When he turned the corner by the church the fury of the wind forced him to stop for a moment, with head bent5 before the blast, one hand holding on his hat and the other clutching his coat together. He had no breath left, and giddiness overcame him as it had overcome his young mother that far-off day on the way from the mill.
And with mingled6 excitement and loathing7 he felt that something terrible and great was born in him at that moment: for the first time he realized clearly and unmistakably that he loved Agnes with an earthly love, and that he gloried in this love.
Until a few hours ago he had been under a delusion8, persuading both himself and her that his love was purely9 spiritual. But he had to admit that it was she who had first let her gaze linger upon him, that from their earliest meeting her eyes had sought his with a look that implored10 his help and his love. And little by little he had yielded to the fascination12 of that appeal, had been drawn13 to her by pity, and the solitude14 that surrounded her had brought them together.
And after their eyes had met their hands had sought and found each other, and that night they had kissed. And now his blood, which had flowed quietly so many years, rushed through his veins15 like liquid fire and the weak flesh yielded, at once the vanquished16 and the victor.
The woman had proposed that they two should secretly leave the village and live or die together. In the intoxication17 of the moment he had agreed to the proposal and they were to meet again the following night to settle their plans. But now the reality of the outside world, and that wind that seemed trying to strip him bare, tore away the veil of self-deception. Breathless, he stood before the church door; he was icy cold, and felt as though he were standing18 naked there in the midst of the little village, and that all his poor parishioners, sleeping the sleep of the weary, were beholding19 him thus in their dreams, naked, and black with sin.
Yet all the time he was thinking how best to plan his flight with the woman. She had told him that she possessed20 much money.... Then suddenly he felt impelled21 to go back to her that instant and dissuade22 her; he actually walked a few steps beside the wall where his mother had passed shortly before, then turned back in despair and fell on his knees in front of the church door and leaned his head against it, crying low, "O God, save me!" and his black cloak was blown flapping about his shoulders as he knelt there, like a vulture nailed alive upon the door.
His whole soul was fighting savagely23, with a violence greater even than that of the wind on those high hills; it was the supreme24 struggle of the blind instinct of the flesh against the dominion25 of the spirit.
After a few moments he rose to his feet, uncertain still which of the two had conquered. But his mind was clearer and he recognized the real nature of his motives26, confessing to himself that what swayed him most, more than the fear and the love of God, more than the desire for promotion27 and the hatred28 of sin, was his terror of the consequences of an open scandal.
The realization29 that he judged himself so mercilessly encouraged him to hope still for salvation30. But at the bottom of his heart he knew he was henceforth bound to that woman as to life itself, that her image would be with him in his house, that he would walk at her side by day and at night sleep entangled31 in the inextricable meshes32 of her long dark hair. And beneath his sorrow and remorse33, deeper and stronger still, he felt a tumult34 of joy glow through his inmost being as a subterranean35 fire burns within the earth.
Directly he opened the presbytery door he perceived the streak36 of light that issued from the kitchen and shone across the little dining-room into the entrance hall. Then he saw his mother sitting by the dead ashes, as though watching by a corpse37, and with a pang38 of grief, a grief that never left him again, he instantly knew the whole truth.
He followed the streak of light through the little dining-room, faltered39 a second at the kitchen door, and then advanced to the hearth40 with hands outstretched as though to save himself from falling.
"Why have you not gone to bed?" he asked curtly41.
His mother turned to look at him, her dream-haunted face still deathly pale; yet she was steady and quiet, almost stern, and while her eyes sought those of her son, his tried to evade42 her gaze.
"I was waiting up for you, Paul. Where have you been?"
He knew instinctively43 that every word that was not strictly44 true would be only a useless farce45 between them; yet he was forced to lie to her.
"I have been with a sick person," he replied quickly.
For an instant his deep voice seemed to disperse46 the evil dream; for an instant only, and the mother's face was transfigured with joy. Then the shadow fell again on face and heart.
"Paul," she said gently, lowering her eyes with a feeling of shame, but with no hesitation47 in her speech, "Paul, come nearer to me, I have something to say to you."
And although he moved no nearer to her, she went on speaking in a low voice, as though close to his ear:
"I know where you have been. For many nights now I have heard you go out, and to-night I followed you and saw where you went. Paul, think of what you are doing!"
He did not answer, made no sign that he had heard. His mother raised her eyes and beheld48 him standing tall and straight above her, pale as death, his shadow cast by the lamp upon the wall behind him, motionless as though transfixed upon a cross. And she longed for him to cry out and reproach her, to protest his innocence49.
But he was remembering his soul's appeal as he knelt before the church door, and now God had heard his cry and had sent his own mother to him to save him. He wanted to bow before her, to fall at her knee and implore11 her to lead him away from the village, then and there, immediately; and at the same time he was shaking with rage and humiliation50, humiliation at finding his weakness exposed, rage at having been watched and followed. Yet he grieved for the sorrow he was causing her. Then suddenly he remembered that he had not only to save himself, but to save appearances also.
"Mother," he said, going close to her and placing his hand on her head, "I tell you that I have been with some one who is ill."
"There is nobody ill in that house."
"Not all sick persons are in bed."
"Then in that case you yourself are more ill than the woman you went to see, and you must take care of yourself. Paul, I am only an ignorant woman, but I am your mother, and I tell you that sin is an illness worse than any other, because it attacks the soul. Moreover," she added, taking his hand and drawing him down towards her that he might hear her better, "it is not yourself only that you have to save, O child of God ... remember that you must not destroy her soul ... nor bring her to harm in this life either."
He was bending over her, but at these words he shot upright again like a steel spring. His mother had cut him to the quick. Yes, it was true; during all that hour of perturbation since he had quitted the woman he had thought only of himself.
He tried to withdraw his hand from his mother's, so hard and cold, but she grasped it so imperatively51 that he felt as though he had been arrested and were being led bound to prison. Then his thoughts turned again to God; it was God who had bound him, therefore he must submit to be led, but nevertheless he felt the rebellion and desperation of the guilty prisoner who sees no way of escape.
"Leave me alone," he said roughly, dragging his hand away by force, "I am no longer a boy and know myself what is good or bad for me!"
Then the mother felt as though she were turned to stone, for he had practically confessed his fault.
"No, Paul, you don't see the wrong you have done. If you did see it you would not speak like that."
"Then how should I speak?"
"You would not shout like that, but you would assure me there is nothing wrong between you and that woman. But that is just what you don't tell me, because you cannot do so conscientiously52, and therefore it is better you should say nothing at all. Don't speak! I don't ask it of you now, but think well what you are about, Paul."
Paul made no reply, but moved slowly from his mother's side and stood in the middle of the kitchen waiting for her to go on speaking.
"Paul, I have nothing more to say to you, and I have no wish to say anything more. But I shall talk with God about you."
Then he sprang back to her side with blazing eyes as though he were about to strike her.
"Enough!" he cried, "you will be wise never to speak of this again, neither to me nor to anyone else; and keep your fancies to yourself!"
She rose to her feet, stern and resolute53, seized him by the arms and forced him to look her straight in the eyes; then she let him go and sat down again, her hands gripping each other tightly in her lap.
Paul moved towards the door, then turned and began to walk up and down the kitchen. The moaning of the wind outside made an accompaniment to the rustle54 of his clothes, which was like the rustle of a woman's dress, for he wore a cassock made of silk and his cloak was of the very finest material. And in that moment of indecision, when he felt himself caught in a whirlpool of conflicting emotions, even that silken rustle seemed to speak and warn him that henceforth his life would be but a maze55 of errors and light things and vileness56. Everything spoke57 to him; the wind outside, that recalled the long loneliness of his youth, and inside the house the mournful figure of his mother, the sound of his own steps, the sight of his own shadow on the floor. To and fro he walked, to and fro, treading on his shadow as he sought to overcome and stamp down his own self. He thought with pride that he had no need of any supernatural aid, such as he had invoked58 to save him, and then immediately this pride filled him with terror.
"Get up and go to bed," he said, coming back to his mother's side; and then, seeing that she did not move but sat with head bowed as though asleep, he bent down to look more closely in her face and perceived that she was weeping silently.
"Mother!"
"No," she said, without moving, "I shall never mention this thing to you again, neither to you nor to anyone else. But I shall not stir from this place except to leave the presbytery and the village, never to return, unless you swear to me that you will never set foot in that house again."
He raised himself from his bending position, overtaken again by that feeling of giddiness, and again superstition59 took hold of him, urging him to promise whatever his mother asked of him, since it was God Himself who was speaking by her mouth. And simultaneously60 a flood of bitter words rose to his lips, and he wanted to cry out upon his mother, to throw the blame on her and reproach her for having brought him from his native village and set his feet upon a way that was not his. But what would be the use? She would not even understand. Well, well!... With one hand he made a gesture as though brushing away the shadows from before his eyes, then suddenly he stretched out this hand over his mother's head, and in his imagination saw his opened fingers extend in luminous61 rays above her:
"Mother, I swear to you that I will never enter that house again."
And immediately he left the kitchen, feeling that here was the end of everything. He was saved. But as he crossed the adjoining dining-room he heard his mother weeping unrestrainedly, as though she were weeping for the dead.
Back in his room, the scent62 of roses and the sight of the various objects strewn about which were associated with his passion, impregnated and coloured by it, as it were, shook him afresh. He moved here and there without any reason, opened the window and thrust his head out into the wind, feeling as helpless as one of the million leaves whirled about in space, now in the dark shadow, now in the bright light of the moon, playthings of the winds and clouds. At last he drew himself up and closed the window, saying aloud as he did so:
"Let us be men!"
He stood erect63 to his full height, numb64 as though all his body were cold and hard and enclosed in an armour65 of pride. He desired no more to feel the sensations of the flesh, nor the sorrow nor the joy of sacrifice, nor the sadness of his loneliness; he had no wish even to kneel before God and receive the word of approval granted to the willing servant. He asked nothing from anyone; he wanted only to go forward in the straight way, alone and hopeless. Yet he was afraid of going to bed and putting out the light, and instead he sat down and began to read St. Paul's Epistle to the Corinthians: but the printed words fled his gaze, they swelled66 and shrank and danced up and down before his eyes. Why had his mother wept so bitterly, after he had sworn an oath to her? What could she have understood? Ah, yes, she understood; the mother's heart understood only too well the mortal anguish67 of her son, his renunciation of life itself.
Suddenly a wave of red overspread his face, and he raised his head, listening to the wind.
"There was no need to have sworn," he said to himself with a doubtful smile, "the really strong man never swears. Whoever takes an oath, as I did, is also ready to break his oath, even as I am ready."
And instantly he knew that the struggle was only really beginning, and so great was his consternation68 that he rose from his seat and went to look at himself in the mirror.
"Here thou standest, the man appointed by God, and if thou wilt69 not give thyself wholly to Him, then the spirit of evil will take possession of thee for ever."
Then he staggered to his narrow bed and, dressed as he was, flung himself down upon it and burst into tears. He wept silently that his mother might not hear him, and that he might not hear his own crying, but his heart within him cried aloud and he was wrung70 with inward grief.
"O God, take me, bring me out of this!"
And the uttered words brought him real relief, as though he had found a plank71 of salvation in the midst of that sea of sorrow.
