‘IT grips me,’ Scobie said, ‘like a vice1.’
‘And what do you do then?’
‘Why nothing. I stay as still as I can until the pain goes.’
‘How long does it last?’
‘It’s difficult to tell, but I don’t think more than a minute.’
The stethoscope followed like a ritual. Indeed there was something clerical in all that Dr Travis did: an earnestness, almost a reverence2. Perhaps because he was young he treated the body with great respect; when he rapped the chest he did it slowly, carefully, with his ear bowed close as though he really expected somebody or something to rap back. Latin words came softly on to his tongue as though in the Mass - sternum instead of pacem.
‘And then,’ Scobie said, ‘there’s the sleeplessness3.’
The young man sat back behind his desk and tapped with an indelible pencil; there was a mauve smear4 at the corner of his mouth which seemed to indicate that sometimes - off guard - he sucked it. ‘That’s probably nerves,’ Dr Travis said, ‘apprehension of pain. Unimportant.’
‘It’s important to me. Can’t you give me something to take? I’m all right when once I get to sleep, but I lie awake for hours, waiting ... Sometimes I’m hardly fit for work. And a policeman, you know, needs his wits.’
‘Of course,’ Dr Travis said. ‘I’ll soon settle you. Evipan’s the stuff for you.’ It was as easy as all that. ‘Now for the pain -’ he began his tap, tap, tap, with the pencil. He said, ‘It’s impossible to be certain, of course .... I want you to note carefully the circumstances of every attack... what seems to bring it on. Then it will be quite possible to regulate it, avoid it almost entirely5.’
‘But what’s wrong?’
Dr Travis said, ‘There are some words that always shock the layman6. I wish we could call cancer by a symbol like H2O. People wouldn’t be nearly so disturbed. It’s the same with the world angina.’
‘You think it’s angina?’
‘It has all the characteristics. But men live for years with angina - even work in reason. We have to see exactly how much you can do.’
‘Should I tell my wife?’
‘There’s no point in not telling her. I’m afraid this might mean - retirement7.’
‘Is that all?’
‘You may die of a lot of things before angina gets you -given care.’
‘On the other hand I suppose it could happen any day?’
‘I can’t guarantee anything, Major Scobie. I’m not even absolutely satisfied that this is angina.’
‘I’ll speak to the Commissioner8 then on the quiet. I don’t want to alarm my wife until we are certain.’
‘If I were you, I’d tell her what I’ve said. It will prepare her. But tell her you may live for years with care.’
‘And the sleeplessness?’
‘This will make you sleep.’
Sitting in the car with the little package on the seat beside him, he thought, I have only now to choose the date. He didn’t start his car for quite a while; he was touched by a feeling of awe9 as if he had in fact been given his death sentence by the doctor. His eyes dwelt on the neat blob of sealing-wax like a dried wound. He thought, I have still got to be careful, so careful. If possible no one must even suspect. It was not only the question of his life insurance: the happiness of others had to be protected. It was not so easy to forget a suicide as a middle-aged10 man’s death from angina.
He unsealed the package and studied the directions. He had no knowledge of what a fatal dose might be, but surely if he took ten times the correct amount he would be safe. That meant every night for nine nights removing a dose and keeping it secretly for use on the tenth night. More evidence must be invented in his diary which had to be written right up to the end - November 12. He must make engagements for the following week. In his behaviour there must be no hint of farewells. This was the worst crime a Catholic could commit -it must be a perfect one.
First the Commissioner... He drove down towards the police station and stopped his car outside the church. The solemnity of the crime lay over his mind almost like happiness: it was action at last - he had fumbled11 and muddled12 too long. He put the package for safekeeping into his pocket and went in, carrying his death. An old mammy was lighting13 a candle before the Virgin’s statue; another sat with her market basket beside her and her hands folded staring up at the altar. Otherwise the church was empty. Scobie sat down at the back: he had no inclination14 to pray - what was the good? If one was a Catholic, one had all the answers: no prayer was effective in a state of mortal sin, but he watched the other two with sad envy. They were still inhabitants of the country he had left. This was what human love had done to him - it had robbed him of love for eternity15. It was no use pretending as a young man might that the price was worth white.
