《Stories by Doris Lessing》第3章

nd；　drawn　and　haggard　with　weariness；　and　behind　them　the　servants。　all　of　them　were　crawling　with　insects。　the　sound　of　the　gongs　had　stopped。　margaret　could　hear　nothing　but　the　ceaseless　rustle　of　myriads　of　wings。
the　two　men　slapped　off　the　insects　and　came　in。
“well；”　said　richard；　kissing　her　on　the　cheek；　“the　main　swarm　has　gone　over。”
“for　the　lord’s　sake！”　said　margaret　angrily；　still　half　crying。　“what’s　here　is　bad　enough；　isn’t　it？”　for　although　the　evening　air　was　no　longer　black　and　thick　but　a　clear　blue；　with　a　pattern　of　insects　whizzing　this　way　and　that　across　it；　everything　else—trees；　buildings；　bushes；　earth—was　gone　under　the　moving　brown　masses。
“if　it　doesn’t　rain　in　the　night　and　keep　them　here；”　stephen　said；　“if　it　doesn’t　rain　and　weight　them　down　with　water；　they’ll　be　off　in　the　morning　at　sunrise。”
“we’re　bound　to　have　some　hoppers；”　said　richard。　“but　not　the　main　swarm。　that’s　something。”
margaret　roused　herself；　wiped　her　eyes；　pretended　she　had　not　been　crying；　and　fetched　them　some　supper；　for　the　servants　were　too　exhausted　to　move。　she　sent　them　off　to　the　pound　to　rest。
she　served　the　supper　and　sat　listening。　there　was　not　one　maize　plant　left；　she　heard。　not　one。　they　would　get　the　planting　machines　out　the　moment　the　locusts　had　gone。　they　must　start　all　over　again。
what　was　the　use　of　that；　margaret　wondered；　if　the　whole　farm　was　going　to　be　crawling　with　hoppers？　but　she　listened　while　they　discussed　the　new　government　pamphlet　that　told　how　to　defeat　the　hoppers。　you　must　have　men　out　all　the　time；　patrolling　the　farm；　to　watch　for　movement　in　the　grass。　when　you　find　a　patch　of　hoppers—small；　lively　black　things；　like　crickets—then　you　dig　trenches　around　the　patch　or　spray　them　with　poison　from　pumps　supplied　by　the　government。　the　government　wanted　every　farmer　to　cooperate　in　a　world　plan　for　eliminating　this　plague　forever。　you　must　attack　locusts　at　the　source—hoppers；　in　short。　the　men　were　talking　as　if　they　were　planning　a　war；　and　margaret　listened；　amazed。
in　the　night；　it　was　quiet；　with　no　sign　of　the　armies　that　had　settled　outside；　except　that　sometimes　a　branch　snapped　or　a　tree　could　be　heard　crashing　down。
margaret　slept　badly；　in　the　bed　beside　richard；　who　was　sleeping　like　the　dead。　in　the　morning；　she　woke　to　yellow　sunshine　lying　across　the　bed—clear　sunshine；　with　an　occasional　blotch　of　shadow　moving　over　it。　she　went　to　the　window。　old　stephen　was　ahead　of　her。　there　he　stood；　outside；　gazing　down　over　the　bush。　and　she　gazed；　astounded—and　entranced；　much　against　her　will。　for　it　looked　as　if　every　tree；　every　bush；　all　the　earth；　were　lit　with　pale　flames。　the　locusts　were　fanning　their　wings　to　free　them　of　the　night　dews。　there　was　a　shimmer　of　red…tinged　gold　light　everywhere。
she　went　out　to　join　the　old　man；　stepping　carefully　among　the　insects。　the　two　stood　and　watched。　overhead　the　sky　was　blue—blue　and　clear。
“pretty；”　said　old　stephen　with　satisfaction。
