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Tales of Unrest-Part25_JOSEPH CONRAD (1857-1924)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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would pass--and nobody would know. Never! Not till death--not

after . . .



"Never!" he said aloud to the revealing night.

And he hesitated. The secret of hearts, too terrible for the timid



eyes of men, shall return, veiled forever, to the Inscrutable Creator

of good and evil, to the Master of doubts and impulses. His conscience



was born--he heard its voice, and he hesitated, ignoring the strength

within, the fateful power, the secret of his heart! It was an awful



sacrifice to cast all one's life into the flame of a new belief. He

wanted help against himself, against the cruel decree of salvation.



The need of tacit complicity, where it had never failed him, the habit

of years affirmed itself. Perhaps she would help . . . He flung the



door open and rushed in like a fugitive.

He was in the middle of the room before he could see anything but the



dazzling brilliance of the light; and then, as if detached and

floating in it on the level of his eyes, appeared the head of a woman.



She had jumped up when he burst into the room.

For a moment they contemplated each other as if struck dumb with



amazement. Her hair streaming on her shoulders glinted like burnished

gold. He looked into the unfathomable candour of her eyes. Nothing



within--nothing--nothing.

He stammered distractedly.



"I want . . . I want . . . to . . . to . . . know . . ."

On the candid light of the eyes flitted shadows; shadows of doubt, of



suspicion, the ready suspicion of an unquenchable antagonism, the

pitiless mistrust of an eternalinstinct of defence; the hate, the



profound, frightened hate of an incomprehensible--of an abominable

emotion intruding its coarse materialism upon the spiritual and tragic



contest of her feelings.

"Alvan . . . I won't bear this . . ." She began to pant suddenly,



"I've a right--a right to--to--myself . . ."

He lifted one arm, and appeared so menacing that she stopped in a



fright and shrank back a little.

He stood with uplifted hand . . . The years would pass--and he would



have to live with that unfathomable candour where flit shadows of

suspicions and hate . . . The years would pass--and he would never



know--never trust . . . The years would pass without faith and

love. . . .



"Can you stand it?" he shouted, as though she could have heard all his

thoughts.



He looked menacing. She thought of violence, of danger--and, just for

an instant, she doubted whether there were splendours enough on earth



to pay the price of such a brutal experience. He cried again:

"Can you stand it?" and glared as if insane. Her eyes blazed, too. She



could not hear the appalling clamour of his thoughts. She suspected in

him a sudden regret, a fresh fit of jealousy, a dishonest desire of



evasion. She shouted back angrily--

"Yes!"



He was shaken where he stood as if by a struggle to break out of

invisible bonds. She trembled from head to foot.



"Well, I can't!" He flung both his arms out, as if to push her away,

and strode from the room. The door swung to with a click. She made



three quick steps towards it and stood still, looking at the white and

gold panels. No sound came from beyond, not a whisper, not a sigh; not



even a footstep was heard outside on the thick carpet. It was as

though no sooner gone he had suddenly expired--as though he had died



there and his body had vanished on the instant together with his soul.

She listened, with parted lips and irresolute eyes. Then below, far



below her, as if in the entrails of the earth, a door slammed heavily;

and the quiet house vibrated to it from roof to foundations, more than



to a clap of thunder.

He never returned.



THE LAGOON

The white man, leaning with both arms over the roof of the little



house in the stern of the boat, said to the steersman--

"We will pass the night in Arsat's clearing. It is late."






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