章节正文
as their importunities had done before to induce her to leave it.
"He must be starving in prison," she said, "and I will take him food."
Her neighbours left her to her stubborn purpose.
"Allah!" they said, "who would have believed it, that the little
pink-and-white face had such a will of her own!"
Without more ado Naomi set herself to prepare for her journey.
She saved up thirty eggs, and baked as many of the round flat cakes
of the country; also she churned some butter in the simple way
which the women had taught her, and put the milk that was left
in a goat's-skin. In three days she was ready, and then she packed
her provisions in the leaf panniers of a mule which one
of the neighbours had lent to her, and got up before them on the front
of the burda, after the manner of the wives whom she had seen
going past to market.
When she was about to start her gossips came again, in pity of
her wild errand, to bid her farewell and to see the last of her.
"Keep to the track as far as Tetuan," they said to her, "and then ask
for the road to Shawan." One old creature threw a blanket over her head
in such a way that it might cover her face. "Faces like yours
are not for the daylight," the old body whispered, and then Naomi
set forward on her journey. The women watched her while she mounted
the hill that goes up to the fondak, and then sinks out of sight
beyond it. "Poor mad little fool," they whimpered; "that's the end
of her! She'll never come back. Too many men about for that.
And now," they said, facing each other with looks of suspicion and envy,
"what of the creatures?"
While the good souls were dividing her possessions among them,
Naomi was awakening to some vague sense of her difficulties and dangers.
She had thought it would be easy to ask her way, but now that she had need
to do so she was afraid to speak. The sight of a strange face
alarmed her, and she was terrified when she met a company
of wandering Arabs changing pasture, with the young women and children
on camels, the old women trudging on foot under loads of cans and kettles,
the boys driving the herds, and the men, armed with long flintlocks,
riding their prancing barbs. Her poor little mule came to a stand
in the midst of this cavalcade, and she was too bewildered to urge it on.
Also her fear which had first caused her to cover her face
with the blanket that her neighbour had given her, now made her forget
to do so, and the men as they passed her peered close into her eyes.
Such glances made her blood to tingle. They seared her very soul,
and she began to know the meaning of shame.
Nevertheless, she tried to keep up a brave heart and to push forward.
"He is starving in prison," she told herself; "I must lose no time."
It was a weary journey. Everything was new to her, and nearly
everything was terrible. She was even perplexed to see that however far
she travelled she came upon men and women and children.
It was so strange that all the world was peopled. Yet sometimes
she wished there were more people everywhere. That was when she was
crossing a barren waste with no house in sight and never a sign
of human life on any side. But oftener she wished that the people
were not so many; and that was when the children mocked at her mule,
or the women jeered at her as if she must needs be a base person
because she was alone, or the men laughed and leered into her
uncovered face.
Before she had gone many miles her heart began to fail.
Everything was unlike what she expected. She had thought the world
so good that she had but to say to any that asked her of her errand,
"My father is in prison, they say that he is starving;
I am taking him food," and every one would help her forward.
Though she had never put it to herself so, yet she had reckoned
in this way in spite of the warnings of her neighbours.
But no one was helping her forward; few were looking on her with goodwill,
and fewer still with pity and cheer.
The jogging of the mule, a most bony and stiff-limbed beast,
had flattened the panniers that hung by its side, and made
the round cakes of bread to protrude from the open mouth of one of them.
Seeing this, a line of market-women going by, with bags of charcoal
on their backs, snatched a cake each as they passed and munched them
and laughed. Naomi tried to protest. "The bread is for my father,"
she faltered; "he is in prison; they say he--" But the expostulation
that began thus timidly broke down of itself, for the women laughed
again out of their mouths choked with the bread, and in another moment
they were gone.
Naomi's spirit was crushed, but she tried to keep up a brave front still.
To speak of her father again would be to shame him. The poor little
illusions of the sweetness and goodness of the world which,
in spite of vague recollections of Tetuan, she had struggled,
since the coming of her sight, to build up in her fresh young soul,
were now tumbling to pieces. After all, the world was very cruel.
It was the same as if an angel out of the clouds had fallen on
to the earth and found her feet mired with clay.
