II

At Dzhugba the sea was quiet as a little lake; at Dagomise it was

many-crested and thundering in the majesty of storm. At Gudaout the

sun rose over it as it might have done on the first morning of the

world.

Every dawning I bathed, and each bathing was as a new baptism. And in

multifarious places it was given to me to bathe; at Dzhugba, where the

sun shone fiercely on green water and the dark seaweed washed to and

fro on the rocks; at Olginka, the quietest little bay imaginable,

where the sea was so clear that one could count the stones below it,

the rippling water so crystalline that it tempted one to stoop down

and drink--a dainty spot--even the stones, on long curves of the

shore, seemed to have been nicely arranged by the sea the night

before, and far as I swam out to sea I saw the bottom as through

glass.

How different at Dagomise! All night long it had thundered. I slept

under a wooden bridge that spanned a dried-up river. The lightning

played all about me, the rain roared, the thunder crashed overhead.

The storm passed, but as the thunder died away from the sky, it broke

out from the sea and roared deafeningly all around. I could not bathe,

for the sea was tremendous. A grand sight presented itself at dawn,

the sea foaming forwards in thousands of billows. Along five miles of

seashore the white horses galloped forward against the rocks, as if

the whole sea were an army arrayed against the land. How the white

pennons flew!

Later in the morning I undressed, and sitting in moderate safety on a

shelf of rock, let the spent billows rush over me. The waves rushed

up the steep beach like tigers for their prey, their eyes turned away

from mine, but full of cruelty and anger. I was, deep in myself,

afear'd.

At what an extraordinary rate the waves rushed up the shore, fast

galloping after one another, accomplishing their fates! There is

only one line I know that tells well of their rate, that glory of

Swinburne:--

Where the dove dipped her wing and the oars won their way,

Where the narrowing Symplègades whiten the straits of Propontis

with spray.

A Tramp's Sketches · 第 41 / 100 题