章节正文
cited: 'In consideration of saving the life of my
beloved grandchild, Bertha Willcox.'
"Of course, after that no power on earth could
prevent them from getting married.
"Her infatuation endured. People saw her go-
ing out to meet him in the evening. She stared
with unblinking, fascinated eyes up the road where
he was expected to appear, walking freely, with a
swing from the hip, and humming one of the love-
tunes of his country. When the boy was born, he
got elevated at the 'Coach and Horses,' essayed
again a song and a dance, and was again ejected.
People expressed their commiseration for a woman
married to that Jack-in-the-box. He didn't care.
There was a man now (he told me boastfully) to
whom he could sing and talk in the language of his
country, and show how to dance by-and-by.
"But I don't know. To me he appeared to have
grown less springy of step, heavier in body, less
keen of eye. Imagination, no doubt; but it seems
to me now as if the net of fate had been drawn
closer round him already.
"One day I met him on the footpath over the
Talfourd Hill. He told me that 'women were fun-
ny.' I had heard already of domestic differences.
People were saying that Amy Foster was begin-
ning to find out what sort of man she had married.
He looked upon the sea with indifferent, unseeing
eyes. His wife had snatched the child out of his
arms one day as he sat on the doorstep crooning to
it a song such as the mothers sing to babies in his
mountains. She seemed to think he was doing it
some harm. Women are funny. And she had ob-
jected to him praying aloud in the evening. Why?
He expected the boy to repeat the prayer aloud
after him by-and-by, as he used to do after his old
father when he was a child--in his own country.
And I discovered he longed for their boy to grow
up so that he could have a man to talk with in that
language that to our ears sounded so disturbing,
so passionate, and so bizarre. Why his wife
should dislike the idea he couldn't tell. But that
would pass, he said. And tilting his head know-
ingly, he tapped his breastbone to indicate that she
had a good heart: not hard, not fierce, open to com-
passion, charitable to the poor!
"I walked away thoughtfully; I wondered
whether his difference, his strangeness, were not
penetrating with repulsion that dull nature they
had begun by irresistibly attracting. I won-
dered. . . ."
The Doctor came to the window and looked out
at the frigid splendour of the sea, immense in
the haze, as if enclosing all the earth with all
the hearts lost among the passions of love and
fear.
"Physiologically, now," he said, turning away
abruptly, "it was possible. It was possible."
He remained silent. Then went on--
"At all events, the next time I saw him he was
ill--lung trouble. He was tough, but I daresay he
was not acclimatised as well as I had supposed. It
was a bad winter; and, of course, these mountain-
eers do get fits of home sickness; and a state of de-
pression would make him vulnerable. He was lying
half dressed on a couch downstairs.
"A table covered with a dark oilcloth took up all
the middle of the little room. There was a wicker
cradle on the floor, a kettle spouting steam on the
hob, and some child's linen lay drying on the
fender. The room was warm, but the door opens
right into the garden, as you noticed perhaps.
"He was very feverish, and kept on muttering
to himself. She sat on a chair and looked at him
fixedly across the table with her brown, blurred
eyes. 'Why don't you have him upstairs?' I
asked. With a start and a confused stammer she
said, 'Oh! ah! I couldn't sit with him upstairs,
Sir.'
"I gave her certain directions; and going out-
side, I said again that he ought to be in bed up-
stairs. She wrung her hands. 'I couldn't. I
couldn't. He keeps on saying something--I don't
know what.' With the memory of all the talk
against the man that had been dinned into her ears,
I looked at her narrowly. I looked into her short-
sighted eyes, at her dumb eyes that once in her life
had seen an enticing shape, but seemed, staring at
me, to see nothing at all now. But I saw she was
uneasy.
"'What's the matter with him?' she asked in a
sort of vacant trepidation. 'He doesn't look very
ill. I never did see anybody look like this be-
fore. . . .'
"'Do you think,' I asked indignantly" target="_blank" title="ad.愤慨地，义愤地">indignantly, 'he is
shamming?'
