酷兔英语
    当前位置:
  1. 首页
  2. 文章
  3. 娱乐英语
  4. 原版小说
  5. 正文

The Arrow of Gold-Part39_JOSEPH CONRAD (1857-1924)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

0 收藏 0 分享 0 赞

章节正文
文章总共2页


sometime during the day, and that I was a different person from the

man whom I remembered getting out of my bed in the morning.



Also feelings had altered all their values. The words, too, had

become strange. It was only the inanimate surroundings that



remained what they had always been. For instance the studio. . . .

During my absence Senor Ortega had taken off his coat and I found



him as it were in the air, sitting in his shirt sleeves on a chair

which he had taken pains to place in the very middle of the floor.



I repressed an absurdimpulse to walk round him as though he had

been some sort of exhibit. His hands were spread over his knees



and he looked perfectlyinsensible. I don't mean strange, or

ghastly, or wooden, but just insensible - like an exhibit. And



that effect persisted even after he raised his black suspicious

eyes to my face. He lowered them almost at once. It was very



mechanical. I gave him up and became rather concerned about

myself. My thought was that I had better get out of that before



any more queer notions came into my head. So I only remained long

enough to tell him that the woman of the house was bringing down



some bedding and that I hoped that he would have a good night's

rest. And directly I spoke it struck me that this was the most



extraordinary speech that ever was addressed to a figure of that

sort. He, however, did not seem startled by it or moved in any



way. He simply said:

"Thank you."



In the darkest part of the long passage outside I met Therese with

her arms full of pillows and blankets.



CHAPTER V

Coming out of the bright light of the studio I didn't make out



Therese very distinctly. She, however, having groped in dark

cupboards, must have had her pupils sufficiently dilated to have



seen that I had my hat on my head. This has its importance because

after what I had said to her upstairs it must have convinced her



that I was going out on some midnight business. I passed her

without a word and heard behind me the door of the studio close



with an unexpected crash. It strikes me now that under the

circumstances I might have without shame gone back to listen at the



keyhole. But truth to say the association of events was not so

clear in my mind as it may be to the reader of this story. Neither



were the exact connections of persons present to my mind. And,

besides, one doesn't listen at a keyhole but in pursuance of some



plan; unless one is afflicted by a vulgar and fatuous curiosity.

But that vice is not in my character. As to plan, I had none. I



moved along the passage between the dead wall and the black-and-

white marbleelevation of the staircase with hushed footsteps, as



though there had been a mortally sick person somewhere in the

house. And the only person that could have answered to that



description was Senor Ortega. I moved on, stealthy, absorbed,

undecided; asking myself earnestly: "What on earth am I going to



do with him?" That exclusive preoccupation of my mind was as

dangerous to Senor Ortega as typhoid fever would have been. It



strikes me that this comparison is very exact. People recover from

typhoid fever, but generally the chance is considered poor. This



was precisely his case. His chance was poor; though I had no more

animosity towards him than a virulent disease has against the



victim it lays low. He really would have nothing to reproach me

with; he had run up against me, unwittingly, as a man enters an



infected place, and now he was very ill, very ill indeed. No, I

had no plans against him. I had only the feeling that he was in



mortal danger.

I believe that men of the most daringcharacter (and I make no



claim to it) often do shrink from the logical processes of thought.

It is only the devil, they say, that loves logic. But I was not a



devil. I was not even a victim of the devil. It was only that I

had given up the direction of my intelligence before the problem;



or rather that the problem had dispossessed my intelligence and

reigned in its stead side by side with a superstitious awe. A



dreadful order seemed to lurk in the darkest shadows of life. The

madness of that Carlist with the soul of a Jacobin, the vile fears



of Baron H., that excellent organizer of supplies, the contact of

their two ferocious stupidities, and last, by a remotedisaster at






文章总共2页
文章标签:名著  

章节正文
Copyright © 2023 Qeto All rights reserved.
商务合作 | 联系我们 | 关于我们 | 版权声明 | 隐私条款 | 如果智培

京ICP备05059198号-1 京公网安备 11011202003401号