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The Princess and Curdie-Part2_George MacDonald(1824-1905)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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not once flutter or try to get away; it only throbbed and bled and



looked at him. Curdie's heart began to grow very large in his

bosom. What could it mean? It was nothing but a pigeon, and why



should he not kill a pigeon? But the fact was that not till this

very moment had he ever known what a pigeon was. A good many



discoveries of a similar kind have to be made by most of us. Once

more it opened its eyes - then closed them again, and its throbbing



ceased. Curdie gave a sob: its last look reminded him of the

princess - he did not know why. He remembered how hard he had



laboured to set her beyond danger, and yet what dangers she had had

to encounter for his sake: they had been saviours to each other -



and what had he done now? He had stopped saving, and had begun

killing! What had he been sent into the world for? Surely not to



be a death to its joy and loveliness. He had done the thing that

was contrary to gladness; he was a destroyer! He was not the



Curdie he had been meant to be!

Then the underground waters gushed from the boy's heart. And with



the tears came the remembrance that a white pigeon, just before the

princess went away with her father, came from somewhere - yes, from



the grandmother's lamp, and flew round the king and Irene and

himself, and then flew away: this might be that very pigeon!



Horrible to think! And if it wasn't, yet it was a white pigeon,

the same as this. And if she kept a great Many pigeons - and white



ones, as Irene had told him, then whose pigeon could he have killed

but the grand old princess's?



Suddenly everything round about him seemed against him. The red

sunset stung him; the rocks frowned at him; the sweet wind that had



been laving his face as he walked up the hill dropped - as if he

wasn't fit to be kissed any more. Was the whole world going to



cast him out? Would he have to stand there forever, not knowing

what to do, with the dead pigeon in his hand? Things looked bad



indeed. Was the whole world going to make a work about a pigeon -

a white pigeon? The sun went down. Great clouds gathered over the



west, and shortened the twilight. The wind gave a howl, and then

lay down again. The clouds gathered thicker. Then came a



rumbling. He thought it was thunder. It was a rock that fell

inside the mountain. A goat ran past him down the hill, followed



by a dog sent to fetch him home. He thought they were goblin

creatures, and trembled. He used to despise them. And still he



held the dead pigeontenderly in his hand.

It grew darker and darker. An evil something began to move in his



heart. 'What a fool I am!' he said to himself. Then he grew

angry, and was just going to throw the bird from him and whistle,



when a brightness shone all round him. He lifted his eyes, and saw

a great globe of light - like silver at the hottest heat: he had



once seen silver run from the furnace. It shone from somewhere

above the roofs of the castle: it must be the great old princess's



moon! How could she be there? Of course she was not there! He

had asked the whole household, and nobody knew anything about her



or her globe either. it couldn't be! And yet what did that

signify, when there was the white globe shining, and here was the



dead white bird in his hand? That moment the pigeon gave a little

flutter. 'It's not dead!' cried Curdie, almost with a shriek. The



same instant he was running full speed toward the castle, never

letting his heels down, lest he should shake the poor, wounded



bird.

CHAPTER 3



The Mistress of the Silver Moon

When Curdie reached the castle, and ran into the little garden in



front of it, there stood the door wide open. This was as he had

hoped, for what could he have said if he had had to knock at it?



Those whose business it is to open doors, so often mistake and shut

them! But the woman now in charge often puzzled herself greatly to



account for the strange fact that however often she shut the door,

which, like the rest, she took a great deal of unnecessary trouble



to do, she was certain, the next time she went to it, to find it

open. I speak now of the great front door, of course: the back



door she as persistently kept wide: if people could only go in by

that, she said, she would then know what sort they were, and what



they wanted. But she would neither have known what sort Curdie

was, nor what he wanted, and would assuredly have denied him



admittance, for she knew nothing of who was in the tower. So the

front door was left open for him, and in he walked.



But where to go next he could not tell. It was not quite dark: a

dull, shineless twilight filled the place. All he knew was that he



must go up, and that proved enough for the present, for there he




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