Six hours after she had set out from her home Naomi came to a fondak
which stood in those days outside the walls of Tetuan
on the south-western side. The darkness had closed in by this time,
and she must needs rest there for the night, but never until then
had she reflected that for such accommodation she would need money.
Only a few coppers were necessary, only twenty moozoonahs,
that she might lie in the shelter and safety of one of the pens
that were built for the sleep of human creatures, and that her mule
might be tethered and fed on the manure heap that constituted
the square space within. At last she bethought her of her eggs,
and, though it went to her heart to use for herself what was meant
for her father, she parted with twelve of them, and some cakes
of the bread besides, that she might be allowed to pass the gate,
telling herself repeatedly, with big throbs of remorse
between her protestations, that unless she did so her father might never
get anything at all.
The fondak was a miserable place, full of farming people who were to go
on to market at Tetuan in the morning, of many animals of burden,
and of countless dogs. It was the eve of the month of Rabya el-ooal,
and between the twilight and the coming of night certain
of the men watched for the new moon, and when its thin bow appeared
in the sky they signalled its advent after their usual manner
by firing their flintlocks into the air, while their women,
who were squatting around, kept up a cooing chorus. Then came eating
and drinking, and laughing and singing, and playing the ginbri,
and feats of juggling, as well as snarling and quarrelling and fighting,
and also peacemaking by means of a cudgel wielded by the keeper
of the fondak. With such exercises the night passed into morning.
Naomi was sick. Her head ached. The smell of rotten fish, the stench
of the manure heap, the braying of the donkeys, the barking of the dogs,
the grunt of the camels, and the tumult of human voices made her
light-headed. She could neither eat nor sleep. Almost as soon as
it was light she was up and out and on her way. "I must lose no time,"
she thought, trying not to realise that the blue sky was spinning
round her, that noises were ringing in her head, and that her poor little
heart, which had been so stout only yesterday, was sinking very low.
"He must be starving," she told herself again, and that helped her
to forget her own troubles and to struggle on. But oh,
if the world were only not so cruel, oh, if there were anyone to give her
a word of cheer, nay, a glance of pity! But nobody had looked
at her except the women who stole her bread and the men who shamed her
with their wicked eyes.
That one day's experience did more than all her life before it
to fill her with the bitter fruit of the tree of the knowledge
of good and evil. Her illusions fell away from her, and
her sweet childish faith was broken down. She saw herself as she was:
a simple girl, a child ignorant of the ways of the world,
going alone on a long journey unknown to her, thinking to succour
her father in prison, and carrying a handful of eggs and a few poor cakes
of bread. When at length the scales fell from the eyes of her mind,
and as she trudged along on her bony mule, afraid to ask her way,
she saw herself, with all her fine purposes shrivelled up,
do what she would to be brave, she could not help but cry.
It was all so vain, so foolish; she was such a weak little thing.
Her father knew this, and that was why he told her to stay
where he left her. What if he came home while she was absent!
Should she go back?
She had almost resolved to return, struggle as she might to push forward,
when going close under the town walls, near to the very gate,
the Bab Toot whereat she had been cast out with her father remembering
this scene of their abasement with a new sense of its cruelty
and shame born of her own simple troubles, she lit upon a woman
who was coming out.
It was Habeebah. She was now the slave of Ben Aboo, and was just then
stealing away from the Kasbah in the early morning that she might go
in search of Naomi, whose whereabouts and condition she had lately learned.
The two might have passed unknown, for Habeebah was veiled,
but that Naomi had forgotten her blanket and was uncovered.
In another moment the poor frightened girl, with all her brave bearing
gone, was weeping on the black woman's breast.
"Whither are you going?" said Habeebah.
"To my father," Naomi began. "He is in prison; they say he is starving;
I was taking food to him, but I am lost, I don't know my way;
and besides--"
"The very thing!" cried Habeebah.
Habeebah had her own little scheme. It was meant to win emancipation
at the hands of her master, and paradise for her soul when she died.
Naomi, who was a Jewess, was to turn Muslima. That was all.
Then her troubles would end, and wondrous fortune would descend upon her,
and her father who was in prison would be set free.