"'I can't help it, sir,' she said stolidly. And
suddenly she clapped her hands and looked right
and left. 'And there's the baby. I am so fright-
ened. He wanted me just now to give him the
baby. I can't understand what he says to it.'
"'Can't you ask a neighbour to come in to-
night?' I asked.
"'Please, sir, nobody seems to care to come,' she
muttered, dully resigned all at once.
"I impressed upon her the necessity of the
greatest care, and then had to go. There was a
good deal of sickness that winter. 'Oh, I hope he
won't talk!' she exclaimed softly just as I was go-
ing away.
"I don't know how it is I did not see--but I
didn't. And yet, turning in my trap, I saw her
lingering before the door, very still, and as if med-
itating a flight up the miry road.
"Towards the night his fever increased.
"He tossed, moaned, and now and then muttered
a complaint. And she sat with the table between
her and the couch, watching every movement and
every sound, with the terror, the unreasonable ter-
ror, of that man she could not understand creeping
over her. She had drawn the wicker cradle close
to her feet. There was nothing in her now but the
maternal instinct and that unaccountable fear.
"Suddenly coming to himself, parched, he de-
manded a drink of water. She did not move. She
had not understood, though he may have thought
he was speaking in English. He waited, looking at
her, burning with fever, amazed at her silence and
immobility, and then he shouted impatiently,
'Water! Give me water!'
"She jumped to her feet, snatched up the child,
and stood still. He spoke to her, and his passion-
ate remonstrances only increased her fear of that
strange man. I believe he spoke to her for a long
time, entreating, wondering, pleading, ordering, I
suppose. She says she bore it as long as she could.
And then a gust of rage came over him.
"He sat up and called out terribly one word--
some word. Then he got up as though he hadn't
been ill at all, she says. And as in fevered dismay,
indignation, and wonder he tried to get to her
round the table, she simply opened the door and ran
out with the child in her arms. She heard him call
twice after her down the road in a terrible voice--
and fled. . . . Ah! but you should have seen stir-
ring behind the dull, blurred glance of these eyes
the spectre of the fear which had hunted her on
that night three miles and a half to the door of Fos-
ter's cottage! I did the next day.
"And it was I who found him lying face down
and his body in a puddle, just outside the little
wicket-gate.
"I had been called out that night to an urgent
case in the village, and on my way home at day-
break passed by the cottage. The door stood open.
My man helped me to carry him in. We laid him
on the couch. The lamp smoked, the fire was out,
the chill of the stormy night oozed from the cheer-
less yellow paper on the wall. 'Amy!' I called
aloud, and my voice seemed to lose itself in the
emptiness of this tiny house as if I had cried in a
desert. He opened his eyes. 'Gone!' he said dis-
tinctly. 'I had only asked for water--only for a
little water. . . .'
"He was muddy. I covered him up and stood
waiting in silence, catching a painfully gasped
word now and then. They were no longer in his
own language. The fever had left him, taking
with it the heat of life. And with his panting
breast and lustrous eyes he reminded me again of a
wild creature under the net; of a bird caught in a
snare. She had left him. She had left him--sick
--helpless--thirsty. The spear of the hunter had
entered his very soul. 'Why?' he cried in the pen-
etrating and indignant voice of a man calling to a
responsible Maker. A gust of wind and a swish of
rain answered.
"And as I turned away to shut the door he pro-
nounced the word 'Merciful!' and expired.
"Eventually I certified heart-failure as the im-
mediate cause of death. His heart must have in-
deed failed him, or else he might have stood this
night of storm and exposure, too. I closed his eyes
and drove away. Not very far from the cottage I
met Foster walking sturdily between the dripping
hedges with his collie at his heels.
"'Do you know where your daughter is?' I
asked.
"'Don't I!' he cried. 'I am going to talk to
him a bit. Frightening a poor woman like this.'
"'He won't frighten her any more,' I said.
'He is dead.'
"He struck with his stick at the mud.
"'And there's the child.'
