Chapter 2 one

On their silver wedding day, Ashurst and his wife drove out on the moor to round off the festival by spending the night at Torquay, for that was where they had first met.It was the idea of ​​Stella Ashurst, who was somewhat sentimental in her character.If she had long since lost the blue-eyed flowery charm, the icy delicacy of face and figure, and the apple-blossom color--they were so swift and wondrous twenty-six years ago had influenced Ashurst so much—so at forty-three she was still a good-looking and faithful companion, though her cheeks were faintly mottled and her gray-blue eyes somewhat fuller.

It was she who called the car to stop.Here, on the left, the common land rises steeply, and on the right, a narrow row of larch and beech woods, with a few pines here and there, leading to the first sill between the road and the whole moor. Valleys stretched across the long, high hills.She was looking for a place where they could sit and eat, and Ashurst was looking for nothing; and here it was, amid golden gorse and green leaves that smelt of lemons in an April sun Among the fluffy larches, with a view of the deep valley and the long moor hills, it seemed to suit the decisive nature of a watercolourist who loves wonder and wonder.Picking up the painting box, she stepped out of the car.

"Is this all right, Frank?" Ashurst, something of a Schiller with a beard, gray at the temples, tall, long-legged, with large, deep gray eyes sometimes implying infinity, and almost beautiful, with a nose slightly turned to one side , with bearded lips slightly parted—the forty-eight-year-old, silent, picked up the lunch basket, and stepped out of the car. "Ah! Look, Frank! A grave!" The path that goes down from the top of the common cuts at right angles to the road, passes the narrow woods, and enters a gate. Just beside the road at this place is a low sod-covered knoll, six... . Sticky ぃ ? .. Bloom   class condyle ⒆ pong? A piece of granite, someone threw a sprig of thorn and a bunch of wild hyacinths on it.Ashurst read it, and unconsciously touched his poetic temperament.At the crossroads—that must be a suicide grave!Poor superstitious world!Whoever lies in the tomb, however, occupies the most vantage point--this is not a dank mausoleum squeezed among other ugly tombs carved with rubbish--but a rough stone, a vast Natural views of the sky and roadside!He made no comment, for he had learned that he could not be a philosopher among his family.He strode off, onto the common, put the lunch basket under one wall, spread out a blanket for his wife to sit on—she'd stop sketching when she was hungry, and come here—and took Murray out of his pocket. Translation of Hippolytus.He had read "Cypline" and her revenge in no time, and was already watching the sky.Gazing at the white clouds that looked so bright against the dark blue sky, on this silver wedding day, Ashurst longed for—

Longing for something he doesn't know himself.How incongruous is the organic organization of man with life!A person's way of life can be noble and prudent, but there is always an undercurrent of greed, a kind of unreasonable desire, a feeling of wasted time.Is this also the case for women?Who can tell?But those men who indulge in novelty, in wild imagination, in the pursuit of new and extraordinary experiences, new adventures, new pleasures, undoubtedly suffer not from hunger but from its very opposite— — full.A civilized man is like a mentally disturbed beast, trapped here and never getting out!He could have no garden of his liking, no garden of "apple trees, song, and gold," to use the words of that fine Greek choral, no bliss in life to which he could reach, or, Paradise of eternal bliss not given to any man with a sense of beauty—

He has nothing to compare with that captured loveliness in a work of art, which is forever given.So there is always that same precious feeling of exhilaration and refreshment when viewing or reading.Undoubtedly, there are moments of such beauty in life, moments of ecstasy that fly away uninvited, but the trouble is that they last only as long as a cloud So long past the sun; you can't keep them, as art captures beauty and holds it fast.They are fleeting, like those shimmering or golden visions one sees of the spirit of nature, the glimpses of its distant, brooding spirits.Here, with the sun hot on his face, a cuckoo calling in a hawthorn tree, and the air sweet with gorse—

