章节正文
coatimundi crossed their path--an animal with a strong odour. As
a man is, so is his dog. Have you not seen dogs eating grass,
sir, even in Venezuela, where these sentiments do not prevail?
And when there is no meat--when meat is forbidden--these
sagacious animals accustom themselves to a vegetable diet."
I could not very well tell the old man that he was lying to
me--that would have been bad policy--and so I passed it off. "I
have no doubt that you are right," I said. "I have heard that
there are dogs in China that eat no meat, but are themselves
eaten by their owners after being fattened on rice. I should not
care to dine on one of your animals, old man."
He looked at them critically and replied: "Certainly they are
lean."
"I was thinking less of their leanness than of their smell," I
returned. "Their odour when they approach me is not flowery, but
resembles that of other dogs which feed on flesh, and have
offended my too sensitive nostrils even in the drawing-rooms of
Caracas. It is not like the fragrance of cattle when they return
from the pasture."
"Every animal," he replied, "gives out that odour which is
peculiar to its kind"; an incontrovertible fact which left me
nothing to say.
When I had sufficiently recovered the suppleness of my limbs to
walk with ease, I went for a ramble in the wood, in the hope that
Rima would accompany me, and that out among the trees she would
cast aside that artificial constraint and shyness which was her
manner in the house.
It fell out just as I had expected; she accompanied me in the
sense of being always near me, or within earshot, and her manner
was now free and unconstrained as I could wish; but little or
nothing was gained by the change. She was once more the
tantalizing, elusive, mysterious creature I had first known
through her wandering, melodious voice. The only difference was
that the musical, inarticulate sounds were now less often heard,
and that she was no longer afraid to show herself to me. This
for a short time was enough to make me happy, since no lovelier
being was ever looked upon, nor one whose loveliness was less
likely to lose its charm through being often seen.
But to keep her near me or always in sight was, I found,
impossible: she would be free as the wind, free as the butterfly,
going and coming at her wayward will, and losing herself from
sight a dozen times every hour. To induce her to walk soberly at
my side or sit down and enter into conversation with me seemed
about as impracticable as to tame the fiery-hearted little
humming-bird that flashes into sight, remains suspended
motionless for a few seconds before your face, then, quick as
lightning, vanishes again.
At length, feeling convinced that she was most happy when she had
me out following her in the wood, that in spite of her bird-like
wildness she had a tender, human heart, which was easily moved, I
determined to try to draw her closer by means of a little
innocent stratagem. Going out in the morning, after calling her
several times to no purpose, I began to assume a downcast manner,
as if suffering pain or depressed with grief; and at last,
finding a convenient exposed root under a tree, on a spot where
the ground was dry and strewn with loose yellow sand, I sat down
and refused to go any further. For she always wanted to lead me
on and on, and whenever I paused she would return to show
herself, or to chide or encourage me in her mysterious language.
All her pretty little arts were now practiced in vain: with cheek
resting on my hand, I still sat,
So my eyes fixed on that patch of yellow sand at my feet,
watching how the small particles glinted like diamond dust when
the sunlight touched them. A full hour passed in this way,
during which I encouraged myself by saying mentally: "This is a
contest between us, and the most patient and the strongest of
will, which should be the man, must conquer. And if I win on
this occasion, it will be easier for me in the future--easier to
discover those things which I am resolved to know, and the girl
must reveal to me, since the old man has proved impracticable."
Meanwhile she came and went and came again; and at last, finding
that I was not to be moved, she approached and stood near me.
Her face, when I glanced at it, had a somewhat troubled
look--both troubled and curious.
"Come here, Rima," I said, "and stay with me for a little
while--I cannot follow you now."
She took one or two hesitating steps, then stood still again; and
at length, slowly and reluctantly, advanced to within a yard of
me. Then I rose from my seat on the root, so as to catch her
face better, and placed my hand against the rough bark of the
tree.