If he couldn’t pray he could at least talk, sitting there at the back, as far as he could get from Golgotha. He said, O God, I am the only guilty one because I’ve known the answers all the time. I’ve preferred to give you pain rather than give pain to Helen or my wife because I can’t observe your suffering. I can only imagine it But there are limits to what I can do to you - or them. I can’t desert either of them while I’m alive, but I can die and remove myself from their blood stream. They are ill with me and I can cure them. And you too, God - you are ill with me. I can’t go on, month after month, insulting you. I can’t face coming up to the altar at Christmas - your birthday feast - and taking your body and blood for the sake of a lie. I can’t do that. You’ll be better off if you lose me once and for all. I know what I’m doing. I’m not pleading for mercy. I am going to damn myself, whatever that means. I’ve longed for peace and I’m never going to know peace again. But you’ll be at peace when I am out of your reach. It will be no use then sweeping16 the floor to find me or searching for me over the mountains. You’ll be able to forget me, God, for eternity. One hand clasped the package in his pocket like a promise.
No one can speak a monologue17 for long alone - another voice will always make itself heard; every monologue sooner or later becomes a discussion. So now he couldn’t keep the other voice silent; it spoke18 from the cave of his body: it was as if the sacrament which had lodged19 there for his damnation gave tongue. You say you love me, and yet you’ll do this to me - rob me of you for ever. I made you with love. I’ve wept your tears. I’ve saved you from more man you will ever know; I planted in you this longing20 for peace only so that one day I could satisfy your longing and watch your happiness. And now you push me away, you put me out of your reach. There are no capital letters to separate us when we talk together. I am not Thou but simply you, when you speak to me; I am humble21 as any other beggar. Can’t you trust me as you’d trust a faithful dog? I have been faithful to you for two thousand years. All you have to do now is ring a bell, go into a box, confess ... the repentance22 is already there, straining at your heart. It’s not repentance you lack, just a few simple actions: to go up to the Nissen hut and say good-bye. Or if you must, continue rejecting me but without lies any more. Go to your house and say good-bye to your wife and live with your mistress. If you live you will come back to me sooner or later. One of them will suffer, but can’t you trust me to see that the suffering isn’t too great?
The voice was silent in the cave and his own voice replied hopelessly: No. I don’t trust you. I’ve never trusted you. If you made me, you made this feeling of responsibility that I’ve always carried about like a sack of bricks. I’m not a policeman for nothing - responsible for order, for seeing justice is done. There was no other profession for a man of my kind. I can’t shift my responsibility to you. If I could, I would be someone else. I can’t make one of them suffer so as to save myself. I’m responsible and I’ll see it through the only way I can. A sick man’s death means to them only a short suffering - everybody has to die. We are all of us resigned to death: it’s life we aren’t resigned to.
So long as you live, the voice said, I have hope. There’s no human hopelessness like the hopelessness of God. Can’t you just go on, as you are doing now? the voice pleaded, lowering the terms every time it spoke like a dealer23 in a market. It explained: mere24 are worse acts. But no, he said, no. That’s impossible. I won’t go on insulting you at your own altar. You see it’s an impasse25, God, an impasse, he said, clutching the package in his pocket. He got up and turned his back on the altar and went out. Only when he saw his face in the driving mirror did he realize that his eyes were bruised26 with suppressed tears. He drove on towards the police station and the Commissioner.
收听单词发音 |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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3
sleeplessness
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| n.失眠，警觉 | |
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smear
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| v.涂抹；诽谤，玷污；n.污点；诽谤，污蔑 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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layman
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| n.俗人，门外汉，凡人 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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commissioner
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| n.（政府厅、局、处等部门）专员，长官，委员 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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12
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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13
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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monologue
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| n.长篇大论，（戏剧等中的）独白 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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impasse
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| n.僵局；死路 | |
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bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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