were so forty years ago, and I will win them back. I do mind being old, and I will pretend no longer."
He took two steps forward, and immediately cold waters were gurgling over his ankle.
"Where does the water come from?" he asked himself. "I do not even know that." He remembered that all the hill sides were dry; yet here the road was suddenly covered with flowing streams.
He stopped still in amazement, saying: "Water out of a tree—out of a hollow tree? I never saw nor thought of that before."
For the enormous plane that leant towards the Khan was hollow—it had been burnt out for charcoal—and from its living trunk there gushed24 an impetuous spring, coating the bark! with fern and moss25, and flowing over the mule5 track to create fertile meadows beyond. The simple country folk had paid to beauty and mystery such tribute as they could, for in the rind of the tree a shrine26 was cut, holding a lamp and a little picture of the Virgin27, inheritor of the Naiad's and Dryad's joint28 abode29.
"I never saw anything so marvellous before," said Mr. Lucas. "I could even step inside the trunk and see where the water comes from."
For a moment he hesitated to violate the shrine. Then he remembered with a smile his own thought—"the place shall be mine; I will enter it and possess it"—and leapt almost aggressively on to a stone within.
The water pressed up steadily and noiselessly from the hollow roots and hidden crevices30 of the plane, forming a wonderful amber31 pool ere it spilt over the lip of bark on to the earth outside. Mr. Lucas tasted it and it was sweet, and when he looked up the black funnel32 of the trunk he saw sky which was blue, and some leaves which were green; and he remembered, without smiling, another of his thoughts.
Others had been before him—indeed he had a curious sense of companionship. Little votive offerings to the presiding Power were fastened on to the bark—tiny arms and legs and eyes in tin, grotesque33 models of the brain or the heart—all tokens of some recovery of strength or wisdom or love. There was no such thing as the solitude34 of nature for the sorrows and joys of humanity had pressed even into the bosom35 of a tree. He spread out his arms and steadied himself against the soft charred36 wood, and then slowly leant back, till his body was resting on the trunk behind. His eyes closed, and he had the strange feeling of one who is moving, yet at peace—the feeling of the swimmer, who, after long struggling with chopping seas, finds that after all the tide will sweep him to his goal.
So he lay motionless, conscious only of the stream below his feet, and that all things were a stream, in which he was moving.
He was aroused at last by a shock—the shock of an arrival perhaps, for when he opened his eyes, something unimagined, indefinable, had passed over all things, and made them intelligible and good.
There was meaning in the stoop of the old woman over her work, and in the quick motions of the little pig, and in her diminishing globe of wool. A young man came singing over the streams on a mule, and there was beauty in his pose and sincerity37 in his greeting. The sun made no accidental patterns upon the spreading roots of the trees, and there was intention in the nodding clumps of asphodel, and in the music of the water. To Mr. Lucas, who, in a brief space of time, had discovered not only Greece, but England and all the world and life, there seemed nothing ludicrous in the desire to hang within the tree another votive offering—a little model of an entire man.
"Why, here's papa, playing at being Merlin."
All unnoticed they had arrived—Ethel, Mrs. Forman, Mr. Graham, and the English-speaking dragoman. Mr. Lucas peered out at them suspiciously. They had suddenly become unfamiliar38, and all that they did seemed strained and coarse.
"Allow me to give you a hand," said Mr. Graham, a young man who was always polite to his elders.
Mr. Lucas felt annoyed. "Thank you, I can manage perfectly39 well by myself," he replied. His foot slipped as he stepped out of the tree, and went into the spring.
"Oh papa, my papa!" said Ethel, "what are you doing? Thank goodness I have got a change for you on the mule."
She tended him carefully, giving him clean socks and dry boots, and then sat him down on the rug beside the lunch basket, while she went with the others to explore the grove40.
They came back in ecstasies41, in which Mr. Lucas tried to join. But he found them intolerable. Their enthusiasm was superficial, commonplace, and spasmodic. They had no perception of the coherent beauty was flowering around them. He tried at least to explain his feelings, and what he said was:
"I am altogether pleased with the appearance of this place. It impresses me very favourably42. The trees are fine, remarkably43 fine for Greece, and there is something very poetic44 in the spring of clear running water. The people too seem kindly45 and civil. It is decidedly an attractive place."
"Oh, it is a place in a thousand!" she cried "I could live and die here! I really would stop if I had not to be back at Athens! It reminds me of the Colonus of Sophocles."
"Well, I must stop," said Ethel. "I positively48 must."
"Yes, do! You and your father! Antigone and Oedipus. Of course you must stop at Colonus!"
