Hopeless to appeal to
is the unseen force that sends the white surge underneath to darken the
pebbles to a certain line. The wetted pebbles are darker than the dry;
even in the dusk they are easily distinguished. Something merciless is
there not in this conjunction of restriction and impetus? Something
outside human hope and thought--indifferent--cold?
Considering in this way, I wandered about fifty yards along the pier, and
sat down in an abstracted way on the seat on the right side. Beneath, the
clear green sea rolled in crestless waves towards the shore--they were
moving "without the animation of the wind," which had deserted them two
days ago, and a hundred miles out at sea. Slower and slower, with an
indolent undulation, rising and sinking of mere weight and devoid of
impetus, the waves passed on, scarcely seeming to break the smoothness of
the surface. At a little distance it seemed level; yet the boats every
now and then sank deeply into the trough, and even a large fishing-smack
rolled heavily. For it is the nature of a groundswell to be exceedingly
deceptive. Sometimes the waves are so far apart that the sea actually is
level--smooth as the surface of a polished dining-table--till presently
there appears a darker line slowly approaching, and a wave of
considerable size comes in, advancing exactly like the crease in the
cloth which the housemaid spreads on the table--the air rolling along
underneath it forms a linen imitation of the groundswell.
Pages:
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193