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Tales of Unrest-Part10_JOSEPH CONRAD (1857-1924)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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violence and murder discreetly, in a venomous sibillation of subdued

words. The atmosphere in there was thick enough to slice with a knife.



Three candles burning about the long room glowed red and dull like

sparks expiring in ashes.



The slight click of the iron latch was at that late hour as unexpected

and startling as a thunder-clap. Madame Levaille put down a bottle she



held above a liqueur glass; the players turned their heads; the

whispered quarrel ceased; only the singer, after darting a glance at



the door, went on humming with a stolid face. Susan appeared in the

doorway, stepped in, flung the door to, and put her back against it,



saying, half aloud--

"Mother!"



Madame Levaille, taking up the bottle again, said calmly: "Here you

are, my girl. What a state you are in!" The neck of the bottle rang on



the rim of the glass, for the old woman was startled, and the idea

that the farm had caught fire had entered her head. She could think of



no other cause for her daughter's appearance.

Susan, soaked and muddy, stared the whole length of the room towards



the men at the far end. Her mother asked--

"What has happened? God guard us from misfortune!"



Susan moved her lips. No sound came. Madame Levaille stepped up to her

daughter, took her by the arm, looked into her face.



"In God's name," she said, shakily, "what's the matter? You have been

rolling in mud. . . . Why did you come? . . . Where's Jean?"



The men had all got up and approached slowly, staring with dull

surprise. Madame Levaille jerked her daughter away from the door,



swung her round upon a seat close to the wall. Then she turned

fiercely to the men--



"Enough of this! Out you go--you others! I close."

One of them observed, looking down at Susan collapsed on the seat:



"She is--one may say--half dead."

Madame Levaille flung the door open.



"Get out! March!" she cried, shaking nervously.

They dropped out into the night, laughing stupidly. Outside, the two



Lotharios broke out into loud shouts. The others tried to soothe them,

all talking at once. The noise went away up the lane with the men, who



staggered together in a tight knot, remonstrating with one another

foolishly.



"Speak, Susan. What is it? Speak!" entreated Madame Levaille, as soon

as the door was shut.



Susan pronounced some incomprehensible words, glaring at the table.

The old woman clapped her hands above her head, let them drop, and



stood looking at her daughter with disconsolate eyes. Her husband had

been "deranged in his head" for a few years before he died, and now



she began to suspect her daughter was going mad. She asked,

pressingly--



"Does Jean know where you are? Where is Jean?"

"He knows . . . he is dead."



"What!" cried the old woman. She came up near, and peering at her

daughter, repeated three times: "What do you say? What do you say?



What do you say?"

Susan sat dry-eyed and stony before Madame Levaille, who



contemplated her, feeling a strange sense of inexplicablehorror creep

into the silence of the house. She had hardly realised the news,



further than to understand that she had been brought in one short

moment face to face with something unexpected and final. It did not



even occur to her to ask for any explanation. She thought:

accident--terrible accident--blood to the head--fell down a trap door



in the loft. . . . She remained there, distracted and mute, blinking

her old eyes.



Suddenly, Susan said--

"I have killed him."



For a moment the mother stood still, almost unbreathing, but with

composed face. The next second she burst out into a shout--



"You miserable madwoman . . . they will cut your neck. . . ."

She fancied the gendarmes entering the house, saying to her: "We want



your daughter; give her up:" the gendarmes with the severe, hard faces

of men on duty. She knew the brigadier well--an old friend, familiar



and respectful, sayingheartily, "To your good health, Madame!" before

lifting to his lips the small glass of cognac--out of the special



bottle she kept for friends. And now! . . . She was losing her head.




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