All around young ferns leaflets and starry prickly pears, bright clouds floating high above mountains and dreamy valleys - here and now, just such a glimpse.But in an instant it's gone, like Pan's face, just emerging from behind a rock, and the moment you look at it, it's gone.Then he sat up suddenly.No, this scenery is a bit familiar, this public land, this road, and this old wall behind it.While driving in the car with his wife, he didn't notice— Never would have noticed, because he was only thinking of things far away, or of nothing at all--but now he could see clearly!Twenty-six years ago, at this time of year, he set off for Torquay that day from the farmhouse not half a mile from the present spot, and never returned, so to speak.He felt a sudden pang of grief; he inadvertently stumbled upon a past whose beauty and joy he had failed to capture, which fluttered off into unknown worlds; he inadvertently triggered the The memory in the bottom of my heart reminds me of a time that was indulgent, sweet, but quickly killed.So he turned on his side, and with his chin on his hands, stared at the short grass where the little blue milkweed flowers grew...

This is what he remembered. Ashurst's knee had been injured playing football, and he couldn't hold it up, and there were still seven miles to go on the map.Where a lane crosses the road along the woods, there is a slope, and they sit on the slope, resting their knees, and talk broadly— Young people love to chat like this.Both of them were six... slender and bony; Ashurst was pale, dreamy, and absent-minded; and Garton, eccentric, volatile, muscular, and curly-haired, looked like some ancient beast. .Both are fond of literature.No one was wearing a hat.Ashurst's hair was light gray, smooth, and wavy, and lifted a little on both sides of his forehead, as if always thrown back; Garton's was a mess, dark, deep unpredictable.They hadn't met a soul for miles.

"Old friend," Gardon was saying now, "pity is nothing but a function of self-consciousness; it's been a five-thousand-year-old disease. There was a happier time in the world when there was no pity." Ashurst looked away at the clouds and replied: "It's the jewel in the clam, anyway." "Old friend, all our modern misfortunes are caused by pity. Look at the animals, and the red Indian, who can only feel our own accidental misfortunes; and look at ourselves--always feel other people's toothaches. Let us return to Go to an era when you don't care about others, and make your life happier."

"You'll never be able to do that." Gardon tossed his tangled hair thoughtfully. "A person must never be too petty in order to grow fully. It is a mistake not to satisfy one's emotional needs. All emotions are good—they enrich life." "Yes, but what about when it violates chivalry?" "Oh! how English it is! When you talk about affection, the English are always taken aback when they think you need something physical. They fear passion, but not lust—oh, no!—as long as they If you can keep a secret." Ashurst made no answer; he plucked a little blue flower, and turned it round and round towards the sky.A cuckoo began to coo in a hawthorn tree.The sky, the flowers, the singing of the birds!Robert is talking nonsense!So he said:

"Come on, let's go on and find a farm for the night." As he was speaking, he noticed a girl coming down from the common above their heads.She is holding a basket, and her figure is reflected in the sky, and the sky can be seen from the bend of her arm.Ashurst is a person who sees beauty and doesn't want to do anything to him, so he thinks: "How beautiful!" The wind blows her thick fleece skirt, brushes her legs, lifts her tight Her peacock-blue bonnet was flattened; her light gray blouse was worn out, her shoes were torn, her little hands were thick and red, and her neck was sunburned purple-brown.Her black hair flowed wildly over her broad forehead, her face was short, her upper lip was short, showing a row of shining teeth, her eyebrows were straight and black, her eyelashes were long and dark, her nose was straight; but her Gray eyes are a marvelous thing—

