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When the World Shook-Part46_H.Rider Haggard(1856-1925)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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"Oh! you mean the Deluge. Well, no doubt there was a deluge,



but I am sure that Oro had no more to do with it than you or I,

as I think I have said already. Anyhow it is impossible to leave



you to descend into that hole alone. I suggest, therefore, that

we should go into the sepulchre at the time which you believe Oro



appointed, and see what happens. If you are not mistaken, the

Glittering Lady will come there to fetch us, since it is quite



certain that we cannot work the lift or whatever it is, alone. If

you are mistaken we can just go back to bed as usual."



"Yes, that's the best plan," said Bickley, shortly, after which

the conversation came to an end.



All that day and the next I watched and waited in vain for the

coming of Yva, but no Yva appeared. I even went as far as the



sepulchre, but it was as empty as were the two crystal coffins,

and after waiting a while I returned. Although I did not say so



to Bickley, to me it was evident that Oro, as he had said, was

determined to cut off all communication between us.



The second day drew to its close. Our simple preparations were

complete. They consisted mainly in making ready our hurricane



lamps and packing up a little food, enough to keep us for three

or four days if necessary, together with some matches and a good



supply of oil, since, as Bastin put it, he was determined not to

be caught like the foolish virgins in the parable.



"You see," he added, "one never knows when it might please that

old wretch to turn off the incandescent gas or electric light, or



whatever it is he uses to illumine his family catacombs, and then

it would be awkward if we had no oil."



"For the matter of that he might steal our lamps,"

suggested Bickley, "in which case we should be where



Moses was when the light went out."

"I have considered that possibility," answered Bastin, "and



therefore, although it is a dangerous weapon to carry loaded, I

am determined to take my revolver. If necessary I shall consider



myself quite justified in shooting him to save our lives and

those of thousands of others."



At this we both laughed; somehow the idea of Bastin trying to

shoot Oro struck us as intensely ludicrous. Yet that very thing



was to happen.

It was a peculiarly beautiful sunset over the southern seas. To



the west the great flaming orb sank into the ocean, to the east

appeared the silver circle of the full moon. To my excited fancy



they were like scales hanging from the hand of a materialised

spirit of calm. Over the volcano and the lake, over the island



with its palm trees, over the seas beyond, this calm brooded.

Save for a few travelling birds the sky was empty; no cloud



disturbed its peace; the world seemed steeped in innocence and

quiet.



All these things struck me, as I think they did the others,

because by the action of some simultaneous thought it came to our



minds that very probably we were, looking on them for the last

time. It is all very well to talk of the Unknown and the Infinite



whereof we are assured we are the heirs, but that does not make

it any easier for us to part with the Known and the Finite. The



contemplation of the wonders of Eternity does not conceal the

advantages of actual and existent Time. In short there is no one



of us, from a sainted archbishop down to a sinful suicide, who

does not regret the necessity of farewell to the pleasant light



and the kindly race of men wherewith we are acquainted.

For after all, who can be quite certain of the Beyond? It may



be splendid, but it will probably be strange, and from

strangeness, after a certain age, we shrink. We know that all



things will be different there; that our human relationships will

be utterly changed, that perhaps sex which shapes so many of



them, will vanish to be replaced by something unknown, that

ambitions will lose their hold of us, and that, at the best, the



mere loss of hopes and fears will leave us empty. So at least we

think, who seek not variation but continuance, since the spirit



must differ from the body and that thought alarms our

intelligence.



At least some of us think so; others, like Bickley, write down

the future as a black and endless night, which after all has its



consolations since, as has been wisely suggested, perhaps

oblivion is better than any memories. Others again, like Bastin,



would say of it with the Frenchman, plus ca change, plus c'est la




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