stories by english authors in france(旅法英国作家的故事)-第23节
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L。 K。
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STORIES
MICHEL LORIO'S CROSS
BY HESBA STRETTON
In the southwest point of Normandy； separated from Brittany only by a
narrow and straight river； like the formal canals of Holland； stands the
curious granite rock which is called Mont St。 Michel。 It is an isolated peak；
rising abruptly out of a vast plain of sand to the height of nearly four
hundred feet； and so precipitous toward the west that scarcely a root of
grass finds soil enough in its weather…beaten clefts。 At the very summit is
built that wonderful church； the rich architecture and flying buttresses of
which strike the eye leagues and leagues away； either on the sea or the
mainland。 Below the church； and supporting it by a solid masonry； is a
vast pile formerly a fortress； castle； and prison； with caverns and dungeons
hewn out of the living rock； and vaulted halls and solemn crypts； all
desolate and solitary now； except when a party of pilgrims or tourists pass
through them； ushered by a guide。 Still lower down the rock； along its
eastern and southern face； there winds a dark and narrow street； with odd；
antique houses on either side。 The only conveyance that can pass along it
is the water…cart which supplies the town with fresh water from the
mainland。 The whole place is guarded by a strong and high rampart； with
bastions and battlemented walls； and the only entrance is through three
gateways； one immediately behind the other； with a small court between。
The second of these strong gateways is protected by two old cannon； taken
from the English in 1423； and still pointed out to visitors with
inextinguishable pride by the natives of Mont。 St。 Michel。
A great plain of sand stretches around the Mont for miles every way
of sand or sea； for the water covers it at flood…tides； beating up against the
foot of the granite rocks and the granite walls of the ramparts。 But at neap
tides and /eaux mortes/； as the French say； there is nothing but a desert of
brown； bare sand； with ripple…marks lying across it； and with shallow；
ankle…deep pools of salt water here and there。 Afar off on the western sky…
line a silver fringe of foam； glistening in the sunshine； marks the distant
boundary to which the sea has retreated。 On every other side of the
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STORIES
horizon rises a belt of low cliffs； bending into a semicircle； with sweeping
outlines of curves miles in length； drawn distinctly against the clear sky。
The only way to approach the Mont is across the sands。 Each time the
tide recedes a fresh track must be made； like the track along snowy roads；
and every traveller； whether on foot or in carriage； must direct his steps by
this scarcely beaten path。 Now and then he passes a high； strong post；
placed where there is any dangerous spot upon the plain； for there are
perilous quicksands； imperceptible to any eye； lurking in sullen and patient
treachery for any unwary footstep。 The river itself； which creeps
sluggishly in a straight black line across the brown desert； has its banks
marked out by rows of these high stakes； with a bush of leafless twigs at
the top of each。 A dreary； desolate； and barren scene it is； with no life in it
except the isolated life upon the Mont。
This little family of human beings； separated from the great tide of life
like one of the shallow pools which the ebbing sea has left upon its sands；
numbers scarcely a hundred and a half。 The men are fishers； for there is no
other occupation to be followed on the sterile rock。 Every day also the
level sweep of sands is wandered over by the women and children； who
seek for cockles in the little pools； the babble of whose voices echoes far
through the quiet air； and whose shadows fall long and unbroken on the
brown wilderness。 Now and then the black…robed figure of a priest； or of
one of the brothers dwelling in the monument on the top of the rock； may
be seen slowly pacing along the same dead level； and skirting the
quicksands where the warning posts are erected。 In the summer months
bands of pilgrims are also to be seen marching in a long file like travellers
across the desert； but in winter these visits cease almost wholly； and the
inhabitants of the Mont are left to themselves。
Having so little intercourse with the outer world； and living on a rock
singled out by supernatural visitants； the people remain more superstitious
than even the superstitious Germans and Bretons who are their neighbours。
Few of them can read or write。 The new thoughts； opinions； and creeds of
the present century do not reach them。 They are contented with the old
faith； bound up for them in the history of their patron； the archangel St。
Michel； and with the minute interest taken in every native of the rock。
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Each person knows the history of every other inhabitant； but knows little
else。
From Pontorson to the Mont the road lies along the old Bay of St。
Michel； with low hedge…rows of feathery tamarind…trees on each side as
far as the beach。 It is not at all a solitary road； for hundreds of long； heavy
carts； resembling artillery waggons； encumber it； loaded with a gray shaly
deposit dug out of the bay： a busy scene of men and women digging in the
heavy sand； while the shaggy horses stand by； hanging their heads
patiently under the blue…stained sheepskins about their necks。
Two or three persons are at work at every cart； one of them； often a
woman； standing on the rising pile； and beating it flat with a spade； while
a cheerful clatter of voices is heard on every hand。
But at one time a man might have been seen there working alone； quite
alone。 Even a space was left about him； as if an invisible circle were
drawn； within which no person would venture。 If a word were flung at him
across this imaginary cordon； it was nothing but a taunt or a curse； and it
was invariably spoken by a man。 No woman so much as glanced at him。
He toiled on doggedly； and in silence； with a weary… looking face； until his
task was ended； and the waggon driven off by the owner； who had
employed him at a lower rate than his comrades。 Then he would throw his
blue blouse over his shoulders； and tramp away with heavy tread along the
faintly marked trail leading across the beach to Mont St。 Michel。
Neither was there any voice to greet him as he gained the gateway；
where the men of the Mont congregated； as they always congregate about
the entrance to a walled town。 Rather； the scornful silence which had
surrounded him at his work was here deepened into a personal hatred。
Within the gate the women； who were chattering over their nets of cockles；
shrank away from him； or broke into a contemptuous laugh。 Along the
narrow street the children fled at the sight of him； and hid behind their
mothers； from whose protection they could shout after him。 If the cure met
him； he would turn aside into the first house rather than come in contact
with him。 He was under a ban which no one dared to defy。
The only voice that spoke to him was the fretful； querulous voice of an
old； bedridden woman as he lifted the latch and opened the door of a poor
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STORIES
house upon the ramparts； which had no entrance into the street； and where
he lived alone with his mother； cut off from all accidental intercourse with
his neighbours。
〃Michel！ Michel！ how late thou art！〃 she exclaimed； 〃if thou hadst
been a good son thou wouldst have returned before the hour it is。〃
〃I returned as soon as my work was finished；〃 he answered； in a
patient voice； 〃I have not lost a minute by the way。〃
〃Bah！ because no one will ask thee to tu
