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以下歐美電影榜英文介紹
smell, and that peculiar sadness—a voice out of the past, not very loud,
that went on saying a few simple things to the solitude eternally.
Standing up in her lodge, Thea could with her thumb nail dislodge
flakes of carbon from the rock roof—the cooking-smoke of the Ancient
People. They were that near! A timid, nest-building folk, like the swallows. How often Thea remembered Ray Kennedy's moralizing about the
cliff cities. He used to say that he never felt the hardness of the human
struggle or the sadness of history as he felt it among those ruins. He used
to say, too, that it made one feel an obligation to do one's best. On the
first day that Thea climbed the water trail she began to have intuitions
about the women who had worn the path, and who had spent so great a
part of their lives going up and down it. She found herself trying to walk
as they must have walked, with a feeling in her feet and knees and loins
which she had never known before,—which must have come up to her
out of the accustomed dust of that rocky trail. She could feel the weight
of an Indian baby hanging to her back as she climbed.
The empty houses, among which she wandered in the afternoon, the
blanketed one in which she lay all morning, were haunted by certain
fears and desires; feelings about warmth and cold and water and physical strength. It seemed to Thea that a certain understanding of those old
people came up to her out of the rock shelf on which she lay; that certain
feelings were transmitted to her, suggestions that were simple, insistent,
and monotonous,like the beating of Indian drums. They were not expressible in words, but seemed rather to translate themselves into attitudes of body, into degrees of muscular tension or relaxation; the naked
strength of youth, sharp as the sunshafts; the crouching timorousness of
age, the sullenness of women who waited for their captors. At the first
turning of the canyon there was a half-ruined tower of yellow masonry,
a watch-tower upon which the young men used to entice eagles and
snare them with nets. Sometimes for a whole morning Thea could see the
coppery breast and shoulders of an Indian youth there against the sky;
see him throw the net, and watch the struggle with the eagle.
Old Henry Biltmer, at the ranch, had been a great deal among the
Pueblo Indians who are the descendants of the Cliff-Dwellers. After supper he used to sit and smoke his pipe by the kitchen stove and talk to
Thea about them. He had never found any one before who was interested in his ruins. Every Sunday the old man prowled about in the
canyon, and he had come to know a good deal more about it than he
could account for. He had gathered up a whole chestful of Cliff-Dweller
relics which he meant to take back to Germany with him some day. He
238
taught Thea how to find things among the ruins: grinding-stones, and
drills and needles made of turkey-bones. There were fragments of pottery everywhere. Old Henry explained to her that the Ancient People
had developed masonry and pottery far beyond any other crafts. After
they had made houses for themselves, the next thing was to house the
precious water. He explained to her how all their customs and ceremonies and their religion went back to water. The men provided the food,
but water was the care of the women. The stupid women carried water
for most of their lives; the cleverer ones made the vessels to hold it. Their
pottery was their most direct appeal to water, the envelope and sheath of
the precious element itself. The strongestIndian need was expressed in
those graceful jars, fashioned slowly by hand, without the aid of a wheel.
When Thea took her bath at the bottom of the canyon, in the sunny
pool behind the screen of cottonwoods, she sometimes felt as if the water
must have sovereign qualities, from having been the object of so much
service and desire. That stream was the only living thing left of the
drama that had been played out in the canyon centuries ago. In the rapid, restless heart of it, flowing swifter than the rest, there was a continuity of life that reached back into the old time. The glittering thread of current had a kind of lightly worn, loosely knit personality, graceful and
laughing. Thea's bath came to have a ceremonial gravity. The atmosphere of the canyon was ritualistic.
One morning, as she was standing upright in the pool, splashing water
between her shoulder-blades with a big sponge, something flashed
through her mind that made her draw herself up and stand still until the
water had quite dried upon her flushed skin. The stream and the broken
pottery: what was any art but an effort to make a sheath, a mould in
which to imprison for a moment the shining, elusive element which is
life itself,—life hurrying past us and running away, too strong to stop,
too sweet to lose? The Indian women had held it in their jars. In the
sculpture she had seen in the Art Institute, it had been caught in a flash
of arrested motion. In singing, one made a vessel of one's throat and nostrils and held it on one's breath, caught the stream in a scale of natural
intervals.
239
Chapter
4
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