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The Arrow of Gold-Part46_JOSEPH CONRAD (1857-1924)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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sense of being engaged in a sort of nursery adventure she was no



child to carry. I could just do it. But not if she chose to

struggle. I set her down hastily and only supported her round the



waist for the rest of the way. My room, of course, was perfectly

dark but I led her straight to the sofa at once and let her fall on



it. Then as if I had in sober truth rescued her from an Alpine

height or an Arctic floe, I busied myself with nothing but lighting



the gas and starting the fire. I didn't even pause to lock my

door. All the time I was aware of her presence behind me, nay, of



something deeper and more my own - of her existence itself - of a

small blue flame, blue like her eyes, flickering and clear within



her frozen body. When I turned to her she was sitting very stiff

and upright, with her feet posed, hieratically on the carpet and



her head emerging out of the ample fur collar, such as a gem-like

flower above the rim of a dark vase. I tore the blankets and the



pillows off my bed and piled them up in readiness in a great heap

on the floor near the couch. My reason for this was that the room



was large, too large for the fireplace, and the couch was nearest

to the fire. She gave no sign but one of her wistful attempts at a



smile. In a most business-like way I took the arrow out of her

hair and laid it on the centre table. The tawny mass fell loose at



once about her shoulders and made her look even more desolate than

before. But there was an invincible need of gaiety in her heart.



She said funnily, looking at the arrow sparkling in the gas light:

"Ah! That poor philistinish ornament!"



An echo of our early days, not more innocent but so much more

youthful, was in her tone; and we both, as if touched with poignant



regret, looked at each other with enlightened eyes.

"Yes," I said, "how far away all this is. And you wouldn't leave



even that object behind when you came last in here. Perhaps it is

for that reason it haunted me - mostly at night. I dreamed of you



sometimes as a huntress nymph gleaming white through the foliage

and throwing this arrow like a dart straight at my heart. But it



never reached it. It always fell at my feet as I woke up. The

huntress never meant to strike down that particular quarry."



"The huntress was wild but she was not evil. And she was no nymph,

but only a goatherd girl. Dream of her no more, my dear."



I had the strength of mind to make a sign of assent and busied

myself arranging a couple of pillows at one end of the sofa. "Upon



my soul, goatherd, you are not responsible," I said. "You are not!

Lay down that uneasy head," I continued, forcing a half-playful



note into my immensesadness, "that has even dreamed of a crown -

but not for itself."



She lay down quietly. I covered her up, looked once into her eyes

and felt the restlessness of fatigue over-power me so that I wanted



to stagger out, walk straight before me, stagger on and on till I

dropped. In the end I lost myself in thought. I woke with a start



to her voice saying positively:

"No. Not even in this room. I can't close my eyes. Impossible.



I have a horror of myself. That voice in my ears. All true. All

true."



She was sitting up, two masses of tawny hair fell on each side of

her tense face. I threw away the pillows from which she had risen



and sat down behind her on the couch. "Perhaps like this," I

suggested, drawing her head gently on my breast. She didn't



resist, she didn't even sigh, she didn't look at me or attempt to

settle herself in any way. It was I who settled her after taking



up a position which I thought I should be able to keep for hours -

for ages. After a time I grew composed enough to become aware of



the ticking of the clock, even to take pleasure in it. The beat

recorded the moments of her rest, while I sat, keeping as still as



if my life depended upon it with my eyes fixed idly on the arrow of

gold gleaming and glittering dimly on the table under the lowered



gas-jet. And presently my breathing fell into the quiet rhythm of

the sleep which descended on her at last. My thought was that now



nothing mattered in the world because I had the world safe resting

in my arms - or was it in my heart?



Suddenly my heart seemed torn in two within my breast and half of

my breath knocked out of me. It was a tumultuous awakening. The



day had come. Dona Rita had opened her eyes, found herself in my

arms, and instantly had flung herself out of them with one sudden



effort. I saw her already standing in the filtered sunshine of the

closed shutters, with all the childlike horror and shame of that



night vibrating afresh in the awakened body of the woman.

"Daylight," she whispered in an appalled voice. "Don't look at me,



George. I can't face daylight. No - not with you. Before we set




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