The crisis over he began to reflect. Everything seemed clear to him now, like a landscape seen from a window in the full light of the sun. He was a priest, he believed in God, he had wedded72 the Church and was vowed73 to chastity, he was like a married man and had no right to betray his wife. Why he had fallen in love with that woman and still loved her he did not exactly know. Perhaps he had reached a sort of physical crisis, when the youth and strength of his twenty-eight years awoke suddenly from its prolonged sleep and yearned74 towards Agnes because she had the closest affinity75 with him, and because she too, no longer very young, had like him been deprived of life and love, shut up in her house as in a convent.
Thus from the very first it had been love masquerading as friendship. They had been caught in a net of smiles and glances, and the very impossibility of there being any question of love between them drew them together: nobody entertained the faintest suspicion of their relationship to each other, and they met without emotion, without fear and without desire. Yet little by little desire crept into that love of theirs, chaste76 and pure as a pool of still water beneath a wall that suddenly crumbles77 and falls in ruins.
All these things passed through his mind as he probed deep into his conscience and found the truth. He knew that from the first glance he had desired the woman, from the first glance he had possessed her in his heart, and all the rest had been only self-deception whereby he had sought to justify78 himself in his own eyes.
Thus it was, and he was forced to acknowledge the truth. Thus it was, because it is man's nature to suffer, to love, to find his mate and have her and to suffer again; to do good and receive it, to do evil and receive it, this is the life of man. Yet all his reflections lifted not one iota79 of the anguish that weighed upon his heart; and now he comprehended the true meaning of that anguish: it was the bitterness of death, for to renounce80 love and the possession of Agnes was to renounce life itself. Then his thoughts went further: "Was not even this vain and futile81? When the momentary82 pleasure of love is past, the spirit resumes mastery over itself, and, with a more intense longing83 for solitude than before, it takes refuge again within its prison-house, the mortal body that clothes it. Why, therefore, should he be made unhappy by this loneliness? Had he not accepted and endured it for so many years, all the best years of his life? Even supposing he could really escape with Agnes and marry her, would he not always be alone within himself just the same...?"
Yet the mere84 fact of pronouncing her name, the bare idea of the possibility of living with her, made him spring up in a fever of excitement. In imagination again he saw her stretched beside him, in imagination he held out his arms to draw her close to him, slender and supple85 as a reed in the stream; he whispered sweet words into the little hollow behind her ear, covered his face with her loosened hair, warm and scented86 like the flowers of the wild saffron. And biting hard into his pillow, he repeated to her all the Song of Songs, and when this was ended he told her he would come back to her the next day, that he was glad to grieve his mother and his God, glad that he had sworn an oath and given himself over to remorse, to superstition and to fear, for now he could break loose from everything and return to her.
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1
buffeted
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| 反复敲打( buffet的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续猛击； 打来打去； 推来搡去 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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3
flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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4
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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5
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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6
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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7
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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8
delusion
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| n.谬见，欺骗，幻觉，迷惑 | |
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9
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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10
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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11
implore
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| vt.乞求，恳求，哀求 | |
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12
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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13
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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14
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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15
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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16
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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17
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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18
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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19
beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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20
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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21
impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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22
dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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23
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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24
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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dominion
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| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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26
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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30
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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31
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
meshes
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| 网孔( mesh的名词复数 )； 网状物； 陷阱； 困境 | |
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33
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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34
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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37
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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38
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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39
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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40
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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41
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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42
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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43
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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44
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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45
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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46
disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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47
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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48
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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49
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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50
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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51
imperatively
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| adv.命令式地 | |
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52
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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53
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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54
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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55
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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56
vileness
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| n.讨厌，卑劣 | |
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57
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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58
invoked
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| v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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59
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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60
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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61
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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62
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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wilt
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| v.(使)植物凋谢或枯萎；(指人)疲倦，衰弱 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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affinity
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| n.亲和力，密切关系 | |
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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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crumbles
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| 酥皮水果甜点( crumble的名词复数 ) | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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iota
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| n.些微，一点儿 | |
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renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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