"Rima," I said, speaking in a low, caressing tone, "will you stay
with me here a little while and talk to me, not in your language,
but in mine, so that I may understand? Will you listen when I
speak to you, and answer me?"
Her lips moved, but made no sound. She seemed strangely
disquieted, and shook back her loose hair, and with her small
toes moved the sparkling sand at her feet, and once or twice her
eyes glanced shyly at my face.
"Rime, you have not answered me," I persisted. "Will you not say
yes?"
"Yes."
"Where does your grandfather spend his day when he goes out with
his dogs?"
She shook her head slightly, but would not speak.
"Have you no mother, Rima? Do you remember your mother?"
"My mother! My mother!" she exclaimed in a low voice, but with
a sudden, wonderful animation. Bending a little nearer, she
continued: "Oh, she is dead! Her body is in the earth and turned
to dust. Like that," and she moved the loose sand with her foot.
"Her soul is up there, where the stars and the angels are,
grandfather says. But what is that to me? I am here--am I not?
I talk to her just the same. Everything I see I point out, and
tell her everything. In the daytime--in the woods, when we are
together. And at night when I lie down I cross my arms on my
breast--so, and say: 'Mother, mother, now you are in my arms; let
us go to sleep together.' Sometimes I say: 'Oh, why will you
never answer me when I speak and speak?' Mother--mother--mother!"
At the end her voice suddenly rose to a mournful cry, then sunk,
and at the last repetition of the word died to a low whisper.
"Ah, poor Rima! she is dead and cannot speak to you--cannot hear
you! Talk to me, Rima; I am living and can answer."
But now the cloud, which had suddenly lifted from her heart,
letting me see for a moment into its mysterious depths--its
fancies so childlike and feelings so intense--had fallen again;
and my words brought no response, except a return of that
troubled look to her face.
"Silent still?" I said. "Talk to me, then, of your mother,
Rima. Do you know that you will see her again some day?"
"Yes, when I die. That is what the priest said."
"The priest?"
"Yes, at Voa--do you know? Mother died there when I was
small--it is so far away! And there are thirteen houses by the
side of the river--just here; and on this side--trees, trees."
This was important, I thought, and would lead to the very
knowledge I wished for; so I pressed her to tell me more about
the settlement she had named, and of which I had never heard.
"Everything have I told you," she returned, surprised that I did
not know that she had exhausted the subject in those half-dozen
words she had spoken.
Obliged to shift my ground, I said at a venture: "Tell me, what
do you ask of the Virgin Mother when you kneel before her
picture? Your grandfather told me that you had a picture in your
little room."
"You know!" flashed out her answer, with something like
resentment.
"It is all there in there," waving her hand towards the hut.
"Out here in the wood it is all gone--like this," and stooping
quickly, she raised a little yellow sand on her palm, then let it
run away through her fingers.
Thus she illustrated how all the matters she had been taught
slipped from her mind when she was out of doors, out of sight of
the picture. After an interval she added: "Only mother is
here--always with me."
"Ah, poor Rima!" I said; "alone without a mother, and only your
old grandfather! He is old--what will you do when he dies and
flies away to the starry country where your mother is?"
She looked inquiringly at me, then made answer in a low voice:
"You are here."
"But when I go away?"
She was silent; and not wishing to dwell on a subject that seemed
to pain her, I continued: "Yes, I am here now, but you will not
stay with me and talk freely! Will it always be the same if I
remain with you? Why are you always so silent in the house, so
cold with your old grandfather? So different--so full of life,
like a bird, when you are alone in the woods? Rima, speak to me!
Am I no more to you than your old grandfather? Do you not like
me to talk to you?"
She appeared strangely disturbed at my words. "Oh, you are not
like him," she suddenly replied. "Sitting all day on a log by
the fire--all day, all day; Goloso and Susio lying beside
him--sleep, sleep. Oh, when I saw you in the wood I followed
you, and talked and talked; still no answer. Why will you not
come when I call? To me!" Then, mocking my voice: "Rime, Rima!
