Nothing was left but his hands. The rest of the man was dead. But the great hands of the stone-cutter, on whose sinewy13 and bony substance there was so little that disease or death could waste, looked as powerful and living as ever. Although one of his hands — the right one — had been stiffened14 years before by an attack of rheumatism15, they had lost none of their character of power and massive shapeliness.
In the huge shapely knuckles16, in the length and sinewy thickness of the great fingers — which were twice the size of an ordinary man’s — and in the whole length and sinewy contour of the hand, there was a quality of sculptural design which was as solid and proportionate as any of the marble hands of love and grace which the stone-cutter had so often carved upon the surface of a graveyard17 monument.
Thus, as he sat there now, staring dully out across the city, an emaciated18 and phantasmal shadow of a man, there was, in the appearance of these great living hands of power (one of which lay with an enormous passive grace and dignity across the arm of his chair and the other extended and clasped down upon the handle of a walking-stick), something weirdly19 incongruous, as if the great strong hands had been unnaturally20 attached to the puny21 lifeless figure of a scarecrow.
Now, wearily, desperately22, the old enfeebled mind was trying to grope with the strange and bitter miracle of life, to get some meaning out of that black, senseless fusion23 of pain and joy and agony, that web that had known all the hope and joy and wonder of a boy, the fury, passion, drunkenness, and wild desire of youth, the rich adventure and fulfilment of a man, and that had led him to this fatal and abominable24 end.
But that fading, pain-sick mind, that darkened memory could draw no meaning and no comfort from its tragic25 meditation26.
The old man’s land of youth was far away in time, yet now only the magic lonely hills of his life’s journey, his wife’s people, seemed sorrowful, lonely, lost, and strange to him. Now he remembered all places, things, and people in his land of youth as if he had known them instantly and for ever!
Oh, what a land, a life, a time was that — that world of youth and no return. What colours of green-gold, magic, rich plantations27, and shining cities were in it! For now when this dying man thought about this vanished life that tragic quality of sorrow and loneliness had vanished instantly. All that he had read in books about old wars seemed far and lost and in another time, but when he thought about these things that he had known as a boy, he saw them instantly, knew them, breathed them, heard them, felt them, was there beside them, living them with his own life. He remembered now his wife’s people! — tramping in along the Carlisle Pike on that hot first morning in July, as they marched in towards Gettysburg. He had been standing28 there with his next older brother Gil, beside the dusty road, as they came by.
And he could see them now, not as shadowy, lost, phantasmal figures of dark time, the way they were in books; he saw them, heard them, knew them again as they had been in their shapeless rags of uniforms, their bare feet wound in rags, their lank29 disordered hair, sometimes topped by stove-pipe hats which they had looted out of stores.
“God!” the old man thought, wetting his great thumb briefly30, grinning thinly, as he shook his head, “What a scarecrow crew that was! In all my days I never saw the like of it! A bum-looking lot, if ever there was one! — And the bravest of the brave, the finest troops that ever lived!”— his mind swung upward to its tide of rhetoric31 —“Veterans all of them, who had been through the bloodiest32 battles of the war, they did not know the meaning of the word ‘fear,’ and they would have gone into the valley of death, the jaws33 of hell, at a word from their Commander!” His mind was alive again, in full swing now, the old voice rose and muttered on the tides of rhetoric, the great hand gestured, the cold-grey, restless eyes glared feverishly34 about — and all of it began to live for him again.
He remembered how he and Gil had been standing there beside the road, two barefoot farmer boys, aged35 thirteen and fifteen, and he remembered how the rebels would halt upon their march, and shout jesting remarks at the two boys standing at the road. One shouted out to Gil:
“Hi, there, Yank! You’d better hide! Jeb Stuart’s on the way an’ he’s been lookin’ fer you!”
And Gil, older, bolder, more assured than he, quick-tempered, stubborn, fiercely partisan36, had come back like a flash:
“He’ll be lookin’ fer YOU when we get through with you!” said Gil and the rebels had slapped their ragged37 thighs38 and howled with laughter, shouting at their crestfallen39, grinning comrade:
“‘Y, God! I reckon you’ll be quiet now! He shore God put it on ye that time!”
