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Tales of Unrest-Part8_JOSEPH CONRAD (1857-1924)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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"We shall see some more of them by-and-by."



"More idiots? How many of them are there, then?" I asked.

"There's four of them--children of a farmer near Ploumar here. . . .



The parents are dead now," he added, after a while. "The grandmother

lives on the farm. In the daytime they knock about on this road, and



they come home at dusk along with the cattle. . . . It's a good farm."

We saw the other two: a boy and a girl, as the driver said. They were



dressed exactly alike, in shapeless garments with petticoat-like

skirts. The imperfect thing that lived within them moved those beings



to howl at us from the top of the bank, where they sprawled amongst

the tough stalks of furze. Their cropped black heads stuck out from



the bright yellow wall of countless small blossoms. The faces were

purple with the strain of yelling; the voices sounded blank and



cracked like a mechanicalimitation of old people's voices; and

suddenly ceased when we turned into a lane.



I saw them many times in my wandering about the country. They lived on

that road, drifting along its length here and there, according to the



inexplicable impulses of their monstrous darkness. They were an

offence to the sunshine, a reproach to empty heaven, a blight on the



concentrated and purposeful vigour of the wild landscape. In time the

story of their parents shaped itself before me out of the listless



answers to my questions, out of the indifferent words heard in wayside

inns or on the very road those idiots haunted. Some of it was told by



an emaciated and sceptical old fellow with a tremendous whip, while we

trudged together over the sands by the side of a two-wheeled cart



loaded with dripping seaweed. Then at other times other people

confirmed and completed the story: till it stood at last before me, a



tale formidable and simple, as they always are, those disclosures of

obscure trials endured by ignorant hearts.



When he returned from his military service Jean-Pierre Bacadou found

the old people very much aged. He remarked with pain that the work of



the farm was not satisfactorily done. The father had not the energy of

old days. The hands did not feel over them the eye of the master.



Jean-Pierre noted with sorrow that the heap of manure in the courtyard

before the only entrance to the house was not so large as it should



have been. The fences were out of repair, and the cattle suffered from

neglect. At home the mother was practically bedridden, and the girls



chattered loudly in the big kitchen, unrebuked, from morning to night.

He said to himself: "We must change all this." He talked the matter



over with his father one evening when the rays of the setting sun

entering the yard between the outhouses ruled the heavy shadows with



luminous streaks. Over the manure heap floated a mist, opal-tinted and

odorous, and the marauding hens would stop in their scratching to



examine with a sudden glance of their round eye the two men, both lean

and tall, talking in hoarse tones. The old man, all twisted with



rheumatism and bowed with years of work, the younger bony and

straight, spoke without gestures in the indifferent manner of



peasants, grave and slow. But before the sun had set the father had

submitted to the sensible arguments of the son. "It is not for me that



I am speaking," insisted Jean-Pierre. "It is for the land. It's a pity

to see it badly used. I am not impatient for myself." The old fellow



nodded over his stick. "I dare say; I dare say," he muttered. "You may

be right. Do what you like. It's the mother that will be pleased."



The mother was pleased with her daughter-in-law. Jean-Pierre brought

the two-wheeled spring-cart with a rush into the yard. The gray horse



galloped clumsily, and the bride and bridegroom, sitting side by side,

were jerked backwards and forwards by the up and down motion of the



shafts, in a manner regular and brusque. On the road the distanced

wedding guests straggled in pairs and groups. The men advanced with



heavy steps, swinging their idle arms. They were clad in town clothes;

jackets cut with clumsy smartness, hard black hats, immense boots,



polished highly. Their women all in simple black, with white caps and

shawls of faded tints folded triangularly on the back, strolled



lightly by their side. In front the violin sang a strident tune, and

the biniou snored and hummed, while the player capered solemnly,



lifting high his heavy clogs. The sombre procession drifted in and out

of the narrow lanes, through sunshine and through shade, between



fields and hedgerows, scaring the little birds that darted away in




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