It was watery as if it was opened for the first time today.She looked at Ashurst-- Perhaps his appearance struck her as strange: hatless, limping, with large eyes fixed on her, hair swept back.Unable to take off his hat, he raised his hand in greeting, and said: "Is there any farm near here where we can spend the night? I'm crippled." "Our family's farm is the only one around, sir." She said without shyness, her voice very soft and clear. "Where is it then?" "Just down here, sir." "Can you let us stay," "Ah! I think we can." "Would you please lead the way?" "Yes, sir." He limped forward, silent.Garton continued to ask and answer questions. "Are you a Devon girl?" "No, sir." "Then where is it from?" "It's Welsh." "Ah! I guessed you were a Celtic just now; isn't this your farm, then?" "It's from my aunt's, sir." "That's your uncle's house, right?" "He passed away." "Then who looks after the farm?" "My aunt, and three cousins." "Is your uncle from Devonshire?" "Yes, sir." "Have you lived here long?" "Seven years." "Compared with Wales, do you think it's good here?" "I don't know, sir". "I suppose you don't remember?" "Oh, I remember! But it's different." "I believe you!" Ashurst broke in suddenly and said: "how old are you?" "Seventeen, sir." "what's your name?" "Megan David." "This is Robert Garton, and I'm Frank Ashurst. We were going up to Chagford." "It's a pity your legs are giving you a hard time." "Ashurst smiled, and there was something beautiful about his face. They descended through the narrow woods, and suddenly they came upon the farm--a long low stone house with several windows open, and in the yard were some pigs and poultry, and an old mare, walking. come and go.Behind the house was a short, steep grassy hill topped with Scotch firs; in front of the house was an old apple orchard in blossom, which ran down to a little river and a long field of wild grass. A boy with dark eyes that slanted slightly upturned was tending a pig; a woman stood at the door of the house and came to meet them.The girl said: "This is Mrs. Narracombe, my aunt." "Mrs. Narracombe, my aunt," with penetrating black eyes, like a mallard she-duck, and a little bit of a slender neck. "We met your niece on the way," said Ashurst; "she thought you might let us stay the night." Mrs. Narracombe, having surveyed them from head to toe, replied: "Well, all right, as long as you don't mind having only one room. Meghan, tidy up that spare room, and get me a bowl of cream. I think you'll be craving tea." Two yew trees and some red currant bushes formed a kind of porch, through which the girl passed, her blue round cap shining with the rose-red and dark-green yews, and disappeared into the room. inside. "Come into the parlor, please, and rest your leg. You are probably from college?" "Yes, but we're all out of school now." Mrs. Narracombe nodded gravely. The floor of the living room is covered with bricks, the bare table has no traces of rain, and the sofa is stuffed with horse hair. This room seems to have never been used, and it is as clean as home.Ashurst sat down on the sofa at once, clasping his limping knee in both hands; Mrs Narracombe watched him.He is the only son of a late chemistry professor, and he is always so proud and self-sufficient, which makes people feel a kind of awe-inspiring and inviolable spirit. "Is there a river here where I can bathe?" "The river is at the end of the orchard, but you can't reach it even if you sit down!" "How deep?" "Well, maybe there's a... Tritium Umbrella!?" Oh!That's enough!How to go? " "Take that path, and pass the second door on the right, and there's a big lonely apple tree, and the pond is right next to it. There's trout there, and you can touch them." "Is it more likely that they want to touch us?" Mrs. Narracombe smiled. "When you come back, the tea will be ready." The pool was formed by a rock blocking the way of water, and the bottom of the pool was covered with sand; the big apple tree was the lowest in the garden, and it was close to the pool, with branches almost The water was covered; the leaves were thick, and the flowers were about to open--the crimson buds were being released.The pool was too narrow for two people to take a bath at the same time. Ashurst waited, rubbing his knees and gazing at the field of wild grass.There were rocks, hawthorns, wildflowers, and in the distance a clump of beeches, high on a flat knoll.Every branch is swaying in the wind, every spring bird is calling, and the setting sun dapples the grass. He thought of Ciocletes and the River Chavell, and the moon, and the girl with the watery eyes; he thought of too many things.Instead nothing seemed to occur to him; he felt inexplicably happy.