章节正文
Bjarne Blakstad looked long and wistfully
at his daughter that morning, when he came to
bring her home. She wore no more rings and
brooches, and it was this which excited Bjarne's
suspicion that everything was not right with
her. Formerly he was displeased because she
wore too many; now he grumbled because she
wore none.
II.
The winter was half gone; and in all this
time Brita had hardly once seen Halvard. Yes,
once,--it was Christmas-day,--she had ventured
to peep over to his pew in the church, and had
seen him, sitting at his father's side, and gazing
vacantly out into the empty space; but as he
had caught her glance, he had blushed, and began
eagerly to turn the leaves of his hymn-
book. It troubled her that he made no effort to
see her; many an evening she had walked alone
down at the river-side, hoping that he might
come; but it was all in vain. She could not but
believe that his father must have made some
discovery, and that he was watched. In the
mean time the black cloud thickened over her
head; for a secret gnawed at the very roots of
her heart. It was a time of terrible suspense
and suffering--such as a man never knows, such
as only a woman can endure. It was almost a
relief when the cloud burst, and the storm broke
loose, as presently it did.
One Sunday, early in April, Bjarne did not
return at the usual hour from church. His
daughters waited in vain for him with the dinner,
and at last began to grow uneasy. It was
not his habit to keep irregular hours. There
was a great excitement in the valley just then;
the America-fever had broken out. A large
vessel was lying out in the fjord, ready to take
the emigrants away; and there was hardly a
family that did not mourn the loss of some
brave-hearted son, or of some fair and cherished
daughter. The old folks, of course, had to
remain behind; and when the children were gone,
what was there left for them but to lie down
and die? America was to them as distant as if
it were on another planet. The family feeling,
too, has ever been strong in the Norseman's
breast; he lives for his children, and seems to
live his life over again in them. It is his greatest
pride to be able to trace his blood back into the
days of Sverre and St. Olaf, and with the same
confidence he expects to see his race spread into
the future in the same soil where once it has
struck root. Then comes the storm from the
Western seas, wrestles with the sturdy trunk,
and breaks it; and the shattered branches fly to
all the four corners of the heavens. No wonder,
then, like a tree that has lost its crown, his
strength is broken and he expects but to
smoulder into the earth and die.
Bjarne Blakstad, like the sturdy old patriot
that he was, had always fiercely denounced the
America rage; and it was now the hope of his
daughters that, perhaps, he had stayed behind
to remind the restless ones among the youth of
their duty toward their land, or to frighten some
bold emigration agent who might have been too
loud in his declamations. But it was already
eight o'clock and Bjarne was not yet to be seen.
The night was dark and stormy; a cold sleet
fiercely lashed the window-panes, and the wind
roared in the chimney. Grimhild, the younger
sister, ran restlessly out and in and slammed the
doors after her. Brita sat tightly pressed up
against the wall in the darkest corner of the
room. Every time the wind shook the house
she started up; then again seated herself and
shuddered. Dark forebodings filled her soul.
At last,--the clock had just struck ten,--there
was a noise heard in the outer hall. Grimhild
sprang to the door and tore it open. A tall,
stooping figure entered, and by the dress she at
once recognized her father.
"Good God," cried she, and ran up to him.
"Go away, child," muttered he, in a voice
that sounded strangelyunfamiliar, and he pushed
her roughly away. For a moment he stood
still, then stalked up to the table, and, with a
heavy thump, dropped down into a chair. There
he remained with his elbows resting on his
knees, and absently staring on the floor. His
long hair hung in wet tangles down over his
face, and the wrinkles about his mouth seemed
deeper and fiercer than usual. Now and then
he sighed, or gave vent to a deep groan. In a
while his eyes began to wanderuneasily about
the room; and as they reached the corner where
Brita was sitting, he suddenly darted up, as if
stung by something poisonous, seized a brand
from the hearth, and rushed toward her.
"Tell me I did not see it," he broke forth,
in a hoarsewhisper, seizing her by the arm and
thrusting the burning brand close up to her face.
"Tell me it is a lie--a black, poisonous lie."