Now, religion was nothing to Naomi; she hardly understood what it meant.
The differences of faith were less than nothing, but her father
was everything, and so she clutched at Habeebah's bold promises
like a drowning soul at the froth of a breaker.
"My father will be let out of prison? You are sure--quite sure?"
she asked.
"Quite sure," answered Habeebah stoutly.
Naomi's hopes of ever reaching her father were now faint,
and her poor little stock of eggs and bread looked like folly
to her new-born worldliness.
"Very well," she said. "I will turn Muslima."
A few minutes afterwards she was riding by Habeebah's side into the town,
through the Bab Toot across the Feddan, and up to the courtyard
of the Kasbah, which had witnessed the beginning of her own
and her father's degradation. Then, tethering the beast
in the open stables there, Habeebah took Naomi into her own little room
and left her alone for some minutes, while she hastened to Ben Aboo
in secret with her wondrous news.
"Lord Basha," she said, "the beautiful Jewess Naomi, the daughter
of Israel ben Oliel, will turn Muslima."
"Where is she?" said Ben Aboo.
"Sidi," said Habeebah, "I have promised that you will liberate her father."
"Fetch her," said Ben Aboo, "and it shall be done."
But meanwhile Fatimah had gone to Habeebah's room and found Naomi there,
and heard of the vain hope which had brought her.
"My sweet jewel of gold and silver," the black woman cried,
"you don't know what you are doing. Turn Muslima, and you will be parted
from your father for ever. He is a Jew, and will have no right to you
any more. You will never, never see him again. He will be lost
to you--lost--I say--lost!"
Habeebah, with two of the guard, came back to take Naomi to Ben Aboo.
The poor girl was bewildered. She had seen nothing but her father
in Fatimah's protest, just as she had seen nothing but her father
in Habeebah's promises. She did not know what to do, she was such
a poor weak little thing, and there was no strong hand to guide her.
They led her through dark passages to an open place which she thought
she had seen before. It was a great patio, paved and walled with tiles.
Men were standing together there in red peaked caps and
flowing white kaftans. And before them all was one old man
in garments that were of the colour of the afternoon sun,
"He must be starving in prison," she said, "and I will take him food."
Her neighbours left her to her stubborn purpose.
"Allah!" they said, "who would have believed it, that the little
pink-and-white face had such a will of her own!"
Without more ado Naomi set herself to prepare for her journey.
She saved up thirty eggs, and baked as many of the round flat cakes
of the country; also she churned some butter in the simple way
which the women had taught her, and put the milk that was left
in a goat's-skin. In three days she was ready, and then she packed
her provisions in the leaf panniers of a mule which one
of the neighbours had lent to her, and got up before them on the front
of the burda, after the manner of the wives whom she had seen
going past to market.
When she was about to start her gossips came again, in pity of
her wild errand, to bid her farewell and to see the last of her.
"Keep to the track as far as Tetuan," they said to her, "and then ask
for the road to Shawan." One old creature threw a blanket over her head
in such a way that it might cover her face. "Faces like yours
are not for the daylight," the old body whispered, and then Naomi
set forward on her journey. The women watched her while she mounted
the hill that goes up to the fondak, and then sinks out of sight
beyond it. "Poor mad little fool," they whimpered; "that's the end
of her! She'll never come back. Too many men about for that.
And now," they said, facing each other with looks of suspicion and envy,
"what of the creatures?"
While the good souls were dividing her possessions among them,
Naomi was awakening to some vague sense of her difficulties and dangers.
She had thought it would be easy to ask her way, but now that she had need
to do so she was afraid to speak. The sight of a strange face
alarmed her, and she was terrified when she met a company
of wandering Arabs changing pasture, with the young women and children
on camels, the old women trudging on foot under loads of cans and kettles,
the boys driving the herds, and the men, armed with long flintlocks,
riding their prancing barbs. Her poor little mule came to a stand
in the midst of this cavalcade, and she was too bewildered to urge it on.
Also her fear which had first caused her to cover her face
with the blanket that her neighbour had given her, now made her forget
to do so, and the men as they passed her peered close into her eyes.
