“The sins of the fathers upon the children, unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me.”
These are the words that have followed me always. This is the curse which has fallen on my life.
If I had not known my father, if I had not loved him, if I had not closed his eyes in desert silence deeper than the silence of the grave, even if I could have buried and bewailed him duly, the common business of this world and the universal carelessness might have led me down the general track that leads to nothing.
Until my father fell and died I never dreamed that he could die. I knew that his mind was quite made up to see me safe in my new home, and then himself to start again for still remoter solitudes1. And when his mind was thus made up, who had ever known him fail of it?
If ever a resolute2 man there was, that very man was my father. And he showed it now, in this the last and fatal act of his fatal life. “Captain, here I leave you all,” he shouted to the leader of our wagon3 train, at a place where a dark, narrow gorge4 departed from the moilsome mountain track. “My reasons are my own; let no man trouble himself about them. All my baggage I leave with you. I have paid my share of the venture, and shall claim it at Sacramento. My little girl and I will take this short-cut through the mountains.”
“General!” answered the leader of our train, standing5 up on his board in amazement6. “Forgive and forget, Sir; forgive and forget. What is a hot word spoken hotly? If not for your own sake, at least come back for the sake of your young daughter.”
“A fair haven8 to you!” replied my father. He offered me his hand, and we were out of sight of all that wearisome, drearisome, uncompanionable company with whom, for eight long weeks at least, we had been dragging our rough way. I had known in a moment that it must be so, for my father never argued. Argument, to his mind, was a very nice amusement for the weak. My spirits rose as he swung his bear-skin bag upon his shoulder, and the last sound of the laboring9 caravan10 groaned11 in the distance, and the fresh air and the freedom of the mountains moved around us. It was the 29th of May — Oak-apple Day in England — and to my silly youth this vast extent of snowy mountains was a nice place for a cool excursion.
Moreover, from day to day I had been in most wretched anxiety, so long as we remained with people who could not allow for us. My father, by his calm reserve and dignity and largeness, had always, among European people, kept himself secluded12; but now in this rough life, so pent in trackless tracts13, and pressed together by perpetual peril14, every body’s manners had been growing free and easy. Every man had been compelled to tell, as truly as he could, the story of his life thus far, to amuse his fellow-creatures — every man, I mean, of course, except my own poor father. Some told their stories every evening, until we were quite tired — although they were never the same twice over; but my father could never be coaxed15 to say a syllable16 more than, “I was born, and I shall die.”
This made him very unpopular with the men, though all the women admired it; and if any rough fellow could have seen a sign of fear, the speaker would have been insulted. But his manner and the power of his look were such that, even after ardent17 spirits, no man saw fit to be rude to him. Nevertheless, there had always been the risk of some sad outrage18.
“Erema,” my father said to me, when the dust from the rear of the caravan was lost behind a cloud of rocks, and we two stood in the wilderness19 alone —“do you know, my own Erema, why I bring you from them?”
“Father dear, how should I know? You have done it, and it must be right.”
“It is not for their paltry20 insults. Child, you know what I think all that. It is for you, my only child, that I am doing what now I do.”
I looked up into his large, sad eyes without a word, in such a way that he lifted me up in his arms and kissed me, as if I were a little child instead of a maiden21 just fifteen. This he had never done before, and it made me a little frightened. He saw it, and spoke7 on the spur of the thought, though still with one arm round me.
“Perhaps you will live to be thankful, my dear, that you had a stern, cold father. So will you meet the world all the better; and, little one, you have a rough world to meet.”
For a moment I was quite at a loss to account for my father’s manner; but now, in looking back, it is so easy to see into things. At the time I must have been surprised, and full of puzzled eagerness.
Not half so well can I recall the weakness, anguish22, and exhaustion23 of body and spirit afterward24. It may have been three days of wandering, or it may have been a week, or even more than that, for all that I can say for certain. Whether the time were long or short, it seemed as if it would never end. My father believed that he knew the way to the house of an old settler, at the western foot of the mountains, who had treated him kindly25 some years before, and with whom he meant to leave me until he had made arrangements elsewhere. If we had only gone straightway thither26, night-fall would have found us safe beneath that hospitable27 roof.
My father was vexed28, as I well remember, at coming, as he thought, in sight of some great landmark29, and finding not a trace of it. Although his will was so very strong, his temper was good about little things, and he never began to abuse all the world because he had made a mistake himself.
“Erema,” he said, “at this corner where we stand there ought to be a very large pine-tree in sight, or rather a great redwood-tree, at least twice as high as any tree that grows in Europe, or Africa even. From the plains it can be seen for a hundred miles or more. It stands higher up the mountainside than any other tree of even half its size, and that makes it so conspicuous30. My eyes must be failing me, from all this glare; but it must be in sight. Can you see it now?”
