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Green Mansions-Part30_W.H.Hudson(1841-1922)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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instruments and blowing of trumpets, put these things out of your

head. Nor must you begin to think meanly of yourself and be



abashed when you find yourself surrounded by saints and angels;

for you are not less than they, although it may not seem so at



first when you see them in their bright clothes, which, they say,

shine like the sun. I cannot ask you to tie a string round your



finger; I can only trust to your memory, which was always good,

even about the smallest things; and when you are asked, as no



doubt you will be, to express a wish, remember before everything

to speak of your grandfather, and his claims on you, also on your



angelic mother, to whom you will present my humble remembrances."

During this petition, which in other circumstances would have



moved me to laughter but now only irritated me, a subtle change

seemed to come to the apparentlylifeless girl to make me hope.



The small hand in mine felt not so icy cold, and though no

faintest colour had come to the face, its pallor had lost



something of its deathly waxen appearance; and now the compressed

lips had relaxed a little and seemed ready to part. I laid my



finger-tips on her heart and felt, or imagined that I felt, a

faint fluttering; and at last I became convinced that her heart



was really beating.

I turned my eyes on the old man, still bending forward, intently



watching for the sign he had asked her to make. My anger and

disgust at his gross earthy egoism had vanished. "Let us thank



God, old man," I said, the tears of joy half choking my

utterance. "She lives--she is recovering from her fit."



He drew back, and on his knees, with bowed head, murmured a

prayer of thanks to Heaven.



Together we continued watching her face for half an hour longer,

I still holding her in my arms, which could never grow weary of



that sweet burden, waiting for other, surer signs of returning

life; and she seemed now like one that had fallen into a



profound, death-like sleep which must end in death. Yet when I

remembered her face as it had looked an hour ago, I was confirmed



in the belief that the progress to recovery, so strangely slow,

was yet sure. So slow, so gradual was this passing from death to



life that we had hardly ceased to fear when we noticed that the

lips were parted, or almost parted, that they were no longer



white, and that under her pale, transparent skin a faint,

bluish-rosy colour was now visible. And at length, seeing that



all danger was past and recovery so slow, old Nuflo withdrew once

more to the fireside and, stretching himself out on the sandy



floor, soon fell into a deep sleep.

If he had not been lying there before me in the strong light of



the glowing embers and dancing flames, I could not have felt more

alone with Rima--alone amid those remote mountains, in that



secret cavern, with lights and shadows dancing on its grey vault.

In that profound silence and solitude the mysterious loveliness



of the still face I continued to gaze on, its appearance of life

without consciousness, produced a strange feeling in me, hard,



perhaps impossible, to describe.

Once, when clambering among the rough rocks, overgrown with



forest, among the Queneveta mountains, I came on a single white

flower which was new to me, which I have never seen since. After



I had looked long at it, and passed on, the image of that perfect

flower remained so persistently in my mind that on the following



day I went again, in the hope of seeing it still untouched by

decay. There was no change; and on this occasion I spent a much



longer time looking at it, admiring the marvellous beauty of its

form, which seemed so greatly to exceed that of all other



flowers. It had thick petals, and at first gave me the idea of

an artificial flower, cut by a divinely inspired artist from some



unknown precious stone, of the size of a large orange and whiter

than milk, and yet, in spite of its opacity, with a crystalline



lustre on the surface. Next day I went again, scarcely hoping to

find it still unwithered; it was fresh as if only just opened;



and after that I went often, sometimes at intervals of several

days, and still no faintest sign of any change, the clear,



exquisite lines still undimmed, the purity and lustre as I had

first seen it. Why, I often asked, does not this mystic forest



flower fade and perish like others? That first impression of its

artificial appearance had soon left me; it was, indeed, a flower,



and, like other flowers, had life and growth, only with that

transcendent beauty it had a different kind of life.



Unconscious, but higher; perhaps immortal. Thus it would

continue to bloom when I had looked my last on it; wind and rain



and sunlight would never stain, never tinge, its sacredpurity;




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