Such glances made her blood to tingle. They seared her very soul,
and she began to know the meaning of shame.
Nevertheless, she tried to keep up a brave heart and to push forward.
"He is starving in prison," she told herself; "I must lose no time."
It was a weary journey. Everything was new to her, and nearly
everything was terrible. She was even perplexed to see that however far
she travelled she came upon men and women and children.
It was so strange that all the world was peopled. Yet sometimes
she wished there were more people everywhere. That was when she was
crossing a barren waste with no house in sight and never a sign
of human life on any side. But oftener she wished that the people
were not so many; and that was when the children mocked at her mule,
or the women jeered at her as if she must needs be a base person
because she was alone, or the men laughed and leered into her
uncovered face.
Before she had gone many miles her heart began to fail.
Everything was unlike what she expected. She had thought the world
so good that she had but to say to any that asked her of her errand,
"My father is in prison, they say that he is starving;
I am taking him food," and every one would help her forward.
Though she had never put it to herself so, yet she had reckoned
in this way in spite of the warnings of her neighbours.
But no one was helping her forward; few were looking on her with goodwill,
and fewer still with pity and cheer.
The jogging of the mule, a most bony and stiff-limbed beast,
had flattened the panniers that hung by its side, and made
the round cakes of bread to protrude from the open mouth of one of them.
Seeing this, a line of market-women going by, with bags of charcoal
on their backs, snatched a cake each as they passed and munched them
and laughed. Naomi tried to protest. "The bread is for my father,"
she faltered; "he is in prison; they say he--" But the expostulation
that began thus timidly broke down of itself, for the women laughed
again out of their mouths choked with the bread, and in another moment
they were gone.
Naomi's spirit was crushed, but she tried to keep up a brave front still.
To speak of her father again would be to shame him. The poor little
illusions of the sweetness and goodness of the world which,
in spite of vague recollections of Tetuan, she had struggled,
since the coming of her sight, to build up in her fresh young soul,
were now tumbling to pieces. After all, the world was very cruel.
It was the same as if an angel out of the clouds had fallen on
to the earth and found her feet mired with clay.
Six hours after she had set out from her home Naomi came to a fondak
which stood in those days outside the walls of Tetuan
on the south-western side. The darkness had closed in by this time,
and she must needs rest there for the night, but never until then
had she reflected that for such accommodation she would need money.
Only a few coppers were necessary, only twenty moozoonahs,
that she might lie in the shelter and safety of one of the pens
that were built for the sleep of human creatures, and that her mule
might be tethered and fed on the manure heap that constituted
the square space within. At last she bethought her of her eggs,
and, though it went to her heart to use for herself what was meant
for her father, she parted with twelve of them, and some cakes
of the bread besides, that she might be allowed to pass the gate,
telling herself repeatedly, with big throbs of remorse
between her protestations, that unless she did so her father might never
get anything at all.
The fondak was a miserable place, full of farming people who were to go
on to market at Tetuan in the morning, of many animals of burden,
and of countless dogs. It was the eve of the month of Rabya el-ooal,
and between the twilight and the coming of night certain
of the men watched for the new moon, and when its thin bow appeared
in the sky they signalled its advent after their usual manner
by firing their flintlocks into the air, while their women,
who were squatting around, kept up a cooing chorus. Then came eating
and drinking, and laughing and singing, and playing the ginbri,
and feats of juggling, as well as snarling and quarrelling and fighting,
and also peacemaking by means of a cudgel wielded by the keeper
of the fondak. With such exercises the night passed into morning.
Naomi was sick. Her head ached. The smell of rotten fish, the stench
of the manure heap, the braying of the donkeys, the barking of the dogs,
the grunt of the camels, and the tumult of human voices made her
light-headed. She could neither eat nor sleep. Almost as soon as
it was light she was up and out and on her way. "I must lose no time,"
she thought, trying not to realise that the blue sky was spinning
round her, that noises were ringing in her head, and that her poor little
heart, which had been so stout only yesterday, was sinking very low.