She raised her eyes slowly to his and gazed
steadfastly into his face. "Ah," he continued
in the same terrible voice, "it was what I told
them down there at the church--a lie--an infernal
lie. And I drew blood--blood, I say--I
did--from the slanderer. Ha, ha, ha! What
a lusty sprawl that was!"
The color came and departed from Brita's
cheeks. And still she was strangely self
possessed. She even wondered at her own calmness.
Alas, she did not know that it was a
calmness that is more terrible than pain, the
corpse of a forlorn and hopeless heart.
"Child," continued Bjarne, and his voice
assumed a more natural tone, "why dost thou
not speak? They have lied about thee, child,
because thou art fair, they have envied thee."
Then, almost imploringly, "Open thy mouth,
Brita, and tell thy father that thou art pure--
pure as the snow, child--my own--my beautiful child."
There was a long and painful pause, in which
the crackling of the brand, and the heavy
breathing of the old man were the only sounds
to break the silence. Pale like a marble image
stood she before him; no word of excuse, no
prayer for forgiveness escaped her; only a
convulsive quivering of the lips betrayed the life
that struggled within her. With every moment
the hope died in Bjarne's bosom. His visage
was fearful to behold. Terror and fierce
indomitable hatred had grimly distorted his features,
and his eyes burned like fire-coals beneath his bushy brows.
"Harlot," he shrieked, "harlot!"
A cold gust of wind swept through the room.
The windows shook, the doors flew open, as if
touched by a strong invisible hand--and the old
man stood alone, holding the flickering brand
above his head.
It was after midnight, the wind had abated,
but the snow still fell, thick and silent, burying
paths and fences under its cold white mantle.
Onward she fled--onward and ever onward.
And whither, she knew not. A cold numbness
had chilled her senses, but still her feet drove
her irresistibly onward. A dark current seemed
to have seized her, she only felt that she was
adrift, and she cared not whither it bore her.
In spite of the stifling dullness which oppressed
her, her body seemed as light as air. At last,--
she knew not where,--she heard the roar of the
sea resounding in her ears, a genial warmth
thawed the numbness of her senses, and she
floated joyfully among the clouds--among
golden, sun-bathed clouds. When she opened
her eyes, she found herself lying in a comfortable
bed, and a young woman with a kind motherly
face was sitting at her side. It was all
like a dream, and she made no effort to account
for what appeared so strange and unaccountable.
What she afterward heard was that a fisher-
man had found her in a snow-drift on the strand,
and that he had carried her home to his cottage
and had given her over to the charge of his
wife. This was the second day since her arrival.
They knew who she was, but had kept the doors
locked and had told no one that she was there.
She heard the story of the good woman without
emotion; it seemed an intolerable effort to think.
But on the third day, when her child was born,
her mind was suddenly aroused from its lethargy,
and she calmly matured her plans; and for the
child's sake she resolved to live and to act.
That same evening there came a little boy with
a bundle for her. She opened it and found
therein the clothes she had left behind, and--
her brooches. She knew that it was her sister
who had sent them; then there was one who
still thought of her with affection. And yet her
first impulse was to send it all back, or to throw
it into the ocean; but she looked at her child and forbore.
A week passed, and Brita recovered. Of
Halvard she had heard nothing. One night, as
she lay in a half doze, she thought she had Seen
a pale, frightened face pressed up against the
window-pane, and staring fixedly at her and her
child; but, after all, it might have been merely
a dream. For her fevered fancy had in these
last days frequently beguiled her into similar
visions. She often thought of him, but, strangely
enough, no more with bitterness, but with
pity. Had he been strong enough to be wicked,
she could have hated him, but he was weak, and
she pitied him. Then it was that; one evening,
as she heard that the American vessel was to
sail at daybreak, she took her little boy and
wrapped him carefully in her own clothes, bade
farewell to the good fisherman and his wife, and
at his daughter that morning, when he came to
bring her home. She wore no more rings and
brooches, and it was this which excited Bjarne's
suspicion that everything was not right with
her. Formerly he was displeased because she
wore too many; now he grumbled because she
wore none.
II.