"Then, after thinking deeply for a while--
"'I don't know that it isn't for the best.'
"That's what he said. And she says nothing at
all now. Not a word of him. Never. Is his im-
age as utterly gone from her mind as his lithe and
striding figure, his carolling voice are gone from
our fields? He is no longer before her eyes to ex-
beloved grandchild, Bertha Willcox.'
"Of course, after that no power on earth could
prevent them from getting married.
"Her infatuation endured. People saw her go-
ing out to meet him in the evening. She stared
with unblinking, fascinated eyes up the road where
he was expected to appear, walking freely, with a
swing from the hip, and humming one of the love-
tunes of his country. When the boy was born, he
got elevated at the 'Coach and Horses,' essayed
again a song and a dance, and was again ejected.
People expressed their commiseration for a woman
married to that Jack-in-the-box. He didn't care.
There was a man now (he told me boastfully) to
whom he could sing and talk in the language of his
country, and show how to dance by-and-by.
"But I don't know. To me he appeared to have
grown less springy of step, heavier in body, less
keen of eye. Imagination, no doubt; but it seems
to me now as if the net of fate had been drawn
closer round him already.
"One day I met him on the footpath over the
Talfourd Hill. He told me that 'women were fun-
ny.' I had heard already of domestic differences.
People were saying that Amy Foster was begin-
ning to find out what sort of man she had married.
He looked upon the sea with indifferent, unseeing
eyes. His wife had snatched the child out of his
arms one day as he sat on the doorstep crooning to
it a song such as the mothers sing to babies in his
mountains. She seemed to think he was doing it
some harm. Women are funny. And she had ob-
jected to him praying aloud in the evening. Why?
He expected the boy to repeat the prayer aloud
after him by-and-by, as he used to do after his old
father when he was a child--in his own country.
And I discovered he longed for their boy to grow
up so that he could have a man to talk with in that
language that to our ears sounded so disturbing,
so passionate, and so bizarre. Why his wife
should dislike the idea he couldn't tell. But that
would pass, he said. And tilting his head know-
ingly, he tapped his breastbone to indicate that she
had a good heart: not hard, not fierce, open to com-
passion, charitable to the poor!
"I walked away thoughtfully; I wondered
whether his difference, his strangeness, were not
penetrating with repulsion that dull nature they
had begun by irresistibly attracting. I won-
dered. . . ."
The Doctor came to the window and looked out
at the frigid splendour of the sea, immense in
the haze, as if enclosing all the earth with all
the hearts lost among the passions of love and
fear.
"Physiologically, now," he said, turning away
abruptly, "it was possible. It was possible."
He remained silent. Then went on--
"At all events, the next time I saw him he was
ill--lung trouble. He was tough, but I daresay he
was not acclimatised as well as I had supposed. It
was a bad winter; and, of course, these mountain-
eers do get fits of home sickness; and a state of de-
pression would make him vulnerable. He was lying
half dressed on a couch downstairs.
"A table covered with a dark oilcloth took up all
the middle of the little room. There was a wicker
cradle on the floor, a kettle spouting steam on the
hob, and some child's linen lay drying on the
fender. The room was warm, but the door opens
right into the garden, as you noticed perhaps.
"He was very feverish, and kept on muttering
to himself. She sat on a chair and looked at him
fixedly across the table with her brown, blurred
eyes. 'Why don't you have him upstairs?' I
asked. With a start and a confused stammer she
said, 'Oh! ah! I couldn't sit with him upstairs,
Sir.'
"I gave her certain directions; and going out-
side, I said again that he ought to be in bed up-
stairs. She wrung her hands. 'I couldn't. I
couldn't. He keeps on saying something--I don't
know what.' With the memory of all the talk
against the man that had been dinned into her ears,
I looked at her narrowly. I looked into her short-
sighted eyes, at her dumb eyes that once in her life
had seen an enticing shape, but seemed, staring at
me, to see nothing at all now. But I saw she was
uneasy.
