With her eye still fixed1 upon her burden, she glanced up at the number of the door—333. She had been determined2 all through not to forget that. Then she turned the latch3 and crept in. The chamber4 also was dark after the gaslight on the stairs, but that was so much the better. She herself had put out the two candles on the dressing-table before she had left her husband. As she was closing the door behind her she paused, and could hear that he was sleeping. She was well aware that she had been long absent,—quite long enough for a man to fall into slumber5 who was given that way. She must have been gone, she thought, fully6 an hour. There had been no end to that turning over of napkins which she had so well known to be altogether vain. She paused at the centre table of the room, still looking at the mustard, which she now delicately dried from off her hand. She had had no idea that it would have been so difficult to carry so light and so small an affair. But there it was, and nothing had been lost. She took some small instrument from the washing-stand, and with the handle collected the flowing fragments into the centre. Then the question occurred to her whether, as her husband was sleeping so sweetly, it would be well to disturb him. She listened again, and felt that the slight murmur7 of a snore{215} with which her ears were regaled was altogether free from any real malady8 in the throat. Then it occurred to her, that after all, fatigue9 perhaps had only made him cross. She bethought herself how, during the whole journey, she had failed to believe in his illness. What meals he had eaten! How thoroughly10 he had been able to enjoy his full complement11 of cigars! And then that glass of brandy, against which she had raised her voice slightly in feminine opposition12. And now he was sleeping there like an infant, with full, round, perfected, almost sonorous13 workings of the throat. Who does not know that sound, almost of two rusty14 bits of iron scratching against each other, which comes from a suffering windpipe? There was no semblance15 of that here. Why disturb him when he was so thoroughly enjoying that rest which, more certainly than anything else, would fit him for the fatigue of the morrow’s journey?
I think that, after all her labour, she would have left the pungent16 cataplasm on the table, and have crept gently into bed beside him, had not a thought suddenly struck her of the great injury he had been doing her if he were not really ill. To send her down there, in a strange hotel, wandering among the passages, in the middle of the night, subject to the contumely of anyone who might meet her, on a commission which, if it were not sanctified by absolute necessity, would be so thoroughly objectionable! At this moment she hardly did believe that he had ever really been ill. Let him have the cataplasm; if not as a remedy, then{216} as a punishment. It could, at any rate, do him no harm. It was with an idea of avenging17 rather than of justifying18 the past labours of the night that she proceeded at once to quick action.
Leaving the candle on the table so that she might steady her right hand with the left, she hurried stealthily to the bedside. Even though he was behaving badly to her, she would not cause him discomfort19 by waking him roughly. She would do a wife’s duty to him as a British matron should. She would not only put the warm mixture on his neck, but would sit carefully by him for twenty minutes, so that she might relieve him from it when the proper period should have come for removing the counter irritation20 from his throat. There would doubtless be some little difficulty in this,—in collecting the mustard after it had served her purpose. Had she been at home, surrounded by her own comforts, the application would have been made with some delicate linen21 bag, through which the pungency22 of the spice would have penetrated23 with strength sufficient for the purpose. But the circumstance of the occasion had not admitted this. She had, she felt, done wonders in achieving so much success as this which she had obtained. If there should be anything disagreeable in the operation he must submit to it. He had asked for mustard for his throat, and mustard he should have.
As these thoughts passed quickly through her mind, leaning over him in the dark, with her eye fixed on the mixture lest it should slip, she gently raised his flowing{217} beard with her left hand, and with her other inverted24 rapidly, steadily25 but very softly fixed the handkerchief on his throat. From the bottom of his chin to the spot at which the collar bones meeting together form the orifice of the chest it covered the whole noble expanse. There was barely time for a glance, but never had she been more conscious of the grand proportions of that manly26 throat. A sweet feeling of pity came upon her, causing her to determine to relieve his sufferings in the shorter space of fifteen minutes. He had been lying on his back, with his lips apart, and, as she held back his beard, that and her hand nearly covered the features of his face. But he made no violent effort to free himself from the encounter. He did not even move an arm or a leg. He simply emitted a snore louder than any that had come before. She was aware that it was not his wont27 to be so loud—that there was generally something more delicate and perhaps more querulous in his nocturnal voice, but then the present circumstances were exceptional. She dropped the beard very softly—and there on the pillow before her lay the face of a stranger. She had put the mustard plaster on the wrong man.
Not Priam wakened in the dead of night, not Dido when first she learned that ?neas had fled, not Othello when he learned that Desdemona had been chaste28, not Medea when she became conscious of her slaughtered29 children, could have been more struck with horror than was this British matron as she stood for a moment gazing with awe30 on that stranger’s bed. One vain,{218} half-completed, snatching grasp she made at the handkerchief, and then drew back her hand. If she were to touch him would he not wake at once, and find her standing31 there in his bedroom? And then how could she explain it? By what words could she so quickly make him know the circumstances of that strange occurrence that he should accept it all before he had said a word that might offend her? For a moment she stood all but paralyzed after that faint ineffectual movement of her arm. Then he stirred his head uneasily on the pillow, opened wider his lips, and twice in rapid succession snored louder than before. She started back a couple of paces, and with her body placed between him and the candle, with her face averted32, but with her hand still resting on the foot of the bed, she endeavoured to think what duty required of her.
