"It took her yesterday," said Julie, while the vehicle rumbled2 heavily through the streets, "but you see it had to happen. Our poor demoiselle had been changing for weeks past. She was so trustful, so gentle, so just; she scolded, she ferreted about, she suspected—there, then, her head was all astray. She talked of nothing but thieves and assassins; she thought everybody wanted to do her some harm, the tradespeople, Jean Mariette, myself—yes, I too. She went into the cellar every day to count the bottles of wine, and wrote the number down on a paper. The next day she found the same number, and she would maintain the paper was not the same, she disowned her own handwriting. I wanted to tell you this the last time you came here, but I did not venture to say anything; I was afraid it would worry you, and then I thought these were only freaks, that she was a little crazy, and it would pass off. Well, then, I came down yesterday to keep her company at her dinner, as she always liked me to do, because, you know, she was fond of me in reality, whether she was ill or well. I could not find her. Mariette, Jean, and I searched everywhere, and at last Jean bethought him of letting the dog loose; the animal brought us straight to the wood-stock, and there we found her lying at full length upon the ground. No doubt she had gone to the stack to count the logs. We lifted her up, our poor dear demoiselle! Her mouth was crooked3, and one side of her could not move. She began to talk. Then we thought she was mad, for she said senseless words which we could not understand; but the doctor assures us that she is perfectly4 clear in her head, only that she utters one word when she means another. She gets angry if we do not obey her on the instant. Last night when I was sitting up with her she asked for some pins. I brought them and she was angry. Would you believe that it was the time of night she wanted to know? At length, by dint5 of questioning her, and by her yesses and noes, which she expresses with her sound hand, I have come to make out her meaning. If you only knew how troubled she was all night about you; I saw it, and when I uttered your name her eyes brightened. She repeats words, you would think she raves6: she calls for you. Now look here, M. Andre, it was the ideas she had about your poor father that brought on her illness. All these last weeks she talked of nothing else. She would say: 'If only they do not kill Andre also. As for me, I am old, but he so young, so good, so gentle.' And she cried—yes, she cried incessantly7. 'Who is it that you think wants to harm M. Andre?' I asked her. Then she turned away from me with a look of distrust that cut me to the heart, although I knew that her head was astray. The doctor says that she believes herself persecuted8, and that it is a mania9; he also says that she may recover, but will never have her speech again."
I listened to Julie's talk in silence; I made no answer. I was not surprised that my Aunt Louise had begun to be attacked by a mental malady10; the trials of her life sufficiently11 explained this, and I could also account for several singularities that I had observed in her attitude towards me of late. She had surprised me much by asking me to bring back a book of my father's which I had never thought of taking away. "Return it to me," she said, insisting upon it so strongly, that I instituted a search for the book, and at last unearthed12 it from the bottom of a cupboard where it had been placed, as if on purpose, under a heap of other books. Julie's prolix13 narrative14 only enlightened me as to the sad cause of what I had taken for the oddity of a fidgety and lonely old maid.
On the other hand, I could not take the ideas of my father's death so philosophically15 as Julie accepted them. What were those ideas? Many a time, in the course of conversation with her, I had vaguely16 felt that she was not opening her heart quite freely to me. Her determined17 opposition18 to my plans of a personal inquiry19 might proceed from her piety20, which would naturally cause her to disapprove21 of any thought or project of vengeance22, but was there nothing else, nothing besides that piety in question? Her strange solicitude23 for my personal safety, which even led her to entreat24 me not to go out unarmed in the evening, or get into an empty compartment25 in a train, with other counsels of the same kind, was no doubt caused by morbid26 excitement; still her constant and distressing27 dread28 might possibly rest upon a less vague foundation than I imagined.
I also recalled, with a certain apprehension29, that so soon as she ceased to be able completely to control her mind these strange fears took stronger possession of her than before. "What!" said I to myself, "am I becoming like her, that I let such things occur to me? Are not these fixed30 ideas quite natural in a person whose brain is racked by the mania of persecution31, and who has lost a beloved brother under circumstances equally mysterious and tragical32?"