"'What's the matter with him?' she asked in a
sort of vacant trepidation. 'He doesn't look very
ill. I never did see anybody look like this be-
fore. . . .'
"'Do you think,' I asked indignantly" target="_blank" title="ad.愤慨地，义愤地">indignantly, 'he is
shamming?'
"'I can't help it, sir,' she said stolidly. And
suddenly she clapped her hands and looked right
and left. 'And there's the baby. I am so fright-
ened. He wanted me just now to give him the
baby. I can't understand what he says to it.'
"'Can't you ask a neighbour to come in to-
night?' I asked.
"'Please, sir, nobody seems to care to come,' she
muttered, dully resigned all at once.
"I impressed upon her the necessity of the
greatest care, and then had to go. There was a
good deal of sickness that winter. 'Oh, I hope he
won't talk!' she exclaimed softly just as I was go-
ing away.
"I don't know how it is I did not see--but I
didn't. And yet, turning in my trap, I saw her
lingering before the door, very still, and as if med-
itating a flight up the miry road.
"Towards the night his fever increased.
"He tossed, moaned, and now and then muttered
a complaint. And she sat with the table between
her and the couch, watching every movement and
every sound, with the terror, the unreasonable ter-
ror, of that man she could not understand creeping
over her. She had drawn the wicker cradle close
to her feet. There was nothing in her now but the
maternal instinct and that unaccountable fear.
"Suddenly coming to himself, parched, he de-
manded a drink of water. She did not move. She
had not understood, though he may have thought
he was speaking in English. He waited, looking at
her, burning with fever, amazed at her silence and
immobility, and then he shouted impatiently,
'Water! Give me water!'
"She jumped to her feet, snatched up the child,
and stood still. He spoke to her, and his passion-
ate remonstrances only increased her fear of that
strange man. I believe he spoke to her for a long
time, entreating, wondering, pleading, ordering, I
suppose. She says she bore it as long as she could.
And then a gust of rage came over him.
"He sat up and called out terribly one word--
some word. Then he got up as though he hadn't
been ill at all, she says. And as in fevered dismay,
indignation, and wonder he tried to get to her
round the table, she simply opened the door and ran
out with the child in her arms. She heard him call
twice after her down the road in a terrible voice--
and fled. . . . Ah! but you should have seen stir-
ring behind the dull, blurred glance of these eyes
the spectre of the fear which had hunted her on
that night three miles and a half to the door of Fos-
ter's cottage! I did the next day.
"And it was I who found him lying face down
and his body in a puddle, just outside the little
wicket-gate.
"I had been called out that night to an urgent
case in the village, and on my way home at day-
break passed by the cottage. The door stood open.
My man helped me to carry him in. We laid him
on the couch. The lamp smoked, the fire was out,
the chill of the stormy night oozed from the cheer-
less yellow paper on the wall. 'Amy!' I called
aloud, and my voice seemed to lose itself in the
emptiness of this tiny house as if I had cried in a
desert. He opened his eyes. 'Gone!' he said dis-
tinctly. 'I had only asked for water--only for a
little water. . . .'
"He was muddy. I covered him up and stood
waiting in silence, catching a painfully gasped
word now and then. They were no longer in his
own language. The fever had left him, taking
with it the heat of life. And with his panting
breast and lustrous eyes he reminded me again of a
wild creature under the net; of a bird caught in a
snare. She had left him. She had left him--sick
--helpless--thirsty. The spear of the hunter had
entered his very soul. 'Why?' he cried in the pen-
etrating and indignant voice of a man calling to a
responsible Maker. A gust of wind and a swish of
rain answered.
"And as I turned away to shut the door he pro-
nounced the word 'Merciful!' and expired.
"Eventually I certified heart-failure as the im-
mediate cause of death. His heart must have in-
deed failed him, or else he might have stood this
night of storm and exposure, too. I closed his eyes
and drove away. Not very far from the cottage I
met Foster walking sturdily between the dripping
hedges with his collie at his heels.
"'Do you know where your daughter is?' I
asked.