The winter was half gone; and in all this
time Brita had hardly once seen Halvard. Yes,
once,--it was Christmas-day,--she had ventured
to peep over to his pew in the church, and had
seen him, sitting at his father's side, and gazing
vacantly out into the empty space; but as he
had caught her glance, he had blushed, and began
eagerly to turn the leaves of his hymn-
book. It troubled her that he made no effort to
see her; many an evening she had walked alone
down at the river-side, hoping that he might
come; but it was all in vain. She could not but
believe that his father must have made some
discovery, and that he was watched. In the
mean time the black cloud thickened over her
head; for a secret gnawed at the very roots of
her heart. It was a time of terrible suspense
and suffering--such as a man never knows, such
as only a woman can endure. It was almost a
relief when the cloud burst, and the storm broke
loose, as presently it did.
One Sunday, early in April, Bjarne did not
return at the usual hour from church. His
daughters waited in vain for him with the dinner,
and at last began to grow uneasy. It was
not his habit to keep irregular hours. There
was a great excitement in the valley just then;
the America-fever had broken out. A large
vessel was lying out in the fjord, ready to take
the emigrants away; and there was hardly a
family that did not mourn the loss of some
brave-hearted son, or of some fair and cherished
daughter. The old folks, of course, had to
remain behind; and when the children were gone,
what was there left for them but to lie down
and die? America was to them as distant as if
it were on another planet. The family feeling,
too, has ever been strong in the Norseman's
breast; he lives for his children, and seems to
live his life over again in them. It is his greatest
pride to be able to trace his blood back into the
days of Sverre and St. Olaf, and with the same
confidence he expects to see his race spread into
the future in the same soil where once it has
struck root. Then comes the storm from the
Western seas, wrestles with the sturdy trunk,
and breaks it; and the shattered branches fly to
all the four corners of the heavens. No wonder,
then, like a tree that has lost its crown, his
strength is broken and he expects but to
smoulder into the earth and die.
Bjarne Blakstad, like the sturdy old patriot
that he was, had always fiercely denounced the
America rage; and it was now the hope of his
daughters that, perhaps, he had stayed behind
to remind the restless ones among the youth of
their duty toward their land, or to frighten some
bold emigration agent who might have been too
loud in his declamations. But it was already
eight o'clock and Bjarne was not yet to be seen.
The night was dark and stormy; a cold sleet
fiercely lashed the window-panes, and the wind
roared in the chimney. Grimhild, the younger
sister, ran restlessly out and in and slammed the
doors after her. Brita sat tightly pressed up
against the wall in the darkest corner of the
room. Every time the wind shook the house
she started up; then again seated herself and
shuddered. Dark forebodings filled her soul.
At last,--the clock had just struck ten,--there
was a noise heard in the outer hall. Grimhild
sprang to the door and tore it open. A tall,
stooping figure entered, and by the dress she at
once recognized her father.
"Good God," cried she, and ran up to him.
"Go away, child," muttered he, in a voice
that sounded strangelyunfamiliar, and he pushed
her roughly away. For a moment he stood
still, then stalked up to the table, and, with a
heavy thump, dropped down into a chair. There
he remained with his elbows resting on his
knees, and absently staring on the floor. His
long hair hung in wet tangles down over his
face, and the wrinkles about his mouth seemed
deeper and fiercer than usual. Now and then
he sighed, or gave vent to a deep groan. In a
while his eyes began to wanderuneasily about
the room; and as they reached the corner where
Brita was sitting, he suddenly darted up, as if
stung by something poisonous, seized a brand
from the hearth, and rushed toward her.
"Tell me I did not see it," he broke forth,
in a hoarsewhisper, seizing her by the arm and
thrusting the burning brand close up to her face.
"Tell me it is a lie--a black, poisonous lie."
She raised her eyes slowly to his and gazed
steadfastly into his face. "Ah," he continued
in the same terrible voice, "it was what I told
them down there at the church--a lie--an infernal
lie. And I drew blood--blood, I say--I
did--from the slanderer. Ha, ha, ha! What
a lusty sprawl that was!"
The color came and departed from Brita's
cheeks. And still she was strangely self
possessed. She even wondered at her own calmness.