"She is awake," said Julie, who had taken the maid's place at the foot of the bed. I approached my aunt and called her by her name. I then clearly saw her poor face distorted by paralysis33.
She recognized me, and as I bent34 down to kiss her, she stroked my cheek with her sound hand. This caress35, which was habitual36 with her, she repeated slowly several times. I placed her, with Julie's assistance, on her back, so that she could see me distinctly; she looked at me for a long time, and two heavy tears fell from the eyes in which I read boundless37 tenderness, supreme38 anguish39, and inexpressible pity. I answered them by my own tears, which she dried with the back of her hand; then she strove to speak to me, but could only pronounce an incoherent sentence that struck me to the heart. She saw, by the expression of my face, that I had not understood her, and she made a desperate effort to find words in which to render the thought evidently precise and lucid40 in her mind. Once more she uttered an unintelligible41 phrase, and began again to make the feeble gesture of despairing helplessness which had so shocked me at her waking. She appeared, however, to take courage when I put the question to her: "What do you want of me, dear aunt?" She made a sign that Julie was to leave the room, and no sooner were we alone than her face changed. With my help she was able to slip her hand under her pillow, and withdraw her bunch of keys; then separating one key from the others she imitated the opening of a lock. I immediately remembered her groundless fears of being robbed and I asked her whether she wanted the box to which that key belonged. It was a small key of a kind that is specially42 made for safety locks. I saw that I had guessed aright; she was able to get out the word "yes," and her eyes brightened.
"But where is this box?" I asked. Once more she replied by a sentence of which I could make nothing; and, seeing that she was relapsing into a state of agitation43, with the former heart-rending movement, I begged her to allow me to question her and to answer by gestures only. After some minutes, I succeeded in discovering that the box in question was locked up in one of the two large cupboards below stairs, and that the key of the cupboard was on the ring with the others. I went downstairs, leaving her alone, as she had desired me by signs to do. I had no difficulty in finding the casket to which the little key adapted itself; although it was carefully placed behind a bonnet-box and a case of silver forks. The casket was of sweet-scented wood, and the initials J. C. were inlaid upon the lid in gold and platinum44. J. C., Justin Cornelies— so, it had belonged to my father. I tried the key in the lock, to make quite sure that I was not mistaken.
I then raised the lid, and glanced at the contents almost mechanically, supposing that I was about to find a roll of business papers, probably shares, a few trinket-cases, and rouleaux of napoleons, a small treasure in fact, hidden away from motives45 of fear. Instead of this, I beheld46 several small packets carefully wrapped in paper, each being endorsed47 with the words, "Justin's Letters," and the year in which they were written. My aunt had preserved these letters with the same pious48 care that had kept her from allowing anything whatever belonging to him in whom the deepest affection of her life had centered, to be lost, parted with, or injured.
But why had she never spoken to me of this treasure, which was more precious to me than to anyone else in the world? I asked myself that question as I closed the box; then I reflected that no doubt she desired to retain the letters to the last hour of her life; and, satisfied with this explanation, I went upstairs again.
From the doorway49 my eyes met hers, and I could not mistake their look of impatience50 and intense anxiety. I placed the little coffer on her bed and she instantly opened it, took out a packet of letters, then another, finally kept only one out, replaced those she had removed at first, locked the box, and signed to me to place it on the chest of drawers. While I was clearing away the things on the top of the drawers, to make a clear space for the box, I caught sight, in the glass opposite to me, of the sick woman. By a great effort she had turned herself partly on her side, and she was trying to throw the packet of letters which she had retained into the fireplace; it was on the right of her bed, and only about a yard away from the foot. But she could hardly raise herself at all, the movement of her hand was too weak, and the little parcel fell on the floor. I hastened to her, to replace her head on the pillows and her body in the middle of the bed, and then, with her powerless arm she again began to make that terrible gesture of despair, clutching the sheet with her thin fingers, while tears streamed from her poor eyes.