Mr. Lucas was almost breathless with excitement. When he stood within the tree, he had believed that his happiness would be independent of locality. But these few minutes' conversation had undeceived him. He no longer trusted himself to journey through the world, for old thoughts, old wearinesses might be waiting to rejoin him as soon as he left the shade of the planes, and the music of the virgin water. To sleep in the Khan with the gracious, kind-eyed country people, to watch the bats flit about within the globe of shade, and see the moon turn the golden patterns into silver—one such night would place him beyond relapse, and confirm him for ever in the kingdom he had regained49. But all his lips could say was: "I should be willing to put in a night here."
"You mean a week, papa! It would be sacrilege to put in less."
"A week then, a week," said his lips, irritated at being corrected, while his heart was leaping with joy. All through lunch he spoke to them no more, but watched the place he should know so well, and the people who would so soon be his companions and friends. The inmates50 of the Khan only consisted of an old woman, a middle-aged51 woman, a young man and two children, and to none of them had he spoken, yet he loved them as he loved everything that moved or breathed or existed beneath the benedictory shade of the planes.
"En route!" said the shrill52 voice of Mrs. Forman. "Ethel! Mr. Graham! The best of things must end."
"To-night," thought Mr. Lucas, "they will light the little lamp by the shrine. And when we all sit together on the balcony, perhaps they will tell me which offerings they put up."
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Lucas," said Graham, "but they want to fold up the rug you are sitting on."
Mr. Lucas got up, saying to himself: "Ethel shall go to bed first, and then I will try to tell them about my offering too—for it is a thing I must do. I think they will understand if I am left with them alone."
"Mules? What mules?"
"Our mules. We're all waiting. Oh, Mr. Graham, do help my father on."
"I don't know what you're talking about, Ethel."
"My dearest papa, we must start. You know we have to get to Olympia to-night."
Mr. Lucas in pompous54, confident tones replied: "I always did wish, Ethel, that you had a better head for plans. You know perfectly well that we are putting in a week here. It is your own suggestion."
Ethel was startled into impoliteness. "What a perfectly ridiculous idea. You must have known I was joking. Of course I meant I wished we could."
"Ah! if we could only do what we wished!" sighed Mrs. Forman, already seated on her mule.
"Surely," Ethel continued in calmer tones, "you didn't think I meant it."
"Most certainly I did. I have made all my plans on the supposition that we are stopping here, and it will be extremely inconvenient55, indeed, impossible for me to start."
He delivered this remark with an air of great conviction, and Mrs. Forman and Mr. Graham had to turn away to hide their smiles.
"I am sorry I spoke so carelessly; it was wrong of me. But, you know, we can't break up our party, and even one night here would make us miss the boat at Patras."
Mrs. Forman, in an aside, called Mr. Graham's attention to the excellent way in which Ethel managed her father.
"I don't mind about the Patras boat. You said that we should stop here, and we are stopping."
It seemed as if the inhabitants of the Khan had divined in some mysterious way that the altercation56 touched them. The old woman stopped her spinning, while the young man and the two children stood behind Mr. Lucas, as if supporting him.
Neither arguments nor entreaties57 moved him. He said little, but he was absolutely determined58, because for the first time he saw his daily life aright. What need had he to return to England? Who would miss him? His friends were dead or cold. Ethel loved him in a way, but, as was right, she had other interests. His other children he seldom saw. He had only one other relative, his sister Julia, whom he both feared and hated. It was no effort to struggle. He would be a fool as well as a coward if he stirred from the place which brought him happiness and peace.
At last Ethel, to humour him, and not disinclined to air her modern Greek, went into the Khan with the astonished dragoman to look at the rooms. The woman inside received them with loud welcomes, and the young man, when no one was looking, began to lead Mr. Lucas' mule to the stable.
"drop it, you brigand59!" shouted Graham, who always declared that foreigners could understand English if they chose. He was right, for the man obeyed, and they all stood waiting for Ethel's return.
She emerged at last, with close-gathered skirts, followed by the dragoman bearing the little pig, which he had bought at a bargain.
"My dear papa, I will do all I can for you, but stop in that Khan—no."
Ethel intimated that "fleas" was not the word.
"Well, I am afraid that settles it," said Mrs. Forman, "I know how particular Mr. Lucas is."
"It does not settle it," said Mr. Lucas. "Ethel, you go on. I do not want you. I don't know why I ever consulted you. I shall stop here alone."
"That is absolute nonsense," said Ethel, losing her temper. "How can you be left alone at your age? How would you get your meals or your bath? All your letters are waiting for you at Patras. You'll miss the boat. That means missing the London operas, and upsetting all your engagements for the month. And as if you could travel by yourself!"
"They might knife you," was Mr. Graham's contribution.