Alas, she did not know that it was a
calmness that is more terrible than pain, the
corpse of a forlorn and hopeless heart.
"Child," continued Bjarne, and his voice
assumed a more natural tone, "why dost thou
not speak? They have lied about thee, child,
because thou art fair, they have envied thee."
Then, almost imploringly, "Open thy mouth,
Brita, and tell thy father that thou art pure--
pure as the snow, child--my own--my beautiful child."
There was a long and painful pause, in which
the crackling of the brand, and the heavy
breathing of the old man were the only sounds
to break the silence. Pale like a marble image
stood she before him; no word of excuse, no
prayer for forgiveness escaped her; only a
convulsive quivering of the lips betrayed the life
that struggled within her. With every moment
the hope died in Bjarne's bosom. His visage
was fearful to behold. Terror and fierce
indomitable hatred had grimly distorted his features,
and his eyes burned like fire-coals beneath his bushy brows.
"Harlot," he shrieked, "harlot!"
A cold gust of wind swept through the room.
The windows shook, the doors flew open, as if
touched by a strong invisible hand--and the old
man stood alone, holding the flickering brand
above his head.
It was after midnight, the wind had abated,
but the snow still fell, thick and silent, burying
paths and fences under its cold white mantle.
Onward she fled--onward and ever onward.
And whither, she knew not. A cold numbness
had chilled her senses, but still her feet drove
her irresistibly onward. A dark current seemed
to have seized her, she only felt that she was
adrift, and she cared not whither it bore her.
In spite of the stifling dullness which oppressed
her, her body seemed as light as air. At last,--
she knew not where,--she heard the roar of the
sea resounding in her ears, a genial warmth
thawed the numbness of her senses, and she
floated joyfully among the clouds--among
golden, sun-bathed clouds. When she opened
her eyes, she found herself lying in a comfortable
bed, and a young woman with a kind motherly
face was sitting at her side. It was all
like a dream, and she made no effort to account
for what appeared so strange and unaccountable.
What she afterward heard was that a fisher-
man had found her in a snow-drift on the strand,
and that he had carried her home to his cottage
and had given her over to the charge of his
wife. This was the second day since her arrival.
They knew who she was, but had kept the doors
locked and had told no one that she was there.
She heard the story of the good woman without
emotion; it seemed an intolerable effort to think.
But on the third day, when her child was born,
her mind was suddenly aroused from its lethargy,
and she calmly matured her plans; and for the
child's sake she resolved to live and to act.
That same evening there came a little boy with
a bundle for her. She opened it and found
therein the clothes she had left behind, and--
her brooches. She knew that it was her sister
who had sent them; then there was one who
still thought of her with affection. And yet her
first impulse was to send it all back, or to throw