Come here! Do this! Say that! Rima! Rima! It is nothing,
nothing--it is not you," pointing to my mouth, and then, as if
fearing that her meaning had not been made clear, suddenly
touching my lips with her finger. "Why do you not answer
me?--speak to me--speak to me, like this!" And turning a little
more towards me, and glancing at me with eyes that had all at
once changed, losing their clouded expression for one of
exquisite tenderness, from her lips came a succession of those
mysterious sounds which had first attracted me to her, swift and
low and bird-like, yet with something so much higher and more
soul-penetrating than any bird-music. Ah, what feeling and
fancies, what quaint turns of expression, unfamiliar to my mind,
were contained in those sweet, wasted symbols! I could never
know--never come to her when she called, or respond to her
spirit. To me they would always be inarticulate sounds,
affecting me like a tender spiritual music--a language without
words, suggesting more than words to the soul.
The mysterious speech died down to a lisping sound, like the
faint note of some small bird falling from a cloud of foliage on
the topmost bough of a tree; and at the same time that new light
passed from her eyes, and she half averted her face in a
disappointed way.
"Rima," I said at length, a new thought coming to my aid, "it is
true that I am not here," touching my lips as she had done, "and
that my words are nothing. But look into my eyes, and you will
see me there--all, all that is in my heart."
"Oh, I know what I should see there!" she returned quickly.
"What would you see--tell me?"
"There is a little black ball in the middle of your eye; I should
see myself in it no bigger than that," and she marked off about
an eighth of her little fingernail. "There is a pool in the
wood, and I look down and see myself there. That is better.
Just as large as I am--not small and black like a small, small
fly." And after saying this a little disdainfully, she moved
away from my side and out into the sunshine; and then, half
turning towards me, and glancing first at my face and then
upwards, she raised her hand to call my attention to something
a man is, so is his dog. Have you not seen dogs eating grass,
sir, even in Venezuela, where these sentiments do not prevail?
And when there is no meat--when meat is forbidden--these
sagacious animals accustom themselves to a vegetable diet."
I could not very well tell the old man that he was lying to
me--that would have been bad policy--and so I passed it off. "I
have no doubt that you are right," I said. "I have heard that
there are dogs in China that eat no meat, but are themselves
eaten by their owners after being fattened on rice. I should not
care to dine on one of your animals, old man."
He looked at them critically and replied: "Certainly they are
lean."
"I was thinking less of their leanness than of their smell," I
returned. "Their odour when they approach me is not flowery, but
resembles that of other dogs which feed on flesh, and have
offended my too sensitive nostrils even in the drawing-rooms of
Caracas. It is not like the fragrance of cattle when they return
from the pasture."
"Every animal," he replied, "gives out that odour which is
peculiar to its kind"; an incontrovertible fact which left me
nothing to say.
When I had sufficiently recovered the suppleness of my limbs to
walk with ease, I went for a ramble in the wood, in the hope that
Rima would accompany me, and that out among the trees she would
cast aside that artificial constraint and shyness which was her
manner in the house.
It fell out just as I had expected; she accompanied me in the
sense of being always near me, or within earshot, and her manner
was now free and unconstrained as I could wish; but little or
nothing was gained by the change. She was once more the
tantalizing, elusive, mysterious creature I had first known
through her wandering, melodious voice. The only difference was
that the musical, inarticulate sounds were now less often heard,
and that she was no longer afraid to show herself to me. This
for a short time was enough to make me happy, since no lovelier
being was ever looked upon, nor one whose loveliness was less
likely to lose its charm through being often seen.
But to keep her near me or always in sight was, I found,
impossible: she would be free as the wind, free as the butterfly,
going and coming at her wayward will, and losing herself from
sight a dozen times every hour. To induce her to walk soberly at
my side or sit down and enter into conversation with me seemed
about as impracticable as to tame the fiery-hearted little
humming-bird that flashes into sight, remains suspended
motionless for a few seconds before your face, then, quick as
lightning, vanishes again.