Ah! how bitterly ashamed I am of what I am going to write in this place! I will write it, however, for I have sworn to myself that I will be true, even to the avowal51 of that fault, even to the avowal of a worse still. I had no difficulty in understanding what was passing in my aunt's mind; the little packet—it had fallen on the carpet close to the fender—evidently contained letters which she wished to destroy, so that I should not read them. She might have burned them, dreading52 as she did their fatal influence upon me, long since; yet I understood why she had shrunk from doing this, year after year, I, who knew with what idolatry she worshipped the smallest objects that had belonged to my father. Had I not seen her put away the blotting-book which he used when he came to Compiegne, with the paper and envelopes that were in it at his last visit?
Yes, she had gone on waiting, still waiting, before she could bring herself to part forever with those dear and dangerous letters, and then her sudden illness came, and with it the terrible thought that these papers would come into my possession. I could also take into account that the unreasonable53 distrust which she had yielded to of late had prevented her from asking Jean or Julie for the little coffer. This was the secret—I understood it on the instant—of the poor thing's impatience for my arrival, the secret also of the trouble I had witnessed. And now her strength had betrayed her. She had vainly endeavored to throw the letters into the fire, that fire which she could hear crackling, without being able to raise her head so as to see the flame. All these notions which presented themselves suddenly to my thoughts took form afterwards; at the moment they melted into pity for the suffering of the helpless creature before me.
"Do not disturb yourself, dear aunt," said I, as I drew the coverlet up to her shoulders, "I am going to burn those letters."
She raised her eyes, full of eager supplication54. I closed the lids with my lips and stooped to pick up the little packet. On the paper in which it was folded, I distinctly read this date: "1864— Justin's letters." 1864! that was the last year of my father's life. I know it, I feel it, that which I did was infamous55; the last wishes of the dying are sacred. I ought not, no, I ought not to have deceived her who was on the point of leaving me forever. I heard her breathing quicken at that very moment. Then came a whirlwind of thought too strong for me. If my Aunt Louise was so wildly, passionately56 eager that those letters should be burned, it was because they could put me on the right track of vengeance. Letters written in the last year of my father's life, and she had never spoken of them to me! I did not reason, I did not hesitate, in a lightning-flash I perceived the possibility of learning—what? I know not; but—of learning. Instead of throwing the packet of letters into the fire, I flung it to one side, under a chair, returned to the bedside and told her in a voice which I endeavored to keep steady and calm, that her directions had been obeyed, that the letters were burning. She took my hand and kissed it. Oh, what a stab that gentle caress inflicted57 upon me! I knelt down by her bedside, and hid my head in the sheets, so that her eyes should not meet mine. Alas58! it was not for long that I had to dread her glance. At ten she fell asleep, but at noon her restlessness recurred59. At two the priest came, and administered the last sacraments to her. She had a second stroke towards evening, never recovered consciousness, and died in the night.
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1
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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2
rumbled
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| 发出隆隆声，发出辘辘声( rumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 轰鸣着缓慢行进； 发现…的真相； 看穿（阴谋） | |
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3
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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dint
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| n.由于，靠；凹坑 | |
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raves
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| n.狂欢晚会( rave的名词复数 )v.胡言乱语( rave的第三人称单数 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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7
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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8
persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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mania
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| n.疯狂；躁狂症，狂热，癖好 | |
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10
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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12
unearthed
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| 出土的（考古） | |
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13
prolix
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| adj.罗嗦的；冗长的 | |
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14
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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15
philosophically
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| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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16
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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18
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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19
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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20
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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21
disapprove
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| v.不赞成，不同意，不批准 | |
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22
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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23
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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24
entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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26
morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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29
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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30
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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31
persecution
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| n. 迫害,烦扰 | |
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32
tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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33
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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34
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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35
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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36
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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37
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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39
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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40
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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41
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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42
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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43
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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44
platinum
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| n.白金 | |
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45
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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46
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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47
endorsed
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| vt.& vi.endorse的过去式或过去分词形式v.赞同( endorse的过去式和过去分词 )；在（尤指支票的）背面签字；在（文件的）背面写评论；在广告上说本人使用并赞同某产品 | |
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48
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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49
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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50
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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51
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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52
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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53
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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54
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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55
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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56
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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57
inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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59
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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