it into the ocean; but she looked at her child and forbore.
A week passed, and Brita recovered. Of
Halvard she had heard nothing. One night, as
she lay in a half doze, she thought she had Seen
a pale, frightened face pressed up against the
window-pane, and staring fixedly at her and her
child; but, after all, it might have been merely
a dream. For her fevered fancy had in these
last days frequently beguiled her into similar
visions. She often thought of him, but, strangely
enough, no more with bitterness, but with
pity. Had he been strong enough to be wicked,
she could have hated him, but he was weak, and
she pitied him. Then it was that; one evening,
as she heard that the American vessel was to
sail at daybreak, she took her little boy and
wrapped him carefully in her own clothes, bade
farewell to the good fisherman and his wife, and
- formerly [´fɔ:məli]
ad.从前，以前 (初中英语单词) - endure [in´djuə] vt.忍耐，忍受；坚持 (初中英语单词)
- presently [´prezəntli] ad.不久；目前 (初中英语单词)
- excitement [ik´saitmənt] n.兴奋；骚动；煽动 (初中英语单词)
- valley [´væli] n.谷；河谷；流域 (初中英语单词)
- planet [´plænit] n.行星 (初中英语单词)
- fiercely [´fiəsli] ad.凶猛地，残忍地 (初中英语单词)
- remind [ri´maind] vt.提醒；使记(想)起 (初中英语单词)
- restless [´restləs] a.没有休息的 (初中英语单词)
- frighten [´fraitn] vt.吓唬，使惊惧 (初中英语单词)
- strangely [´streindʒli] ad.奇怪地；陌生地 (初中英语单词)
- wander [´wɔndə, ´wɑ:n:dər] v.徘徊；流浪 (初中英语单词)
- whisper [´wispə] v.耳语 n.低语；沙沙声 (初中英语单词)
- marble [´mɑ:bəl] n.大理石 a.大理石的 (初中英语单词)
- fearful [´fiəfəl] a.可怕的；担心的 (初中英语单词)
- terror [´terə] n.恐怖；惊骇 (初中英语单词)
- hatred [´heitrid] n.憎恨，敌意 (初中英语单词)
- invisible [in´vizəbəl] a.看不见的；无形的 (初中英语单词)
- midnight [´midnait] n.午夜；漆黑 (初中英语单词)
- charge [tʃɑ:dʒ] v.收费；冲锋 n.费用 (初中英语单词)
- calmly [´kɑ:mli] ad.平静地；无风浪地 (初中英语单词)
- bundle [´bʌndl] n.包，捆；包袱(裹) (初中英语单词)
- affection [ə´fekʃən] n.友爱；慈爱 (初中英语单词)
- impulse [´impʌls] n.推动(力)；冲动；刺激 (初中英语单词)
- vessel [´vesəl] n.容器；船；脉管 (初中英语单词)
- fisherman [´fiʃəmən] n.渔民，渔夫，打鱼人 (初中英语单词)
- uneasy [ʌn´i:zi] a.不安的；不自在的 (高中英语单词)
- irregular [i´regjulə] a.不规则的；不正当的 (高中英语单词)
- sturdy [´stə:di] a.坚强的；坚定的 (高中英语单词)
- tightly [´taitli] ad.紧，紧密地 (高中英语单词)
- roughly [´rʌfli] ad.粗糙地；毛糙地 (高中英语单词)
- hearth [hɑ:θ] n.炉边；家庭(生活) (高中英语单词)
- forlorn [fə´lɔ:n] a.被遗弃的；绝望的 (高中英语单词)
- hopeless [´həupləs] a.无望的，无可救药的 (高中英语单词)
- painful [´peinfəl] a.痛(苦)的；费力的 (高中英语单词)
- forgiveness [fə´givnis] n.原谅，饶恕；宽仁 (高中英语单词)
- grimly [´grimli] ad.严厉地；坚强地 (高中英语单词)
- onward [´ɔnwəd] ad.&a.向前(的) (高中英语单词)
- bitterness [´bitənis] n.苦味；辛酸；苦难 (高中英语单词)
- poisonous [´pɔizənəs] a.有毒的；讨厌的 (英语四级单词)
- hoarse [hɔ:s] a.嘶哑的；嗓门粗哑的 (英语四级单词)
- genial [´dʒi:niəl] a.愉快的；和蔼的 (英语四级单词)
- joyfully [´dʒɔifuli] ad.高兴地，快乐地 (英语四级单词)
- intolerable [in´tɔlərəb(ə)l] a.无法忍受的 (英语四级单词)
- resolved [ri´zɔlvd] a.决心的；坚定的 (英语四级单词)
- daybreak [´deibreik] n.黎明，拂晓 (英语四级单词)
- restlessly [´restlisli] ad.不安定地；烦躁地 (英语六级单词)
- unfamiliar [ʌnfə´miljə] a.不熟悉的；生疏的 (英语六级单词)
- absently [´æbsəntli] ad.心不在焉地 (英语六级单词)
- uneasily [ʌn´i:zili] ad.不安地；局促地 (英语六级单词)
- sprawl [sprɔ:l] vi.(伸开手足)坐着 (英语六级单词)
- departed [di´pɑ:tid] a.已往的；已故的 (英语六级单词)
- holding [´həuldiŋ] n.保持，固定，存储 (英语六级单词)
- numbness [´nʌmnis] n.麻木；愚蠢 (英语六级单词)
文章标签:名著
章节正文
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