"He must be starving," she told herself again, and that helped her
to forget her own troubles and to struggle on. But oh,
if the world were only not so cruel, oh, if there were anyone to give her
a word of cheer, nay, a glance of pity! But nobody had looked
at her except the women who stole her bread and the men who shamed her
with their wicked eyes.
That one day's experience did more than all her life before it
to fill her with the bitter fruit of the tree of the knowledge
of good and evil. Her illusions fell away from her, and
her sweet childish faith was broken down. She saw herself as she was:
a simple girl, a child ignorant of the ways of the world,
going alone on a long journey unknown to her, thinking to succour
her father in prison, and carrying a handful of eggs and a few poor cakes
of bread. When at length the scales fell from the eyes of her mind,
and as she trudged along on her bony mule, afraid to ask her way,
she saw herself, with all her fine purposes shrivelled up,
do what she would to be brave, she could not help but cry.
It was all so vain, so foolish; she was such a weak little thing.
Her father knew this, and that was why he told her to stay
where he left her. What if he came home while she was absent!
Should she go back?
She had almost resolved to return, struggle as she might to push forward,
when going close under the town walls, near to the very gate,
the Bab Toot whereat she had been cast out with her father remembering
this scene of their abasement with a new sense of its cruelty
and shame born of her own simple troubles, she lit upon a woman
who was coming out.
It was Habeebah. She was now the slave of Ben Aboo, and was just then
stealing away from the Kasbah in the early morning that she might go
in search of Naomi, whose whereabouts and condition she had lately learned.
The two might have passed unknown, for Habeebah was veiled,
but that Naomi had forgotten her blanket and was uncovered.
In another moment the poor frightened girl, with all her brave bearing
gone, was weeping on the black woman's breast.
"Whither are you going?" said Habeebah.
"To my father," Naomi began. "He is in prison; they say he is starving;
I was taking food to him, but I am lost, I don't know my way;
and besides--"
"The very thing!" cried Habeebah.
Habeebah had her own little scheme. It was meant to win emancipation
at the hands of her master, and paradise for her soul when she died.
Naomi, who was a Jewess, was to turn Muslima. That was all.
Then her troubles would end, and wondrous fortune would descend upon her,
and her father who was in prison would be set free.
Now, religion was nothing to Naomi; she hardly understood what it meant.
The differences of faith were less than nothing, but her father
was everything, and so she clutched at Habeebah's bold promises
like a drowning soul at the froth of a breaker.
"My father will be let out of prison? You are sure--quite sure?"
she asked.
"Quite sure," answered Habeebah stoutly.
Naomi's hopes of ever reaching her father were now faint,
and her poor little stock of eggs and bread looked like folly
to her new-born worldliness.
"Very well," she said. "I will turn Muslima."
A few minutes afterwards she was riding by Habeebah's side into the town,
through the Bab Toot across the Feddan, and up to the courtyard
of the Kasbah, which had witnessed the beginning of her own
and her father's degradation. Then, tethering the beast
in the open stables there, Habeebah took Naomi into her own little room
and left her alone for some minutes, while she hastened to Ben Aboo
in secret with her wondrous news.
"Lord Basha," she said, "the beautiful Jewess Naomi, the daughter
of Israel ben Oliel, will turn Muslima."
"Where is she?" said Ben Aboo.
"Sidi," said Habeebah, "I have promised that you will liberate her father."
"Fetch her," said Ben Aboo, "and it shall be done."
But meanwhile Fatimah had gone to Habeebah's room and found Naomi there,
and heard of the vain hope which had brought her.
"My sweet jewel of gold and silver," the black woman cried,
"you don't know what you are doing. Turn Muslima, and you will be parted
from your father for ever. He is a Jew, and will have no right to you
any more. You will never, never see him again. He will be lost
to you--lost--I say--lost!"
Habeebah, with two of the guard, came back to take Naomi to Ben Aboo.
The poor girl was bewildered. She had seen nothing but her father
in Fatimah's protest, just as she had seen nothing but her father
in Habeebah's promises. She did not know what to do, she was such
a poor weak little thing, and there was no strong hand to guide her.
They led her through dark passages to an open place which she thought
she had seen before. It was a great patio, paved and walled with tiles.
