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An Inland Voyage-Part8_ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON(1850-1894)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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below. When a man has just vowed eternalbrotherhood with the

universe, he is not in a temper to take great determinations



coolly, and this, which might have been a very important

determination for me, had not been taken under a happy star. The



tree caught me about the chest, and while I was yet struggling to

make less of myself and get through, the river took the matter out



of my hands, and bereaved me of my boat. The ARETHUSA swung round

broadside on, leaned over, ejected so much of me as still remained



on board, and thus disencumbered, whipped under the tree, righted,

and went merrily away down stream.



I do not know how long it was before I scrambled on to the tree to

which I was left clinging, but it was longer than I cared about.



My thoughts were of a grave and almost sombre character, but I

still clung to my paddle. The stream ran away with my heels as



fast as I could pull up my shoulders, and I seemed, by the weight,

to have all the water of the Oise in my trousers-pockets. You can



never know, till you try it, what a dead pull a river makes against

a man. Death himself had me by the heels, for this was his last



ambuscado, and he must now join personally in the fray. And still

I held to my paddle. At last I dragged myself on to my stomach on



the trunk, and lay there a breathless sop, with a mingled sense of

humour and injustice. A poor figure I must have presented to Burns



upon the hill-top with his team. But there was the paddle in my

hand. On my tomb, if ever I have one, I mean to get these words



inscribed: 'He clung to his paddle.'

The CIGARETTE had gone past a while before; for, as I might have



observed, if I had been a little less pleased with the universe at

the moment, there was a clear way round the tree-top at the farther



side. He had offered his services to haul me out, but as I was

then already on my elbows, I had declined, and sent him down stream



after the truant ARETHUSA. The stream was too rapid for a man to

mount with one canoe, let alone two, upon his hands. So I crawled



along the trunk to shore, and proceeded down the meadows by the

river-side. I was so cold that my heart was sore. I had now an



idea of my own why the reeds so bitterly shivered. I could have

given any of them a lesson. The CIGARETTE remarked facetiously



that he thought I was 'taking exercise' as I drew near, until he

made out for certain that I was only twittering with cold. I had a



rub down with a towel, and donned a dry suit from the india-rubber

bag. But I was not my own man again for the rest of the voyage. I



had a queasy sense that I wore my last dry clothes upon my body.

The struggle had tired me; and perhaps, whether I knew it or not, I



was a little dashed in spirit. The devouring element in the

universe had leaped out against me, in this green valley quickened



by a runningstream. The bells were all very pretty in their way,

but I had heard some of the hollow notes of Pan's music. Would the



wicked river drag me down by the heels, indeed? and look so

beautiful all the time? Nature's good-humour was only skin-deep



after all.

There was still a long way to go by the winding course of the



stream, and darkness had fallen, and a late bell was ringing in

Origny Sainte-Benoite, when we arrived.



ORIGNY SAINTE-BENOITE

A BY-DAY



THE next day was Sunday, and the church bells had little rest;

indeed, I do not think I remember anywhere else so great a choice



of services as were here offered to the devout. And while the

bells made merry in the sunshine, all the world with his dog was



out shooting among the beets and colza.

In the morning a hawker and his wife went down the street at a



foot-pace, singing to a very slow, lamentable music 'O FRANCE, MES

AMOURS.' It brought everybody to the door; and when our landlady



called in the man to buy the words, he had not a copy of them left.

She was not the first nor the second who had been taken with the



song. There is something very pathetic in the love of the French

people, since the war, for dismalpatriotic music-making. I have



watched a forester from Alsace while some one was singing 'LES

MALHEURS DE LA FRANCE,' at a baptismal party in the neighbourhood



of Fontainebleau. He arose from the table and took his son aside,




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