No one is so mean as the Broby clergyman, no one more divided by malice1 and uncharitableness from his fellow-men. His rooms are unheated in the winter, he sits on an unpainted wooden seat, he dresses in rags, lives on dry bread, and is furious if a beggar enters his door. He lets the horse starve in the stable and sells the hay, his cows nibble2 the dry grass at the roadside and the moss3 on the wall. The bleating4 of the hungry sheep can be heard far along the highway. The peasants throw him presents of food which their dogs will not eat, of clothes which their poor disdain5. His hand is stretched out to beg, his back bent6 to thank. He begs of the rich, lends to the poor. If he sees a piece of money his heart aches with longing7 till he gets it into his pocket. Unhappy is he who has not his affairs in order on the day of payment!
He was married late in life, but it had been better if he had never been. Exhausted8 and overworked, his wife died. His daughter serves with strangers. He[316] is old, but age grants him no relief in his struggling. The madness of avarice9 never leaves him.
But one fine day in the beginning of August a heavy coach, drawn10 by four horses, drives up Broby hill. A delicate old lady comes driving in great state, with coachman and footman and lady’s-maid. She comes to meet the Broby clergyman. She had loved him in the days of her youth.
He had been tutor at her father’s house, and they had loved one another, although her proud family had separated them. And now she is journeying up Broby hill to see him before she dies. All that is left to her in life is to see once again the beloved of her youth.
She sits in the great carriage and dreams. She is not driving up Broby hill to a poor little pastorage. She is on her way to the cool leafy arbor11 down in the park, where her lover is waiting. She sees him; he is young, he can kiss, he can love. Now, when she knows that she soon shall meet him his image rises before her with singular clearness. He is so handsome, so handsome! He can adore, he can burn, he fills her whole being with rapture12.
Now she is sallow, withered13, and old. Perhaps he will not recognize her with her sixty years, but she has not come to be seen, but to see, to see the beloved of her youth, who has gone through life untouched by time, who is ever young, beautiful, glowing.
She has come from so far away that she has not heard a word of the Broby clergyman.
The coach clatters14 up the hill, and at the summit the pastorage is visible.
“For the love of God,” whines15 a beggar at the wayside, “a copper16 for a poor man!”
[317]
The noble lady gives him a piece of silver and asks where the Broby pastorage is.
“The pastorage is in front of you,” he says, “but the clergyman is not at home, there is no one at the pastorage.”
The little lady seems to fade away. The cool arbor vanishes, her lover is not there. How could she expect, after forty years, to find him there?
What had the gracious lady to do at the vicarage?
She had come to meet the minister. She had known him in the old days.
Forty years and four hundred miles have separated them. And for each ten miles she has come nearer she has left behind her a year with its burden of sorrows and memories, so that when she now comes to the vicarage she is a girl of twenty again, without a care or a regret.
The beggar stands and looks at her, sees her change under his eyes from twenty to sixty, and from sixty back again to twenty.
“The minister is coming home this afternoon,” he says. The gracious lady would do best to drive down to the Broby inn and come again later. In the afternoon, the beggar can answer for it, the minister will be at home.
A moment after, the heavy coach with the little faded lady rolls down the hill to the inn, but the beggar stands trembling and looks after her. He feels that he ought to fall on his knees and kiss the wheel tracks.
Elegant, newly shaven, and washed, in shoes with shining buckles17, with silk stockings, with ruffles18 and frills, the Broby clergyman stands at noon that same day before the dean’s wife at Bro.
[318]
“A fine lady,” he says, “a count’s daughter. Do you think that I, poor man, can ask her to come into my house? My floors are black, my drawing-room without furniture, the dining-room ceiling is green with mildew19 and damp. Help me! Remember that she is a noble count’s daughter!”
“Say that you have gone away!”
“My dear lady, she has come four hundred miles to see me, poor man. She does not know how it is. I have not a bed to offer her. I have not a bed for her servants!”
“Well, let her go again.”
“Dear heart! Do you not understand what I mean? I would rather give everything I possess, everything that I have gathered together by industry and striving, than that she should go without my having received her under my roof. She was twenty when I saw her last, and it is now forty years ago! Help me, that I may see her in my house! Here is money, if money can help, but here more than money is needed.”
Oh, Eros, women love you. They would rather go a hundred steps for you than one for other gods.