And he was there beside his brother, seeing, hearing, living it again, as he remembered his strange first meeting with the Pentland tribe, the haunting miracle of that chance meeting. For among that ragged crew he had first seen his wife’s uncle, the prophet, Bacchus Pentland, and he had seen him, heard him that hot morning, and had never been able to forget him, although it would be twenty years, after many strange turnings of the roads of destiny and wandering, before he was to see the man again, and know his name, and join together the two halves of fated meeting.
Yes, there had been one among the drawling and terrible mountaineers that day who passed there on that dusty road, and paused, and talked, and waited in the heat, one whose face he had never been able to forget — one whose full, ruddy face and tranquil40 eyes were lighted always by a smile of idiot and beatific41 saintliness, whose powerful fleshy body gave off a stench that would have put a goat to shame, and who on this account was called by his jesting comrades, “Stinking Jesus.” Yes, he had been there that morning, Bacchus Pentland, the fated and chosen of God, the supernatural appearer on roads at nightfall, the harbinger of death, the prophet, chanting even then his promises of Armageddon and the Coming of the Lord, speaking for the first time to the fascinated ears of those two boys, the full, drawling, unctuous42 accents of the fated, time-triumphant43 Pentlands.
They came, they halted in the dust before the two young brothers, the lewd44 tongues mocked and jested, but that man of God, the prophet Bacchus Pentland, was beautifully unmoved by their unfaith, and chanted, with a smile of idiot beatitude, his glorious assurances of an end of death and battle, everlasting45 peace:
“Hit’s a-comin’!” cried the prophet with the sweet purity of his saintly smile. “Hit’s a-comin’! Accordin’ to my figgers the Great Day is almost here! Oh, hit’s a-comin’, boys!” he sweetly, cheerfully intoned, “Christ’s kingdom on this airth’s at hand! We’re marchin’ in to Armageddon now!”
“Hell, Back!” drawled one, with a slow grin of disbelief. “You said the same thing afore Chancellorsville, an’ all I got from it was a slug of canister in my tail!”— and the others slapped their ragged thighs and shouted.
“Hit’s a-comin’!” Bacchus cried, with a brisk wink46, and his seraphic smile, unmoved, untouched, by their derision. “He’ll be here a-judgin’ an’ decreein’ afore the week is over, settin’ up His Kingdom, an’ sortin’ us all out the way it was foretold47 — the sheep upon His right hand an’ the goats upon His left.”
“An’ which side are you goin’ to be on, Back, when all this sortin’ starts?” one drawled with evil innocence48. “Are you goin’ to be upon the sheep-side or the goat-side?” he demanded.
“Oh,” cried Bacchus cheerfully, with his seraphic smile, “I’ll be upon the sheep-side, brother, with the Chosen of the Lord.”
“Then, Back,” the other slowly answered, “you’d shore God better begin to smell a whole lot better than you do right now, for if the Lord starts sortin’ in the dark, Back, He’s goin’ to put you where you don’t belong — He’ll have you over thar among the goats!”— and the hot brooding air had rung then with their roars of laughter. Then a word was spoken, an order given, the ragged files trudged50 on again, and they were gone.
Now this was lost, a fume51 of smoke, the moment’s image of a fading memory, and he could not say it, speak it, find a word for it — but he could see that boy of his lost youth as he sat round the kitchen table with the rest of them. He could see his cold-grey, restless, unhappy eyes, the strange, gaunt, almost reptilian conformation of his staring face, his incredibly thin, blade-like nose, as he waited there in silence, looking uneasily at the others with his cold-grey, shallow, most unhappy eyes. And the old man seemed to be the spy of destiny, to look at once below the roofs of a million little houses everywhere and on the star-shone, death-flung mystery of the silent battlefield.
He seemed to be a witness of the secret weavings of dark chance that threads our million lives into strange purposes that we do not know. He thought of those dead and wounded men upon the battlefield whose lives would touch his own so nearly, the wounded brother that he knew, the wounded stranger he had seen that day by magic chance, whom he could not forget, and whose life, whose tribe, in the huge abyss and secret purpose of dark time would one day interweave into his own.