“I see no tree of any kind whatever, but scrubby bushes and yellow tufts; and oh, father, I am so thirsty!”
“Naturally. But now look again. It stands on a ridge31, the last ridge that bars the view of all the lowland. It is a very straight tree, and regular, like a mighty32 column, except that on the northern side the wind from the mountains has torn a gap in it. Are you sure that you can not see it — a long way off, but conspicuous?”
“Father, I am sure that I can not see any tree half as large as a broomstick. Far or near, I see no tree.”
“Then my eyes are better than my memory. We must cast back for a mile or two; but it can not make much difference.”
“Through the dust and the sand?” I began to say; but a glance from him stopped my murmuring. And the next thing I can call to mind must have happened a long time afterward.
Beyond all doubt, in this desolation, my father gave his life for mine. I did not know it at the time, nor had the faintest dream of it, being so young and weary-worn, and obeying him by instinct. It is a fearful thing to think of — now that I can think of it — but to save my own little worthless life I must have drained every drop of water from his flat half-gallon jar. The water was hot and the cork-hole sandy, and I grumbled33 even while drinking it; and what must my father (who was dying all the while for a drop, but never took one)— what must he have thought of me?
But he never said a word, so far as I remember; and that makes it all the worse for me. We had strayed away into a dry, volcanic34 district of the mountains, where all the snow-rivers run out quite early; and of natural springs there was none forth-coming. All we had to guide us was a little traveler’s compass (whose needle stuck fast on the pivot35 with sand) and the glaring sun, when he came to sight behind the hot, dry, driving clouds. The clouds were very low, and flying almost in our faces, like vultures sweeping36 down on us. To me they seemed to shriek37 over our heads at the others rushing after them. But my father said that they could make no sound, and I never contradicted him.
1 solitudes | |
n.独居( solitude的名词复数 );孤独;荒僻的地方;人迹罕至的地方 | |
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2 resolute | |
adj.坚决的,果敢的 | |
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3 wagon | |
n.四轮马车,手推车,面包车;无盖运货列车 | |
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4 gorge | |
n.咽喉,胃,暴食,山峡;v.塞饱,狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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5 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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6 amazement | |
n.惊奇,惊讶 | |
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7 spoke | |
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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8 haven | |
n.安全的地方,避难所,庇护所 | |
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9 laboring | |
n.劳动,操劳v.努力争取(for)( labor的现在分词 );苦干;详细分析;(指引擎)缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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10 caravan | |
n.大蓬车;活动房屋 | |
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11 groaned | |
v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 );发牢骚;抱怨;受苦 | |
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12 secluded | |
adj.与世隔绝的;隐退的;偏僻的v.使隔开,使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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13 tracts | |
大片土地( tract的名词复数 ); 地带; (体内的)道; (尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的)短文 | |
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14 peril | |
n.(严重的)危险;危险的事物 | |
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15 coaxed | |
v.哄,用好话劝说( coax的过去式和过去分词 );巧言骗取;哄劝,劝诱 | |
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16 syllable | |
n.音节;vt.分音节 | |
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17 ardent | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,强烈的,烈性的 | |
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18 outrage | |
n.暴行,侮辱,愤怒;vt.凌辱,激怒 | |
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19 wilderness | |
n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等,荒漠 | |
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20 paltry | |
adj.无价值的,微不足道的 | |
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21 maiden | |
n.少女,处女;adj.未婚的,纯洁的,无经验的 | |
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22 anguish | |
n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦,烦恼 | |
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23 exhaustion | |
n.耗尽枯竭,疲惫,筋疲力尽,竭尽,详尽无遗的论述 | |
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24 afterward | |
adv.后来;以后 | |
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25 kindly | |
adj.和蔼的,温和的,爽快的;adv.温和地,亲切地 | |
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26 thither | |
adv.向那里;adj.在那边的,对岸的 | |
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27 hospitable | |
adj.好客的;宽容的;有利的,适宜的 | |
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28 vexed | |
adj.争论不休的;(指问题等)棘手的;争论不休的问题;烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 );使苦恼;使生气;详细讨论 | |
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29 landmark | |
n.陆标,划时代的事,地界标 | |
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30 conspicuous | |
adj.明眼的,惹人注目的;炫耀的,摆阔气的 | |
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31 ridge | |
n.山脊;鼻梁;分水岭 | |
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32 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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33 grumbled | |
抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 ); 发牢骚; 咕哝; 发哼声 | |
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34 volcanic | |
adj.火山的;象火山的;由火山引起的 | |
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35 pivot | |
v.在枢轴上转动;装枢轴,枢轴;adj.枢轴的 | |
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36 sweeping | |
adj.范围广大的,一扫无遗的 | |
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37 shriek | |
v./n.尖叫,叫喊 | |
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