"'Don't I!' he cried. 'I am going to talk to
him a bit. Frightening a poor woman like this.'
"'He won't frighten her any more,' I said.
'He is dead.'
"He struck with his stick at the mud.
"'And there's the child.'
"Then, after thinking deeply for a while--
"'I don't know that it isn't for the best.'
"That's what he said. And she says nothing at
all now. Not a word of him. Never. Is his im-
age as utterly gone from her mind as his lithe and
striding figure, his carolling voice are gone from
our fields? He is no longer before her eyes to ex-
- consideration [kən,sidə´reiʃən]
n.考虑；原因；体谅 (初中英语单词) - freely [´fri:li] ad.自由地；慷慨地 (初中英语单词)
- imagination [i,mædʒi´neiʃən] n.想象(力) (初中英语单词)
- domestic [də´mestik] a.家庭的；本国的 (初中英语单词)
- dislike [dis´laik] vt.&n.不喜爱，厌恶 (初中英语单词)
- fierce [fiəs] a.残忍的；强烈的 (初中英语单词)
- immense [i´mens] a.广大的，无限的 (初中英语单词)
- supposed [sə´pəuzd] a.想象的；假定的 (初中英语单词)
- sickness [´siknis] n.生病；呕吐，恶心 (初中英语单词)
- kettle [´ketl] n.水壶 (初中英语单词)
- vacant [´veikənt] a.空虚的，无表情的 (初中英语单词)
- softly [´sɔftli] ad.软化地；柔和地 (初中英语单词)
- flight [flait] n.逃走；飞行；班机 (初中英语单词)
- complaint [kəm´pleint] n.抱怨；叫屈 (初中英语单词)
- movement [´mu:vmənt] n.活动；运动；动作 (初中英语单词)
- terror [´terə] n.恐怖；惊骇 (初中英语单词)
- cradle [´kreidl] n.摇篮；发源地 (初中英语单词)
- instinct [´instiŋkt] n.本能；直觉；天资 (初中英语单词)
- terribly [´terəbli] ad.可怕地 (初中英语单词)
- cottage [´kɔtidʒ] n.村舍；小屋；小别墅 (初中英语单词)
- hunter [´hʌntə] n.猎人；猎狗；猎马 (初中英语单词)
- frighten [´fraitn] vt.吓唬，使惊惧 (初中英语单词)
- saying [´seiŋ, ´sei-iŋ] n.言语；言论；格言 (高中英语单词)
- foster [´fɔstə] vt.促进；推动；鼓励 (高中英语单词)
- indifferent [in´difrənt] a.不关心的；中立的 (高中英语单词)
- passionate [´pæʃənit] a.易动情的；易怒的 (高中英语单词)
- thoughtfully [´θɔ:tfuli] ad.深思地；体贴地 (高中英语单词)
- stammer [´stæmə] v.&n.口吃 (高中英语单词)
- exposure [ik´spəuʒə] n.暴露；曝光(时间) (高中英语单词)
- charitable [´tʃæritəbəl] a.仁爱的；慈善的 (英语四级单词)
- feverish [´fi:vəriʃ] a.发烧的；狂热的 (英语四级单词)
- unreasonable [ʌn´ri:zənəbl] a.不合理的；荒唐的 (英语四级单词)
- painfully [´peinfuli] ad.痛苦地；费力地 (英语四级单词)
- indignant [in´dignənt] a.义愤的，愤慨的 (英语四级单词)
- doorstep [´dɔ:step] n.门阶 (英语六级单词)
- narrowly [´nærəuli] ad.勉强地；严密地 (英语六级单词)
- indignantly [in´dignəntli] ad.愤慨地，义愤地 (英语六级单词)
- speaking [´spi:kiŋ] n.说话 a.发言的 (英语六级单词)
- calling [´kɔ:liŋ] n.点名；职业；欲望 (英语六级单词)
- collie [´kɔli] n.柯利牧羊犬 (英语六级单词)
文章标签:名著
章节正文
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