well；　thought　margaret；　we　may　be　ruined；　we　may　be　bankrupt；　but　not　everyone　has　seen　a　locust　army　fanning　their　wings　at　dawn。
over　the　slopes　in　the　distance；　a　faint　red　smear　showed　in　the　sky。　it　thickened　and　spread。　“there　they　go；”　said　old　stephen。　“there　goes　the　main　army；　off　south。”
and　now；　from　the　trees；　from　the　earth　all　around　them；　the　locusts　were　taking　wing。　they　were　like　small　aircraft　maneuvering　for　the　takeoff　as　they　tried　their　wings　to　see　if　they　were　dry　enough。　off　they　went。　a　reddish…brown　steam　was　rising　off　the　miles　of　bush；　off　the　farmlands—the　earth。　again　the　sunlight　darkened。
and　as　the　clotted　branches　lifted；　the　weight　on　them　lightening；　there　was　nothing　left　but　the　black　spines　of　branches　and　tree　trunks。　no　green—nothing。　all　morning　they　watched；　the　three　of　them—richard　having　finally　got　up—as　the　brown　crust　thinned　and　broke　and　dissolved；　flying　up　to　mass　with　the　main　army；　now　a　brownish…red　smear　in　the　southern　sky。　the　lands；　which　had　been　filmed　with　the　green　of　the　new；　tender　mealie　plants；　were　stark　and　bare。　a　devastated　landscape—no　green；　no　green　anywhere。
by　midday；　the　reddish　cloud　had　gone。　only　an　occasional　locust　flopped　down。　on　the　ground　lay　the　corpses　and　the　wounded。　the　african　laborers　were　sweeping　them　up　with　branches　and　collecting　them　in　tins。
“ever　eaten　sun…dried　locust；　margaret？”　asked　old　stephen。　“that　time　twenty　years　ago　when　i　went　broke；　i　lived　on　mealie　meal　and　dried　locusts　for　three　months。　they　aren’t　bad　at　all—rather　like　smoked　fish；　if　you　e　to　think　of　it。”
but　margaret　preferred　not　even　to　think　of　it。
after　the　midday　meal；　the　men　went　off　to　the　lands。　everything　was　to　be　replanted。　with　a　bit　of　luck；　another　swarm　would　not　e　travelling　down　just　this　way。　but　they　hoped　it　would　rain　very　soon；　to　spring　some　new　grass；　because　the　cattle　would　die　otherwise；　there　was　not　a　blade　of　grass　left　on　the　farm。　as　for　margaret；　she　was　trying　to　get　used　to　the　idea　of　three　or　four　years　of　locusts。　locusts　were　going　to　be　like　the　weather　from　now　on—always　imminent。　she　felt　like　a　survivor　after　a　war；　if　this　devastated　and　mangled　countryside　was　not　ruin—well；　what　then　was　ruin？
but　the　men　ate　their　supper　with　good　appetites。
“it　could　have　been　worse”　was　what　they　said。　“it　could　be　much　worse。”　？
。。
MYSELF　AS　SPORTSMAN
生小　说＋网
the　new　yorker　fiction　by　doris　lessing　january　21；　1956
nowadays；　when　i　meet　types　who　flush　grouse　or　work　salmon　（i　think　these　are　the　correct　terms）；　i　can　more　often　than　not　be　heard　saving；　“all　the　same；　for　good；　clean　sport　give　me　a　flock　of　guinea　fowl　in　open　country。”　from　there；　i　pass　on　to　casual　mention　of　the　higher　fauna—deer　and　lions；　and　so　on—and　in　no　time　the　most　hardened　sportsmen　are　oozing　envy　of　what　sounds　like　a　girlhood　spent　on　perpetual　safari。　i　keep　the　truth　to　myself。
not　that　i　haven’t　seen　lions。　i　have　encountered　them；　and　other　interesting　animals；　in　the　london　zoo；　where　i　go　to　look　at　them　from　time　to　time。　and　on　my　home　gro