Men were standing together there in red peaked caps and
flowing white kaftans. And before them all was one old man
in garments that were of the colour of the afternoon sun,
- errand [´erənd]
n.差使，使命 (初中英语单词) - farewell [feə´wel] int.再见 n.&a.告别 (初中英语单词)
- suspicion [sə´spiʃən] n.怀(猜)疑；嫌疑 (初中英语单词)
- pasture [´pɑ:stʃə] n.牧场；放牧 v.吃(草) (初中英语单词)
- barren [´bærən] a.贫瘠的；不生育的 (初中英语单词)
- unlike [,ʌn´laik] a.不同的 prep.不象... (初中英语单词)
- goodness [´gudnis] n.优良；美德；精华 (初中英语单词)
- miserable [´mizərəbəl] a.悲惨的；可怜的 (初中英语单词)
- twilight [´twailait] n.黎明；黄昏 (初中英语单词)
- chorus [´kɔ:rəs] n.合唱；齐声 v.合唱 (初中英语单词)
- yesterday [´jestədi] n.&ad.昨天；前不久 (初中英语单词)
- wicked [´wikid] a.邪恶的；不道德的 (初中英语单词)
- childish [´tʃaildiʃ] a.孩子的；幼稚的 (初中英语单词)
- ignorant [´ignərənt] a.无知的，愚昧的 (初中英语单词)
- lately [´leitli] ad.近来，不久前 (初中英语单词)
- scheme [ski:m] n.计划；阴谋，诡计 (初中英语单词)
- paradise [´pærədais] n.天堂；乐园 (初中英语单词)
- descend [di´send] v.下来，下降 (初中英语单词)
- beginning [bi´giniŋ] n.开始，开端；起源 (初中英语单词)
- liberate [´libəreit] vt.解放，释放，放出 (初中英语单词)
- meanwhile [´mi:n´wail] n.&ad.其间；同时 (初中英语单词)
- standing [´stændiŋ] n.持续 a.直立的 (初中英语单词)
- stubborn [´stʌbən] a.顽固的；坚持的 (高中英语单词)
- sweetness [´swi:tnis] n.甜蜜；芳香；亲切 (高中英语单词)
- countless [´kauntlis] a.无数的 (高中英语单词)
- rotten [´rɔtn] a.腐烂的；腐朽的 (高中英语单词)
- tumult [´tju:mʌlt, ´tu:-] n.喧哗；激昂；烦乱 (高中英语单词)
- handful [hændful] n.一把，少数，一小撮 (高中英语单词)
- whereabouts [,weərə´bauts] n.下落；行踪；所在 (高中英语单词)
- israel [´izreiəl] n.以色列 (高中英语单词)
- tingle [´tiŋgəl] vt.&n.刺痛；激动 (英语四级单词)
- accommodation [ə,kɔmə´deiʃən] n.供应；调解；贷款 (英语四级单词)
- manure [mə´njuə] n.粪肥 vt.施肥于 (英语四级单词)
- repeatedly [ri´pi:tidli] ad.反复地；再三地 (英语四级单词)
- advent [´ædvent] n.来临；降临 (英语四级单词)
- trying [´traiiŋ] a.难堪的；费劲的 (英语四级单词)
- resolved [ri´zɔlvd] a.决心的；坚定的 (英语四级单词)
- whereat [weər´æt] ad.对于...；在这里 (英语四级单词)
- wondrous [´wʌndrəs] a.极好的 ad.惊人地 (英语四级单词)
- awakening [ə´weikəniŋ] n.&a.觉醒(中的) (英语六级单词)
- taking [´teikiŋ] a.迷人的 n.捕获物 (英语六级单词)
- protrude [prə´tru:d] v.(使)伸出；推出 (英语六级单词)
- timidly [´timidli] ad.胆怯地 (英语六级单词)
- cudgel [´kʌdʒəl] n.短棍，棒 vt.棒打 (英语六级单词)
- weeping [´wi:piŋ] a.&n.哭泣(的) (英语六级单词)
- degradation [,degrə´deiʃən] n.降低；恶化；堕落 (英语六级单词)
文章标签:名著
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