自考英語(yǔ)綜合二下冊(cè)課文 lesson 14
Lesson Fourteen
Text The Listener
John Berry
Once there was a little concert violinist named Rudolf,who lived in Sweden.
Some of his friends thought he was not the best of musicians
because he was restless;
others thought he was restless because he was not the best of musicians.
At any rate,he hit upon a way of making a living,with no competitors.
Whether by choice or necessity,
he used to sail about Scandinavia in his small boat,
all alone,giving concerts in little seaport towns. well and good;
if not,he played works for unaccompanied violin;
and it happened once or twice
that he wanted a piano so badly that he imagined one.
and then he played whole sonatas for violin and piano,with no piano in sight
One year Rudolf sailed all the way out to Iceland
and began working his way around that rocky coast from one town to another.
It was a hard,stubborn land;
but people in those difficult places
do not forget the law of hospitality to the stranger
for their God may decree that they too shall become strangers on the face of the earth.
The audiences were small,and even if Rudolf had been really first-rate,
they would not have been very demonstrative.
From ancient timestheir energy had gone,first of all,into earnest toil.
Sometimes the local schoolteacher,
who reminded them of their duty to the names of Beethoven and Bach and Mozart
and one or two others whose music perhaps
was not much heard in those parts,collected them.
Too often people sat stolidly watching the noisy little fiddler,
and went home feeling gravely edified.
But they paid.
As Rudolf was sailing from one town to the next along a sparsely settled shore,
the northeast turned black and menacing.
A storm was bearing down upon Iceland.
Rudolf was rounding a bleak, dangerous cape,
and his map told him that the nearest harbor was half a day's journey away.
He was starting to worry when he saw,
less than a mile off shore,a lighthouse on a tiny rock island.
At the base of the lighthouse was a deep,narrow cove,protected by cliffs.
With some difficulty,in the rising seas,
he put in thereand moored to an iron ring that hung from the cliff.
A flight of stairs,cut in the rock,led up to the lighthouse.
On top of the cliff,outlined against the scudding clouds,stood a man.
"You are welcome!" the voice boomed over the sound of the waves
that were already beginning to break over the island.
Darkness fell quickly.
The lighthouse keeper led his guest up
the spiral stairs to the living room on the third floor,
then busied himself in preparation for the storm.
Above all, he had to attend to the great lamp in the tower,
that dominated the whole region.
It was a continuous light,intensified by reflectors,
and eclipsed by shutters at regular intervals.
The duration of light was equal to that of darkness.
The lighthouse keeper was a huge old man with a grizzled beard
that came down over his chest.
Slow, deliberate, bearlike,
he moved without wasted motion about the limited world of which he was the master.
He spoke little,
as if words had not much importance compared to the other forces that comprised his life.
Yet he was equable,as those elements were not.
After the supper of black bread and boiled potatoes,fish,cheese and hot tea,
which they took in the kitchen above the living room,
the two men sat and contemplated each other's presence.
Above them was the maintenance room,
and above that the great lamp spoke majestic,
silent messages of light to the ships at sea.
The storm hammered like a battering ram on the walls of the lighthouse.
Rudolf offered tobacco,feeling suddenly immature as he did so.
The old man smiled a little as he declined it by a slight movement of the head;
it was as if he knew well the uses of tobacco and the need for offering it,
and affirmed it all,yet — here he, too,
was halfway apologetic—was self-contained and without need of anything
that was not already within his power.
And he sat there,gentle and reflective,
his great workman hands resting on outspread thighs.
It seemed to Rudolf that the lighthouse keeper was entirely aware
of all the sounds of the storm and of its violent impact upon the lighthouse.
But he knew them so well that he did not have to think about them:
they were like the involuntary movements of his own heart and blood.
In the same way,beneath the simple courtesy that made him speak
and listen to his guest in specific ways,
he was already calmly and mysteriously a part of him,
as surely as the mainland was connected with the little island,
and all the islands with one another so extensively,under the ocean.
Gradually Rudolf drew forth the sparse data of the old man's.
He had been born in this very lighthouse eighty-three years before
when his father was the lighthouse keeper.
His mother—the woman he had ever known
—had taught him to read the Bible,he read it daily.
He had no other books.
As a musician, Rudolf had not had time to read much either
but then,he had lived in cities
He reached down and took beloved violin out of its case.
"What do you make with that, sir?" the old man asked.
For a second Rudolf thought his host might be joking;
but serenity of the other's expression reassured him.
There was not even curiosity about the instrument.
but rather a whole interest in him,
the person,that included his "work."
In most circumstances Rue would have found it hard to believe that there could exist someone
who did not know what a violin was;
yet now he had no inclination to laugh.
He felt small and inadequate.
"I make ... music with it," he stammered in a low voice.
"Music,"the old man said ponderously.
"I have heard of it.But I have never seen music."
"One does not see music. One hears it."
"Ah,yes,"the lighthouse keeper consented,as it were,with humility.
His wide gray eyes rested upon the little fiddler
and conferred upon him all the importance of which any individual is capable.
Then something in the storm and the lighthouse and the old man exalted Rudolf,
filled him with compassion and love
and a spaciousness infinitely beyond himself.
He wanted to strike a work of fire ar stars into being for the old man.
And,with the storm as his accon panist,
he stood and began to play
—the Kreutzer Sonata of Beethoven.
The moments passed,moments that were days in the creation of
that world of fire and stars; moments of the struggle of all men;
and finally moments that showed the greatness of all human spirits.
Never before had Rudolf played with such mastery-or with such an accompanist.
Waves and wind beat the tower with giant hands.
Steadily above them
the beacon threw its lifesaving beams across the dark and angry seas.
The last note ceased and Rudolf dropped his head on his cheat,breathing hard.
The ocean threw its water over the island with a roar as of many voices.
The old man had sat unmoving through the work.
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