In the deanery at Bro the rooms are emptied, the kitchen is emptied, the larder20 is emptied. Wagons21 are piled up and driven to the vicarage. When the dean comes home from the communion service, he will find empty rooms, look in through the kitchen door to ask after his dinner and find no one there. No dinner, no wife, no maids! What was to be done?
Eros has so wished it.
A little later in the afternoon the heavy coach comes clattering22 up Broby hill. And the little lady[319] sits and wonders if any new mischance shall happen, if it is really true that she is now going to meet her life’s only joy.
Then the coach swings into the vicarage, there comes some one, there he comes. He lifts her out of the carriage, he takes her on his arm, strong as ever, she is clasped in an embrace as warm as of old, forty years ago. She looks into his eyes; which glow as they did when they had only seen five and twenty summers.
A storm of emotion comes over her—warmer than ever. She remembers that he once carried her up the steps to the terrace. She, who believed that her love had lived all these years, had forgotten what it was to be clasped in strong arms, to look into young, glowing eyes.
She does not see that he is old. She only sees his eyes.
She does not see the black floors, the mildewed23 ceilings, she only sees his glowing eyes. The Broby clergyman is a stately man, a handsome man in that hour. He grows handsome when he looks at her.
She hears his voice, his dear, strong voice; caressingly24 it sounds. He only speaks so to her. Why did he need furniture from the deanery for his empty rooms; why food, why servants? The old lady would never have missed anything. She hears his voice and sees his eyes.
Never, never before has she been so happy.
She knows that he has been married, but she does not remember it. How could she remember such a thing? She is twenty, he twenty-five. Shall he become the mean Broby clergyman, that smiling youth? The wailing25 of the poor, the curses of the defrauded,[320] the scornful gibes26, the caricatures, the sneers27, all that as yet does not exist for him. His heart burns only with a pure and innocent love. Never shall that proud youth love gold so that he will creep after it in the dirt, beg it from the wayfarer28, suffer humiliation29, suffer disgrace, suffer cold, suffer hunger to get it. Shall he starve his child, torture his wife, for that same miserable30 gold? It is impossible. Such he can never be. He is a good man like all others. He is not a monster.
The beloved of his youth does not walk by the side of a despised wretch31, unworthy of the profession he has dared to undertake!
Oh, Eros, not that evening! That evening he is not the Broby clergyman, nor the next day either, nor the day after.
The day after that she goes.
What a dream, what a beautiful dream! For these three days not a cloud!
She journeyed smiling home to her castle and her memories. She never heard his name again, she never asked after him. She wanted to dream that dream as long as she lived.
The Broby clergyman sat in his lonely home and wept. She had made him young. Must he now be old again? Should the evil spirit return and he be despicable, contemptible32, as he had been?
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
malice
|
|
| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
nibble
|
|
| n.轻咬，啃；v.一点点地咬，慢慢啃，吹毛求疵 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
moss
|
|
| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
bleating
|
|
| v.（羊，小牛）叫( bleat的现在分词 )；哭诉；发出羊叫似的声音；轻声诉说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
disdain
|
|
| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
bent
|
|
| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
longing
|
|
| n.（for）渴望 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
exhausted
|
|
| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
avarice
|
|
| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
drawn
|
|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
arbor
|
|
| n.凉亭；树木 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
rapture
|
|
| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
withered
|
|
| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
clatters
|
|
| 盘碟刀叉等相撞击时的声音( clatter的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
whines
|
|
| n.悲嗥声( whine的名词复数 )；哀鸣者v.哀号( whine的第三人称单数 )；哀诉，诉怨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
copper
|
|
| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
buckles
|
|
| 搭扣，扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
ruffles
|
|
| 褶裥花边( ruffle的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
mildew
|
|
| n.发霉；v.（使）发霉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
larder
|
|
| n.食物贮藏室，食品橱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
wagons
|
|
| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
clattering
|
|
| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
mildewed
|
|
| adj.发了霉的，陈腐的，长了霉花的v.（使）发霉，（使）长霉( mildew的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
caressingly
|
|
| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
wailing
|
|
| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
gibes
|
|
| vi.嘲笑，嘲弄（gibe的第三人称单数形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
sneers
|
|
| 讥笑的表情（言语）( sneer的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
wayfarer
|
|
| n.旅人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
humiliation
|
|
| n.羞辱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
wretch
|
|
| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
contemptible
|
|
| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |