Anstruther is a place sacred to the Muse1; she inspired (really to a considerable extent) Tennant’s vernacular2 poem Anst’er Fair; and I have there waited upon her myself with much devotion. This was when I came as a young man to glean3 engineering experience from the building of the breakwater. What I gleaned4, I am sure I do not know; but indeed I had already my own private determination to be an author; I loved the art of words and the appearances of life; and travellers, and headers, and rubble5, and polished ashlar, and pierres perdues, and even the thrilling question of the string-course, interested me only (if they interested me at all) as properties for some possible romance or as words to add to my vocabulary. To grow a little catholic is the compensation of years; youth is one-eyed; and in those days, though I haunted the breakwater by day, and even loved the place for the sake of the sunshine, the thrilling seaside air, the wash of waves on the sea-face, the green glimmer7 of the divers8’ helmets far below, and the musical chinking of the masons, my one genuine preoccupation lay elsewhere, and my only industry was in the hours when I was not on duty. I lodged9 with a certain Bailie Brown, a carpenter by trade; and there, as soon as dinner was despatched, in a chamber10 scented11 with dry rose-leaves, drew in my chair to the table and proceeded to pour forth12 literature, at such a speed, and with such intimations of early death and immortality13, as I now look back upon with wonder. Then it was that I wrote Voces Fidelium, a series of dramatic monologues14 in verse; then that I indited15 the bulk of a covenanting16 novel—like so many others, never finished. Late I sat into the night, toiling17 (as I thought) under the very dart18 of death, toiling to leave a memory behind me. I feel moved to thrust aside the curtain of the years, to hail that poor feverish19 idiot, to bid him go to bed and clap Voces Fidelium on the fire before he goes; so clear does he appear before me, sitting there between his candles in the rose-scented room and the late night; so ridiculous a picture (to my elderly wisdom) does the fool present! But he was driven to his bed at last without miraculous20 intervention21; and the manner of his driving sets the last touch upon this eminently22 youthful business. The weather was then so warm that I must keep the windows open; the night without was populous23 with moths24. As the late darkness deepened, my literary tapers25 beaconed forth more brightly; thicker and thicker came the dusty night-fliers, to gyrate for one brilliant instant round the flame and fall in agonies upon my paper. Flesh and blood could not endure the spectacle; to capture immortality was doubtless a noble enterprise, but not to capture it at such a cost of suffering; and out would go the candles, and off would I go to bed in the darkness raging to think that the blow might fall on the morrow, and there was Voces Fidelium still incomplete. Well, the moths are—all gone, and Voces Fidelium along with them; only the fool is still on hand and practises new follies26.
Only one thing in connection with the harbour tempted27 me, and that was the diving, an experience I burned to taste of. But this was not to be, at least in Anstruther; and the subject involves a change of scene to the sub-arctic town of Wick. You can never have dwelt in a country more unsightly than that part of Caithness, the land faintly swelling29, faintly falling, not a tree, not a hedgerow, the fields divided by single slate30 stones set upon their edge, the wind always singing in your ears and (down the long road that led nowhere) thrumming in the telegraph wires. Only as you approached the coast was there anything to stir the heart. The plateau broke down to the North Sea in formidable cliffs, the tall out-stacks rose like pillars ringed about with surf, the coves31 were over-brimmed with clamorous32 froth, the sea-birds screamed, the wind sang in the thyme on the cliff’s edge; here and there, small ancient castles toppled on the brim; here and there, it was possible to dip into a dell of shelter, where you might lie and tell yourself you were a little warm, and hear (near at hand) the whin-pods bursting in the afternoon sun, and (farther off) the rumour33 of the turbulent sea. As for Wick itself, it is one of the meanest of man’s towns, and situate certainly on the baldest of God’s bays. It lives for herring, and a strange sight it is to see (of an afternoon) the heights of Pulteney blackened by seaward-looking fishers, as when a city crowds to a review—or, as when bees have swarmed34, the ground is horrible with lumps and clusters; and a strange sight, and a beautiful, to see the fleet put silently out against a rising moon, the sea-line rough as a wood with sails, and ever and again and one after another, a boat flitting swiftly by the silver disk. This mass of fishers, this great fleet of boats, is out of all proportion to the town itself; and the oars35 are manned and the nets hauled by immigrants from the Long Island (as we call the outer Hebrides), who come for that season only, and depart again, if “the take” be poor, leaving debts behind them. In a bad year, the end of the herring fishery is therefore an exciting time; fights are common, riots often possible; an apple knocked from a child’s hand was once the signal for something like a war; and even when I was there, a gunboat lay in the bay to assist the authorities. To contrary interests, it should be observed, the curse of Babel is here added; the Lews men are Gaelic speakers. Caithness has adopted English; an odd circumstance, if you reflect that both must be largely Norsemen by descent. I remember seeing one of the strongest instances of this division: a thing like a Punch-and-Judy box erected36 on the flat grave-stones of the churchyard; from the hutch or proscenium—I know not what to call it—an eldritch-looking preacher laying down the law in Gaelic about some one of the name of Powl, whom I at last divined to be the apostle to the Gentiles; a large congregation of the Lews men very devoutly37 listening; and on the outskirts38 of the crowd, some of the town’s children (to whom the whole affair was Greek and Hebrew) profanely39 playing tigg. The same descent, the same country, the same narrow sect40 of the same religion, and all these bonds made very largely nugatory41 by an accidental difference of dialect!