Oh, he could not find a word, a phrase to utter it, but he seemed to have the lives not only of those people in him, but the lives of millions of others whose dark fate is thus determined52, interwove, and beyond their vision or their knowledge, foredone and made inevitable53 in the dark destiny of unfathomed time. And suddenly it seemed to him that all of it was his, even as his father’s blood and earth were his, the lives and deaths and destinies of all his people. He had been a nameless atom in the great family of earth, a single, unknown thread in the huge warp54 of fate and chance that weaves our lives together and because of this he had been the richest man that ever lived; the power, grandeur55, glory of this earth and all its lives of men were his.
And for a moment he forgot that he was old and dying, and pride, joy, pain, triumphant ecstasy56 that had no tongue to utter it rose like a wordless swelling57 p?an in his throat because it seemed to him that this great familiar earth on which his people lived and wrought58 was his, that all the mystery, grandeur and beauty in the lives of men were his, and that he must find a word, a tongue, a door to utter what was his, or die!
How could he say it! How could he ever find a word to speak the joy, the pain, the grandeur bursting in the great vine of his heart, swelling like a huge grape in his throat — mad, sweet, wild, intolerable with all the mystery, loneliness, wild secret joy, and death, the ever-returning and renewing fruitfulness of the earth!
A cloud-shadow passed and left no light but loneliness on the massed green of the wilderness59! A bird was calling in a secret wood! And there was something going, coming, fading there across the sun — oh, there was something lonely and most sorrowful, his mother’s voice, the voices of lost men long, long ago, the flowing of a little river in the month of April — and all, all of it was his!
A man had passed at sunset on a lonely road and vanished unknown years ago! A soldier had toiled60 up a hill at evening and was gone! A man was lying dead that day upon a bloody61 field! — and all, all, all of it was his!
He had stood beside a dusty road, feet bare, his gaunt boy’s face cold-eyed, staring, restless, and afraid. The ragged jesting rebels passed before him in the dusty heat, the huge drowse and cricketing stitch of noon was rising from the sweet woods and nobly swelling, fertile fields of Pennsylvania and all, all, all of it was his!
A prophet passed before him in the road that day with the familiar haunting unction of an unmet, unheard tribe; a wounded prophet lay that night below the stars and chanted glory, peace, and Armageddon; the boy’s brother lay beside the prophet bleeding from the lungs; the boy’s people grimly waited all night long in a little house not fourteen miles away; and all, all, all of it was his!
Over the wild and secret earth, the lonely, everlasting, and unchanging earth, under the huge tent of the all-engulfing night, amid the fury, chaos62, blind confusions of a hundred million lives, something wild and secret had been weaving through the generations, a dark terrific weaving of the threads of time and destiny.
But it had come to this: an old man dying on a porch, staring through the sun-hazed vistas of October towards the lost country of his youth.
This was the end of man, then, end of life, of fury, hope, and passion, glory, all the strange and bitter miracle of chance, of history, fate, and destiny, which even a stone-cutter’s life could include. This was the end, then:— an old man, feeble, foul64, complaining and disease-consumed who sat looking from the high porch of a hospital at the city of his youth. This was the sickening and abominable end of flesh, which infected time and all man’s living memory of morning, youth, and magic with the death-putrescence of its cancerous taint65, and made us doubt that we had ever lived, or had a father, known joy: this was the end, and the end was horrible in ugliness. At the end it was not well.
On the last morning when his sons came, Gant was there on the high porch of the hospital, among the other old men who were sitting there. All of the old men looked very feeble, shrunk, and wasted, their skins had the clear and frail66 transparency that men get in hospitals, and in the bright tremendous light of morning and October, the old men looked forlorn.
Some looked out wearily and vacantly across the sun-hazed vistas of the city, with the dull and apathetic67 expression of men who are tired of pain and suffering and disease, and who wish to die. Others, who were in a state of convalescence68 after operations, looked out upon the sun-lit city with pleased, feeble smiles, awkwardly holding cigars in their frail fingers, putting them in their mouths with the uncertain and unaccustomed manner which a convalescent has, and looking up slowly, questioningly, with a feeble and uncertain smile into the faces of their relatives, wives, or children, as if to ask if it could really be true that they were going to live instead of die.
