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The Arrow of Gold-Part41_JOSEPH CONRAD (1857-1924)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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to me a complete solution for all the problems that life presents -



even as to the very death itself.

Only the unwelcomereflection that this was impossible made me get



up at last with a sigh of deep grief at the end of the dream. But

I got up without despair. She didn't murmur, she didn't stir.



There was something august in the stillness of the room. It was a

strange peace which she shared with me in this unexpected shelter



full of disorder in its neglected splendour. What troubled me was

the sudden, as it were material, consciousness of time passing as



water flows. It seemed to me that it was only the tenacity of my

sentiment that held that woman's body, extended and tranquil above



the flood. But when I ventured at last to look at her face I saw

her flushed, her teeth clenched - it was visible - her nostrils



dilated, and in her narrow, level-glancing eyes a look of inward

and frightened ecstasy. The edges of the fur coat had fallen open



and I was moved to turn away. I had the same impression as on the

evening we parted that something had happened which I did not



understand; only this time I had not touched her at all. I really

didn't understand. At the slightest whisper I would now have gone



out without a murmur, as though that emotion had given her the

right to be obeyed. But there was no whisper; and for a long time



I stood leaning on my arm, looking into the fire and feeling

distinctly between the four walls of that locked room the unchecked



time flow past our two stranded personalities.

And suddenly she spoke. She spoke in that voice that was so



profoundly moving without ever being sad, a little wistful perhaps

and always the supreme expression of her grace. She asked as if



nothing had happened:

"What are you thinking of, amigo?"



I turned about. She was lying on her side, tranquil above the

smooth flow of time, again closely wrapped up in her fur, her head



resting on the old-gold sofa cushionbearing like everything else

in that room the decoratively enlaced letters of her monogram; her



face a little pale now, with the crimson lobe of her ear under the

tawny mist of her loose hair, the lips a little parted, and her



glance of melted sapphire level and motionless, darkened by

fatigue.



"Can I think of anything but you?" I murmured, taking a seat near

the foot of the couch. "Or rather it isn't thinking, it is more



like the consciousness of you always being present in me, complete

to the last hair, to the faintest shade of expression, and that not



only when we are apart but when we are together, alone, as close as

this. I see you now lying on this couch but that is only the



insensible phantom of the real you that is in me. And it is the

easier for me to feel this because that image which others see and



call by your name - how am I to know that it is anything else but

an enchanting mist? You have always eluded me except in one or two



moments which seem still more dream-like than the rest. Since I

came into this room you have done nothing to destroy my conviction



of your unreality apart from myself. You haven't offered me your

hand to touch. Is it because you suspect that apart from me you



are but a mere phantom, and that you fear to put it to the test?"

One of her hands was under the fur and the other under her cheek.



She made no sound. She didn't offer to stir. She didn't move her

eyes, not even after I had added after waiting for a while,



"Just what I expected. You are a cold illusion."

She smiled mysteriously, right away from me, straight at the fire,



and that was all.

CHAPTER VI



I had a momentarysuspicion that I had said something stupid. Her

smile amongst many other things seemed to have meant that, too.



And I answered it with a certain resignation:

"Well, I don't know that you are so much mist. I remember once



hanging on to you like a drowning man . . . But perhaps I had

better not speak of this. It wasn't so very long ago, and you may



. . . "

"I don't mind. Well . . ."






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