She had injured the man. Though she had done it most unwittingly, there could be no doubt but that she had injured him. If for a moment she could be brave, the injury might in truth be little; but how disastrous33 might be the consequences if she were now in her cowardice34 to leave him, who could tell? Applied35 for fifteen to twenty minutes a mustard plaster may be the salvation36 of a throat ill at ease, but if left there throughout the night upon the neck of a strong man, ailing37 nothing, only too prone38 in his strength to slumber soundly, how sad, how painful, for aught she knew how dangerous might be the effects! And surely it was an error which any man with a heart in his bosom39 would pardon! Judging from what little she had seen of him{219} she thought that he must have a heart in his bosom. Was it not her duty to wake him, and then quietly to extricate40 him from the embarrassment41 which she had brought upon him?
But in doing this what words should she use? How should she wake him? How should she make him understand her goodness, her beneficence, her sense of duty, before he should have jumped from the bed and rushed to the bell, and have summoned all above and all below to the rescue? “Sir, sir, do not move, do not stir, do not scream. I have put a mustard plaster on your throat, thinking that you were my husband. As yet no harm has been done. Let me take it off, and then hold your peace for ever.” Where is the man of such native constancy and grace of spirit that, at the first moment of waking with a shock, he could hear these words from the mouth of an unknown woman by his bedside, and at once obey them to the letter? Would he not surely jump from his bed, with that horrid42 compound falling about him,—from which there could be no complete relief unless he would keep his present attitude without a motion? The picture which presented itself to her mind as to his probable conduct was so terrible that she found herself unable to incur43 the risk.
Then an idea presented itself to her mind. We all know how in a moment quick thoughts will course through the subtle brain. She would find that porter and send him to explain it all. There should be no concealment44 now. She would tell the story and would bid him to find the necessary aid. Alas45! as she told{220} herself that she would do so, she knew well that she was only running from the danger which it was her duty to encounter. Once again she put out her hand as though to return along the bed. Then thrice he snorted louder than before, and moved up his knee uneasily beneath the clothes as though the sharpness of the mustard were already working upon his skin. She watched him for a moment longer, and then, with the candle in her hand, she fled.
Poor human nature! Had he been an old man, even a middle-aged46 man, she would not have left him to his unmerited sufferings. As it was, though she completely recognised her duty, and knew what justice and goodness demanded of her, she could not do it. But there was still left to her that plan of sending the night-porter to him. It was not till she was out of the room and had gently closed the door behind her, that she began to bethink herself how she had made the mistake. With a glance of her eye she looked up, and then saw the number on the door: 353. Remarking to herself, with a Briton’s natural criticism on things French, that those horrid foreigners do not know how to make their figures, she scudded47 rather than ran along the corridor, and then down some stairs and along another passage,—so that she might not be found in the neighbourhood should the poor man in his agony rush rapidly from his bed.
In the confusion of her first escape she hardly ventured to look for her own passage,—nor did she in the least know how she had lost her way when she came{221} upstairs with the mustard in her hand. But at the present moment her chief object was the night-porter. She went on descending48 till she came again to that vestibule, and looking up at the clock saw that it was now past one. It was not yet midnight when she left her husband, but she was not at all astonished at the lapse49 of time. It seemed to her as though she had passed a night among these miseries50. And, oh, what a night! But there was yet much to be done. She must find that porter, and then return to her own suffering husband. Ah,—what now should she say to him? If he should really be ill, how should she assuage51 him? And yet how more than ever necessary was it that they should leave that hotel early in the morning,—that they should leave Paris by the very earliest and quickest train that would take them as fugitives52 from their present dangers! The door of the salon53 was open, but she had no courage to go in search of a second supply. She would have lacked strength to carry it up the stairs. Where now, oh, where, was that man? From the vestibule she made her way into the hall, but everything seemed to be deserted54. Through the glass she could see a light in the court beyond, but she could not bring herself to endeavour even to open the hall doors.
And now she was very cold,—chilled to her very bones. All this had been done at Christmas, and during such severity of weather as had never before been experienced by living Parisians. A feeling of great pity for herself gradually came upon her. What{222} wrong had she done that she should be so grievously punished? Why should she be driven to wander about in this way till her limbs were failing her? And then, so absolutely important as it was that her strength should support her in the morning! The man would not die even though he were left there without aid, to rid himself of the cataplasm as best he might. Was it absolutely necessary that she should disgrace herself?
But she could not even procure55 the means of disgracing herself, if that telling her story to the night-porter would have been a disgrace. She did not find him, and at last resolved to make her way back to her own room without further quest. She began to think that she had done all that she could do. No man was ever killed by a mustard plaster on his throat. His discomfort at the worst would not be worse than hers had been—or too probably than that of her poor husband. So she went back up the stairs and along the passages, and made her way on this occasion to the door of her room without any difficulty. The way was so well known to her that she could not but wonder that she had failed before. But now her hands had been empty, and her eyes had been at her full command. She looked up, and there was the number, very manifest on this occasion,—333. She opened the door most gently, thinking that her husband might be sleeping as soundly as that other man had slept, and she crept into the room.
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1
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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latch
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| n.门闩，窗闩；弹簧锁 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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6
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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7
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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complement
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| n.补足物，船上的定员；补语；vt.补充，补足 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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14
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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15
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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17
avenging
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| adj.报仇的，复仇的v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的现在分词 )；为…报复 | |
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18
justifying
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| 证明…有理( justify的现在分词 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
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19
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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20
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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21
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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22
pungency
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| n.（气味等的）刺激性；辣；（言语等的）辛辣；尖刻 | |
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23
penetrated
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| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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slaughtered
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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31
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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32
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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35
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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37
ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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38
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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40
extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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41
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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42
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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43
incur
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| vt.招致，蒙受，遭遇 | |
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44
concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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45
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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46
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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47
scudded
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| v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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49
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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50
miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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51
assuage
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| v.缓和，减轻，镇定 | |
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52
fugitives
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| n.亡命者，逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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53
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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54
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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55
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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