Into the bay of Wick stretched the dark length of the unfinished breakwater, in its cage of open staging; the travellers (like frames of churches) over-plumbing all; and away at the extreme end, the divers toiling unseen on the foundation. On a platform of loose planks42, the assistants turned their air-mills; a stone might be swinging between wind and water; underneath43 the swell28 ran gaily44; and from time to time, a mailed dragon with a window-glass snout came dripping up the ladder. Youth is a blessed season after all; my stay at Wick was in the year of Voces Fidelium and the rose-leaf room at Bailie Brown’s; and already I did not care two straws for literary glory. Posthumous45 ambition perhaps requires an atmosphere of roses; and the more rugged46 excitant of Wick east winds had made another boy of me. To go down in the diving-dress, that was my absorbing fancy; and with the countenance47 of a certain handsome scamp of a diver, Bob Bain by name, I gratified the whim48.
It was gray, harsh, easterly weather, the swell ran pretty high, and out in the open there were “skipper’s daughters,” when I found myself at last on the diver’s platform, twenty pounds of lead upon each foot and my whole person swollen49 with ply50 and ply of woollen underclothing. One moment, the salt wind was whistling round my night-capped head; the next, I was crushed almost double under the weight of the helmet. As that intolerable burthern was laid upon me, I could have found it in my heart (only for shame’s sake) to cry off from the whole enterprise. But it was too late. The attendants began to turn the hurdy-gurdy, and the air to whistle through the tube; some one screwed in the barred window of the vizor; and I was cut off in a moment from my fellow-men; standing51 there in their midst, but quite divorced from intercourse52: a creature deaf and dumb, pathetically looking forth upon them from a climate of his own. Except that I could move and feel, I was like a man fallen in a catalepsy. But time was scarce given me to realise my isolation53; the weights were hung upon my back and breast, the signal rope was thrust into my unresisting hand; and setting a twenty-pound foot upon the ladder, I began ponderously54 to descend55.
Some twenty rounds below the platform, twilight56 fell. Looking up, I saw a low green heaven mottled with vanishing bells of white; looking around, except for the weedy spokes57 and shafts58 of the ladder, nothing but a green gloaming, somewhat opaque59 but very restful and delicious. Thirty rounds lower, I stepped off on the pierres perdues of the foundation; a dumb helmeted figure took me by the hand, and made a gesture (as I read it) of encouragement; and looking in at the creature’s window, I beheld60 the face of Bain. There we were, hand to hand and (when it pleased us) eye to eye; and either might have burst himself with shouting, and not a whisper come to his companion’s hearing. Each, in his own little world of air, stood incommunicably separate.
Bob had told me ere this a little tale, a five minutes’ drama at the bottom of the sea, which at that moment possibly shot across my mind. He was down with another, settling a stone of the sea-wall. They had it well adjusted, Bob gave the signal, the scissors were slipped, the stone set home; and it was time to turn to something else. But still his companion remained bowed over the block like a mourner on a tomb, or only raised himself to make absurd contortions61 and mysterious signs unknown to the vocabulary of the diver. There, then, these two stood for awhile, like the dead and the living; till there flashed a fortunate thought into Bob’s mind, and he stooped, peered through the window of that other world, and beheld the face of its inhabitant wet with streaming tears. Ah! the man was in pain! And Bob, glancing downward, saw what was the trouble: the block had been lowered on the foot of that unfortunate—he was caught alive at the bottom of the sea under fifteen tons of rock.
That two men should handle a stone so heavy, even swinging in the scissors, may appear strange to the inexpert. These must bear in mind the great density62 of the water of the sea, and the surprising results of transplantation to that medium. To understand a little what these are, and how a man’s weight, so far from being an encumbrance63, is the very ground of his agility64, was the chief lesson of my submarine experience. The knowledge came upon me by degrees. As I began to go forward with the hand of my estranged65 companion, a world of tumbled stones was visible, pillared with the weedy uprights of the staging: overhead, a flat roof of green: a little in front, the sea-wall, like an unfinished rampart. And presently in our upward progress, Bob motioned me to leap upon a stone; I looked to see if he were possibly in earnest, and he only signed to me the more imperiously. Now the block stood six feet high; it would have been quite a leap to me unencumbered; with the breast and back weights, and the twenty pounds upon each foot, and the staggering load of the helmet, the thing was out of reason. I laughed aloud in my tomb; and to prove to Bob how far he was astray, I gave a little impulse from my toes. Up I soared like a bird, my companion soaring at my side. As high as to the stone, and then higher, I pursued my impotent and empty flight. Even when the strong arm of Bob had checked my shoulders, my heels continued their ascent66; so that I blew out sideways like an autumn leaf, and must be hauled in, hand over hand, as sailors haul in the slack of a sail, and propped67 upon my feet again like an intoxicated68 sparrow. Yet a little higher on the foundation, and we began to be affected69 by the bottom of the swell, running there like a strong breeze of wind. Or so I must suppose; for, safe in my cushion of air, I was conscious of no impact; only swayed idly like a weed, and was now borne helplessly abroad, and now swiftly—and yet with dream-like gentleness—impelled against my guide. So does a child’s balloon divagate upon the currents of the air, and touch, and slide off again from every obstacle. So must have ineffectually swung, so resented their inefficiency70, those light crowds that followed the Star of Hades, and uttered exiguous71 voices in the land beyond Cocytus.
There was something strangely exasperating72, as well as strangely wearying, in these uncommanded evolutions. It is bitter to return to infancy73, to be supported, and directed, and perpetually set upon your feet, by the hand of some one else. The air besides, as it is supplied to you by the busy millers74 on the platform, closes the eustachian tubes and keeps the neophyte75 perpetually swallowing, till his throat is grown so dry that he can swallow no longer. And for all these reasons-although I had a fine, dizzy, muddle-headed joy in my surroundings, and longed, and tried, and always failed, to lay hands on the fish that darted76 here and there about me, swift as humming-birds—yet I fancy I was rather relieved than otherwise when Bain brought me back to the ladder and signed to me to mount. And there was one more experience before me even then. Of a sudden, my ascending77 head passed into the trough of a swell. Out of the green, I shot at once into a glory of rosy78, almost of sanguine79 light—the multitudinous seas incarnadined, the heaven above a vault80 of crimson81. And then the glory faded into the hard, ugly daylight of a Caithness autumn, with a low sky, a gray sea, and a whistling wind.
Bob Bain had five shillings for his trouble, and I had done what I desired. It was one of the best things I got from my education as an engineer: of which, however, as a way of life, I wish to speak with sympathy. It takes a man into the open air; it keeps him hanging about harbour-sides, which is the richest form of idling; it carries him to wild islands; it gives him a taste of the genial82 dangers of the sea; it supplies him with dexterities to exercise; it makes demands upon his ingenuity83; it will go far to cure him of any taste (if ever he had one) for the miserable84 life of cities. And when it has done so, it carries him back and shuts him in an office! From the roaring skerry and the wet thwart85 of the tossing boat, he passes to the stool and desk; and with a memory full of ships, and seas, and perilous86 headlands, and the shining pharos, he must apply his long-sighted eyes to the petty niceties of drawing, or measure his inaccurate87 mind with several pages of consecutive88 figures. He is a wise youth, to be sure, who can balance one part of genuine life against two parts of drudgery89 between four walls, and for the sake of the one, manfully accept the other.
Wick was scarce an eligible90 place of stay. But how much better it was to hang in the cold wind upon the pier6, to go down with Bob Bain among the roots of the staging, to be all day in a boat coiling a wet rope and shouting orders—not always very wise—than to be warm and dry, and dull, and dead-alive, in the most comfortable office. And Wick itself had in those days a note of originality91. It may have still, but I misdoubt it much. The old minister of Keiss would not preach, in these degenerate92 times, for an hour and a half upon the clock. The gipsies must be gone from their cavern93; where you might see, from the mouth, the women tending their fire, like Meg Merrilies, and the men sleeping off their coarse potations; and where, in winter gales94, the surf would beleaguer95 them closely, bursting in their very door. A traveller to-day upon the Thurso coach would scarce observe a little cloud of smoke among the moorlands, and be told, quite openly, it marked a private still. He would not indeed make that journey, for there is now no Thurso coach. And even if he could, one little thing that happened to me could never happen to him, or not with the same trenchancy96 of contrast.