Their smiles and looks were pitiful in their sense of childish trust, of growing hopefulness, of wondering disbelief, but there was something shameful69 in them, too. In these feeble smiles of the old men there was something pleased and impotent, as if they had been adroitly70 castrated in the hospital and shorn of their manhood. And for some reason, one felt suddenly a choking anger and resentment71 against some force in life which had betrayed these old men and made them impotent — something unspeakably ruthless, cruel, and savage72 in the world which had made these old and useless capons. And this anger against this unknown force suddenly took personal form in a blind resentment against doctors, nurses, internes, and the whole sinister73 and suave74 perfection of the hospital which under glozing words and cynical75 assurances, could painlessly and deftly76 mutilate a living man.
The great engine of the hospital, with all its secret, sinister, and inhuman77 perfections, together with its clean and sterile78 smells which seemed to blot79 out the smell of rotting death around one, became a hateful presage80 of man’s destined81 end. Suddenly, one got an image of his own death in such a place as this — of all that death had come to be-and the image of that death was somehow shameful. It was an image of a death without man’s ancient pains and old gaunt ageing — an image of death drugged and stupefied out of its ancient terror and stern dignities — of a shameful death that went out softly, dully in an?sthetized oblivion, with the fading smell of chemicals on man’s final breath. And the image of that death was hateful.
Thus, as Gant sat there, his great figure wasted to the bone, his skin yellow and transparent, his eyes old and dead, his chin hanging loose and petulant82, as he stared dully and unseeingly out across the great city of his youth, his life seemed already to have been consumed and wasted, emptied out into the void of this cruel and inhuman space. Nothing was left, now, to suggest his life of fury, strength and passion except his hands. And the hands were still the great hands of the stone-cutter, powerful, sinewy, and hairy as they had always been, attached now with a shocking incongruity83 to the wasted figure of a scarecrow.
Then, as he sat there staring dully and feebly out upon the city, his great hairy hands quietly at rest upon the sides of his chair, the door opened and his two sons came out upon the porch.
“W-w-w-well, Papa,” Luke sang out in his rich stammering84 tones. “Wy-wy wy, wy, I fought we’d just c-c-c-come by for a m-m-m-moment to let Gene63 say g-g-good-bye to you.” In a low tone to his younger brother he added nervously85, “Wy, I fink, I fink I’d m-m-make it short and snappy if I were you. D-d-don’t say anyf’ing to excite him, wy, wy, wy, I’d just say good-bye.”
“Hello, son,” said Gant quietly and dully, looking up at him. For a moment his great hand closed over the boy’s, and he said quietly:
“Where are you going?”
“Wy, wy, wy, he’s on his way up Norf . . . wy . . . he’s g-g-going to Harvard, Papa.”
“Be a good boy, son,” Gant said gently. “Do the best you can. If you need anything let your mother know,” he said wearily and indifferently, and turned his dead eyes away across the city.
“Wy . . . wy . . . wy he’d like to tell you —”
“Oh, Jesus. . . . I don’t want to hear about it,” Gant began to sniffle in a whining86 tone. . . . “Why must it all be put on me . . . sick and old as I am? . . . If he wants anything let him ask his mother for it . . . it’s fearful, it’s awful, and it’s cruel that you should afflict87 a sick man in this way.” He was sniffling petulantly88 and his chin, on which a wiry stubble of beard was growing, trembled and shook like that of a whining child.
“I . . . I . . . I fink I’d just say g-g-good-bye now, Gene . . . m-m-make it, wy make it quick if you can: he’s not f-f-feeling good today.”
“Good-bye, Papa,” the boy said, and, bending, took his father’s great right hand.
“Good-bye, son,” Gant now said quietly as before, looking up at him. He presented his grizzled moustache, and the boy kissed him briefly, feeling the wiry bristles89 of the moustache brush his cheek as they had always done.
“Take care of yourself, son,” said Gant kindly90. “Do the best you can.” And for a moment he covered the boy’s hand with one great palm, and gestured briefly across the city: “I was a boy here,” Gant said quietly, “over fifty years ago . . . old Jeff Streeter’s hotel where I lived was there,” he pointed91 briefly with his great forefinger92. “. . . . I was alone in this great city like the city you are going to — a poor friendless country boy who had come here to learn his trade as apprentice93 to a stone-cutter . . . and I had come from . . . THERE!” as he spoke49 these words, a flash of the old power and life had come into Gant’s voice, and now he was pointing his great finger strongly towards the sun-hazed vistas of the North and West.