The Greeks said nothing; but whenever Mr. Lucas looked their way, they beckoned61 him towards the Khan. The children would even have drawn62 him by the coat, and the old woman on the balcony stopped her almost completed spinning, and fixed63 him with mysterious appealing eyes. As he fought, the issue assumed gigantic proportions, and he believed that he was not merely stopping because he had regained youth or seen beauty or found happiness, but because in, that place and with those people a supreme64 event was awaiting him which would transfigure the face of the world. The moment was so tremendous that he abandoned words and arguments as useless, and rested on the strength of his mighty65 unrevealed allies: silent men, murmuring water, and whispering trees. For the whole place called with one voice, articulate to him, and his garrulous66 opponents became every minute more meaningless and absurd. Soon they would be tired and go chattering67 away into the sun, leaving him to the cool grove and the moonlight and the destiny he foresaw.
Mrs. Forman and the dragoman had indeed already started, amid the piercing screams of the little pig, and the struggle might have gone on indefinitely if Ethel had not called in Mr. Graham.
"Can you help me?" she whispered. "He is absolutely unmanageable."
"I'm no good at arguing—but if I could help you in any other way——" and he looked down complacently68 at his well-made figure.
Ethel hesitated. Then she said: "Help me in any way you can. After all, it is for his good that we do it."
"Then have his mule led up behind him."
So when Mr. Lucas thought he had gained the day, he suddenly felt himself lifted off the ground, and sat sideways on the saddle, and at the same time the mule started off at a trot69. He said nothing, for he had nothing to say, and even his face showed little emotion as he felt the shade pass and heard the sound of the water cease. Mr. Graham was running at his side, hat in hand, apologizing.
"I know I had no business to do it, and I do beg your pardon awfully70. But I do hope that some day you too will feel that I was—damn!"
A stone had caught him in the middle of the back. It was thrown by the little boy, who was pursuing them along the mule track. He was followed by his sister, also throwing stones.
Ethel screamed to the dragoman, who was some way ahead with Mrs. Forman, but before he could rejoin them, another adversary71 appeared. It was the young Greek, who had cut them off in front, and now dashed down at Mr. Lucas' bridle72. Fortunately Graham was an expert boxer73, and it did not take him a moment to beat down the youth's feeble defence, and to send him sprawling74 with a bleeding mouth into the asphodel. By this time the dragoman had arrived, the children, alarmed at the fate of their brother, had desisted, and the rescue party, if such it is to be considered, retired75 in disorder76 to the trees.
"Little devils!" said Graham, laughing; with triumph. "That's the modern Greek all over. Your father meant money if he stopped, and they consider we were taking it out of their pocket."
"Oh, they are terrible—simple savages77! I don't know how I shall ever thank you. You've saved my father."
"No," replied Ethel with a little sigh. "I admire strength."
Meanwhile the cavalcade79 reformed, and Mr. Lucas, who, as Mrs. Forman said, bore his disappointment wonderfully well, was put comfortably on to his mule. They hurried up the opposite hillside, fearful of another attack, and it was not until they had left the eventful place far behind that Ethel found an opportunity to speak to her father and ask his pardon for the way she had treated him.
"You seemed so different, dear father, and you quite frightened me. Now I feel that you are your old self again."
He did not answer, and she concluded that he was not unnaturally80 offended at her behaviour.
By one of those curious tricks of mountain scenery, the place they had left an hour before suddenly reappeared far below them. The Khan was hidden under the green dome81, but in the open there still stood three figures, and through the pure air rose up a faint cry of defiance82 or farewell.
"Come, father dear," said Ethel gently.
He obeyed, and in another moment a spur of the hill hid the dangerous scene for ever.
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1
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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relished
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| v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 )；从…获得乐趣；渴望 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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prick
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| v.刺伤，刺痛，刺孔；n.刺伤，刺痛 | |
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jolted
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| （使）摇动， （使）震惊( jolt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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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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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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squatted
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的过去式和过去分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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forestall
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| vt.抢在…之前采取行动；预先阻止 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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logic
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mediocre
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| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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gushed
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| v.喷，涌( gush的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地说话 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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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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amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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funnel
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| n.漏斗；烟囱；v.汇集 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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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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charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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favourably
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| adv. 善意地，赞成地 =favorably | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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upbraided
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| v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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49
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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50
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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51
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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52
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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brigand
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| n.土匪，强盗 | |
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fleas
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| n.跳蚤( flea的名词复数 )；爱财如命；没好气地（拒绝某人的要求） | |
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beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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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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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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adversary
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| adj.敌手，对手 | |
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bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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boxer
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| n.制箱者，拳击手 | |
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sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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cavalcade
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| n.车队等的行列 | |
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unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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irresolutely
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| adv.优柔寡断地 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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