We had been upon the road all evening; the coach-top was crowded with Lews fishers going home, scarce anything but Gaelic had sounded in my ears; and our way had lain throughout over a moorish97 country very northern to behold98. Latish at night, though it was still broad day in our subarctic latitude99, we came down upon the shores of the roaring Pentland Firth, that grave of mariners100; on one hand, the cliffs of Dunnet Head ran seaward; in front was the little bare, white town of Castleton, its streets full of blowing sand; nothing beyond, but the North Islands, the great deep, and the perennial101 ice-fields of the Pole. And here, in the last imaginable place, there sprang up young outlandish voices and a chatter102 of some foreign speech; and I saw, pursuing the coach with its load of Hebridean fishers—as they had pursued vetturini up the passes of the Apennines or perhaps along the grotto103 under Virgil’s tomb—two little dark-eyed, white-toothed Italian vagabonds, of twelve to fourteen years of age, one with a hurdy-gurdy, the other with a cage of white mice. The coach passed on, and their small Italian chatter died in the distance; and I was left to marvel104 how they had wandered into that country, and how they fared in it, and what they thought of it, and when (if ever) they should see again the silver wind-breaks run among the olives, and the stone-pine stand guard upon Etruscan sepulchres.
Upon any American, the strangeness of this incident is somewhat lost. For as far back as he goes in his own land, he will find some alien camping there; the Cornish miner, the French or Mexican half-blood, the negro in the South, these are deep in the woods and far among the mountains. But in an old, cold, and rugged country such as mine, the days of immigration are long at an end; and away up there, which was at that time far beyond the northernmost extreme of railways, hard upon the shore of that ill-omened strait of whirlpools, in a land of moors105 where no stranger came, unless it should be a sportsman to shoot grouse106 or an antiquary to decipher runes, the presence of these small pedestrians107 struck the mind as though a bird-of-paradise had risen from the heather or an albatross come fishing in the bay of Wick. They were as strange to their surroundings as my lordly evangelist or the old Spanish grandee108 on the Fair Isle109.
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1
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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vernacular
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| adj.地方的，用地方语写成的；n.白话；行话；本国语；动植物的俗名 | |
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glean
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| v.收集(消息、资料、情报等) | |
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gleaned
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| v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的过去式和过去分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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rubble
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| n.（一堆）碎石，瓦砾 | |
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pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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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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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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12
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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14
monologues
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| n.（戏剧）长篇独白( monologue的名词复数 )；滔滔不绝的讲话；独角戏 | |
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indited
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| v.写（文章，信等）创作，赋诗，创作( indite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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covenanting
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| v.立约，立誓( covenant的现在分词 ) | |
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17
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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tapers
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| （长形物体的）逐渐变窄( taper的名词复数 )； 微弱的光； 极细的蜡烛 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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coves
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| n.小海湾( cove的名词复数 )；家伙 | |
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clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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36
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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37
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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38
outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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profanely
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| adv.渎神地，凡俗地 | |
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40
sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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41
nugatory
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| adj.琐碎的，无价值的 | |
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42
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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43
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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45
posthumous
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| adj.遗腹的；父亡后出生的；死后的，身后的 | |
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46
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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47
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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48
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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49
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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50
ply
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| v.(搬运工等)等候顾客，弯曲 | |
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51
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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52
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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53
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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54
ponderously
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55
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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56
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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spokes
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| n.（车轮的）辐条( spoke的名词复数 )；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 | |
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shafts
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| n.轴( shaft的名词复数 )；（箭、高尔夫球棒等的）杆；通风井；一阵（疼痛、害怕等） | |
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opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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contortions
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| n.扭歪，弯曲；扭曲，弄歪，歪曲( contortion的名词复数 ) | |
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density
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| n.密集，密度，浓度 | |
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encumbrance
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| n.妨碍物，累赘 | |
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agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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inefficiency
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| n.无效率，无能；无效率事例 | |
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exiguous
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| adj.不足的，太少的 | |
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exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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infancy
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| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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millers
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| n.（尤指面粉厂的）厂主( miller的名词复数 )；磨房主；碾磨工；铣工 | |
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neophyte
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| n.新信徒；开始者 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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sanguine
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| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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vault
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| n.拱形圆顶，地窖，地下室 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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inaccurate
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| adj.错误的，不正确的，不准确的 | |
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consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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gales
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| 龙猫 | |
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beleaguer
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| v.使困扰，使烦恼，围攻 | |
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trenchancy
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| n.锐利，鲜明，有力 | |
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moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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latitude
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| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
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mariners
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| 海员，水手（mariner的复数形式） | |
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perennial
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| adj.终年的；长久的 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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grotto
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| n.洞穴 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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grouse
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| n.松鸡；v.牢骚，诉苦 | |
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pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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grandee
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| n.贵族；大公 | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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