“There!” cried Gant, strongly now, his eye bright and shining as he followed the direction of his pointing finger. “Do you see, son? . . . Pennsylvania . . . Gettysburg . . . Brant’s Mill . . . the country that I came from is THERE! . . . Now I shall never see it any more,” he said. “I’m an old man and I’m dying. . . . The big farms . . . the orchards94 . . . the great barns bigger than houses. . . . You must go back, son, someday to see the country that your father came from. . . . I was a boy there,” the old man muttered. “Now I’m an old man. . . . I’ll come back no more. . . . No more . . . it’s pretty strange when you come to think of it,” he muttered, “by God it is!”
“Wy, wy, P-p-p-papa,” Luke said nervously, “I . . . I fink if he’s g-g-going to get his train wy we’d better —”
“Good-bye, son,” Gant said quietly again, giving the boy the pressure of his great right hand. “Be a good boy, now.”
But already all the fires of life, so briefly kindled95 by this memory of the past, had died away: he was an old sick man again, and he had turned his dead eyes away from his son and was staring dully out across the city.
“Good-bye, Papa,” the boy said, and then paused uncertainly, not knowing further what to say. From the old man there had come suddenly the loathsome96 stench of rotting death, corrupt97 mortality, and he turned swiftly away with a feeling of horror in his heart, remembering the good male smell of childhood and his father’s prime — the smell of the old worn sofa, the chairs, the sitting-room98, the roaring fires, the plug tobacco on the mantelpiece.
At the screen door he paused again and looked back down the porch. His father was sitting there as he had left him, among the other old dying men, his long chin loose, mouth half open, his dead dull eye fixed99 vacantly across the sun-hazed city of his youth, his great hand of power quietly dropped upon his cane100.
Down in the city’s central web, the boy could distinguish faintly the line of the rails, and see the engine smoke above the railroad yards, and as he looked, he heard far off that haunting sound and prophecy of youth and of his life — the bell, the wheel, the wailing101 whistle — and the train.
Then he turned swiftly and went to meet it — and all the new lands, morning, and the shining city. Upon the porch his father had not moved or stirred. He knew that he should never see him again.
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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integument
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| n.皮肤 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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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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beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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reptilian
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| adj.（像）爬行动物的；（像）爬虫的；卑躬屈节的；卑鄙的n.两栖动物；卑劣的人 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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sinewy
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| adj.多腱的，强壮有力的 | |
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stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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rheumatism
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| n.风湿病 | |
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knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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graveyard
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emaciated
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weirdly
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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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puny
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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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fusion
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abominable
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tragic
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meditation
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plantations
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standing
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lank
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briefly
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rhetoric
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bloodiest
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jaws
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feverishly
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aged
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partisan
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ragged
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thighs
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crestfallen
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tranquil
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beatific
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| adj.快乐的，有福的 | |
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unctuous
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| adj.油腔滑调的，大胆的 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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lewd
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| adj.淫荡的 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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wink
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| n.眨眼，使眼色，瞬间；v.眨眼，使眼色，闪烁 | |
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47
foretold
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| v.预言，预示( foretell的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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49
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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50
trudged
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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51
fume
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| n.(usu pl.)(浓烈或难闻的)烟，气，汽 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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warp
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| vt.弄歪，使翘曲，使不正常，歪曲，使有偏见 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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56
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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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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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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gene
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| n.遗传因子，基因 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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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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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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deftly
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| adv.灵巧地，熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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presage
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| n.预感，不祥感；v.预示 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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incongruity
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| n.不协调，不一致 | |
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stammering
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的现在分词 ) | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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86
whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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87
afflict
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| vt.使身体或精神受痛苦，折磨 | |
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88
petulantly
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89
bristles
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| 短而硬的毛发，刷子毛( bristle的名词复数 ) | |
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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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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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96
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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97
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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98
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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99
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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100
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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101
wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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