At length, feeling convinced that she was most happy when she had
me out following her in the wood, that in spite of her bird-like
wildness she had a tender, human heart, which was easily moved, I
determined to try to draw her closer by means of a little
innocent stratagem. Going out in the morning, after calling her
several times to no purpose, I began to assume a downcast manner,
as if suffering pain or depressed with grief; and at last,
finding a convenient exposed root under a tree, on a spot where
the ground was dry and strewn with loose yellow sand, I sat down
and refused to go any further. For she always wanted to lead me
on and on, and whenever I paused she would return to show
herself, or to chide or encourage me in her mysterious language.
All her pretty little arts were now practiced in vain: with cheek
resting on my hand, I still sat,
So my eyes fixed on that patch of yellow sand at my feet,
watching how the small particles glinted like diamond dust when
the sunlight touched them. A full hour passed in this way,
during which I encouraged myself by saying mentally: "This is a
contest between us, and the most patient and the strongest of
will, which should be the man, must conquer. And if I win on
this occasion, it will be easier for me in the future--easier to
discover those things which I am resolved to know, and the girl
must reveal to me, since the old man has proved impracticable."
Meanwhile she came and went and came again; and at last, finding
that I was not to be moved, she approached and stood near me.
Her face, when I glanced at it, had a somewhat troubled
look--both troubled and curious.
"Come here, Rima," I said, "and stay with me for a little
while--I cannot follow you now."
She took one or two hesitating steps, then stood still again; and
at length, slowly and reluctantly, advanced to within a yard of
me. Then I rose from my seat on the root, so as to catch her
face better, and placed my hand against the rough bark of the
tree.
"Rima," I said, speaking in a low, caressing tone, "will you stay
with me here a little while and talk to me, not in your language,
but in mine, so that I may understand? Will you listen when I
speak to you, and answer me?"
Her lips moved, but made no sound. She seemed strangely
disquieted, and shook back her loose hair, and with her small
toes moved the sparkling sand at her feet, and once or twice her
eyes glanced shyly at my face.
"Rime, you have not answered me," I persisted. "Will you not say
yes?"
"Yes."
"Where does your grandfather spend his day when he goes out with
his dogs?"
She shook her head slightly, but would not speak.
"Have you no mother, Rima? Do you remember your mother?"
"My mother! My mother!" she exclaimed in a low voice, but with
a sudden, wonderful animation. Bending a little nearer, she
continued: "Oh, she is dead! Her body is in the earth and turned
to dust. Like that," and she moved the loose sand with her foot.
"Her soul is up there, where the stars and the angels are,
grandfather says. But what is that to me? I am here--am I not?
I talk to her just the same. Everything I see I point out, and
tell her everything. In the daytime--in the woods, when we are
together. And at night when I lie down I cross my arms on my
breast--so, and say: 'Mother, mother, now you are in my arms; let
us go to sleep together.' Sometimes I say: 'Oh, why will you
never answer me when I speak and speak?' Mother--mother--mother!"
At the end her voice suddenly rose to a mournful cry, then sunk,
and at the last repetition of the word died to a low whisper.
"Ah, poor Rima! she is dead and cannot speak to you--cannot hear
you! Talk to me, Rima; I am living and can answer."
But now the cloud, which had suddenly lifted from her heart,
letting me see for a moment into its mysterious depths--its
fancies so childlike and feelings so intense--had fallen again;
and my words brought no response, except a return of that
troubled look to her face.
"Silent still?" I said. "Talk to me, then, of your mother,
Rima. Do you know that you will see her again some day?"
"Yes, when I die. That is what the priest said."
"The priest?"
"Yes, at Voa--do you know? Mother died there when I was
small--it is so far away! And there are thirteen houses by the
side of the river--just here; and on this side--trees, trees."
This was important, I thought, and would lead to the very
knowledge I wished for; so I pressed her to tell me more about
the settlement she had named, and of which I had never heard.
"Everything have I told you," she returned, surprised that I did
not know that she had exhausted the subject in those half-dozen
words she had spoken.
Obliged to shift my ground, I said at a venture: "Tell me, what
do you ask of the Virgin Mother when you kneel before her
picture? Your grandfather told me that you had a picture in your
little room."
"You know!" flashed out her answer, with something like
resentment.
"It is all there in there," waving her hand towards the hut.
"Out here in the wood it is all gone--like this," and stooping
quickly, she raised a little yellow sand on her palm, then let it
run away through her fingers.
Thus she illustrated how all the matters she had been taught
slipped from her mind when she was out of doors, out of sight of
the picture. After an interval she added: "Only mother is
here--always with me."
"Ah, poor Rima!" I said; "alone without a mother, and only your
old grandfather! He is old--what will you do when he dies and
flies away to the starry country where your mother is?"
She looked inquiringly at me, then made answer in a low voice:
"You are here."
"But when I go away?"
She was silent; and not wishing to dwell on a subject that seemed
to pain her, I continued: "Yes, I am here now, but you will not
stay with me and talk freely! Will it always be the same if I
remain with you? Why are you always so silent in the house, so
cold with your old grandfather? So different--so full of life,
like a bird, when you are alone in the woods? Rima, speak to me!
Am I no more to you than your old grandfather? Do you not like
me to talk to you?"
She appeared strangely disturbed at my words. "Oh, you are not
like him," she suddenly replied. "Sitting all day on a log by
the fire--all day, all day; Goloso and Susio lying beside
him--sleep, sleep. Oh, when I saw you in the wood I followed
you, and talked and talked; still no answer. Why will you not
come when I call? To me!" Then, mocking my voice: "Rime, Rima!
Come here! Do this! Say that! Rima! Rima! It is nothing,
nothing--it is not you," pointing to my mouth, and then, as if
fearing that her meaning had not been made clear, suddenly
touching my lips with her finger. "Why do you not answer
me?--speak to me--speak to me, like this!" And turning a little
more towards me, and glancing at me with eyes that had all at
once changed, losing their clouded expression for one of
exquisite tenderness, from her lips came a succession of those
mysterious sounds which had first attracted me to her, swift and
low and bird-like, yet with something so much higher and more
soul-penetrating than any bird-music. Ah, what feeling and
fancies, what quaint turns of expression, unfamiliar to my mind,
were contained in those sweet, wasted symbols! I could never
know--never come to her when she called, or respond to her
spirit. To me they would always be inarticulate sounds,
affecting me like a tender spiritual music--a language without
words, suggesting more than words to the soul.
The mysterious speech died down to a lisping sound, like the
faint note of some small bird falling from a cloud of foliage on
the topmost bough of a tree; and at the same time that new light
passed from her eyes, and she half averted her face in a
disappointed way.
"Rima," I said at length, a new thought coming to my aid, "it is
true that I am not here," touching my lips as she had done, "and
that my words are nothing. But look into my eyes, and you will
see me there--all, all that is in my heart."
"Oh, I know what I should see there!" she returned quickly.
"What would you see--tell me?"
"There is a little black ball in the middle of your eye; I should
see myself in it no bigger than that," and she marked off about
an eighth of her little fingernail. "There is a pool in the
wood, and I look down and see myself there. That is better.
Just as large as I am--not small and black like a small, small
fly." And after saying this a little disdainfully, she moved
away from my side and out into the sunshine; and then, half
turning towards me, and glancing first at my face and then
upwards, she raised her hand to call my attention to something
- accustom [ə´kʌstəm]
vt.使习惯于 (初中英语单词) - vegetable [´vedʒtəbəl] a.&n.蔬菜(的)；植物 (初中英语单词)
- sufficiently [sə´fiʃəntli] ad.充分地，足够地 (初中英语单词)
- artificial [,ɑ:ti´fiʃəl] a.人工的；模拟的 (初中英语单词)
- mysterious [mi´stiəriəs] a.神秘的；难以理解的 (初中英语单词)
- musical [´mju:zikəl] a.音乐的；悦耳的 (初中英语单词)
- suffering [´sʌfəriŋ] n.痛苦；灾害 (初中英语单词)
- convenient [kən´vi:niənt] a.方便的 (初中英语单词)
- whenever [wen´evə] conj.&ad.无论何时 (初中英语单词)
- encourage [in´kʌridʒ] vt.鼓励；怂勇；促进 (初中英语单词)
- sunlight [´sʌnlait] n.日光 (初中英语单词)
- conquer [´kɔŋkə] v.征服；克服；抑制 (初中英语单词)
- advanced [əd´vɑ:nst] a.先进的；高级的 (初中英语单词)
- grandfather [´grænd,fɑ:ðə] n.(外)祖父；祖先 (初中英语单词)
- slightly [´slaitli] ad.轻微地；细长的 (初中英语单词)
- priest [pri:st] n.教士；牧师；神父 (初中英语单词)
- venture [´ventʃə] n.投机 v.冒险；敢于 (初中英语单词)
- interval [´intəvəl] n.间隙；(工间)休息 (初中英语单词)
- strangely [´streindʒli] ad.奇怪地；陌生地 (初中英语单词)
- succession [sək´seʃən] n.继任；继承(权) (初中英语单词)
- respond [ri´spɔnd] v.回答；响应；有反应 (初中英语单词)
- spiritual [´spiritʃuəl] a.精神(上)的；神圣的 (初中英语单词)
- sunshine [´sʌnʃain] n.日光，阳光 (初中英语单词)
- sensitive [´sensitiv] a.敏感的；感光的 (高中英语单词)
- fragrance [´freigrəns] n.芬芳，芳香 (高中英语单词)
- strewn [stru:n] strew的过去分词 (高中英语单词)
- saying [´seiŋ, ´sei-iŋ] n.言语；言论；格言 (高中英语单词)
- repetition [,repi´tiʃən] n.重复；背诵；复制品 (高中英语单词)
- response [ri´spɔns] n.回答；响应 (高中英语单词)
- virgin [´və:dʒin] a.处女(般)的 n.处女 (高中英语单词)
- tenderness [´tendənis] n.娇嫩；柔软；温柔 (高中英语单词)
- quaint [kweint] a.离奇的；奇妙的 (高中英语单词)
- foliage [´fəuli-idʒ] n.叶子，簇叶 (高中英语单词)
- flowery [´flauəri] a.多花的 (英语四级单词)
- ramble [´ræmbl] v.&n.闲逛；漫步 (英语四级单词)
- loveliness [´lʌvlinis] n.美丽，可爱 (英语四级单词)
- soberly [´səubəli] ad.严肃地；清醒地 (英语四级单词)
- resolved [ri´zɔlvd] a.决心的；坚定的 (英语四级单词)
- reluctantly [ri´lʌktəntli] a.不情愿地；勉强地 (英语四级单词)
- mournful [´mɔ:nful] a.令人沮丧的 (英语四级单词)
- starry [´stɑ:ri] a.星光照耀的，闪亮的 (英语四级单词)
- touching [´tʌtʃiŋ] a.动人的 prep.提到 (英语四级单词)
- wayward [´weiwəd] a.任性的；不易控制的 (英语六级单词)
- impracticable [im´præktikəbəl] a.不切实际的 (英语六级单词)
- stratagem [´strætədʒəm] n.战略，策略，谋略 (英语六级单词)
- calling [´kɔ:liŋ] n.点名；职业；欲望 (英语六级单词)
- downcast [´daunkɑ:st] a.沮丧的；向下看的 (英语六级单词)
- depressed [di´prest] a.消沉的；萧条的 (英语六级单词)
- practiced [´præktist] a.经验丰富的；熟练的 (英语六级单词)
- speaking [´spi:kiŋ] n.说话 a.发言的 (英语六级单词)
- unfamiliar [ʌnfə´miljə] a.不熟悉的；生疏的 (英语六级单词)
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