There came Beerencreutz, the colonel with the white moustaches, short, strong as a wrestler2, and with a pack of cards in his coat pocket, to the shore of the lake, and sat down in a flat-bottomed boat. With him were Major Anders Fuchs, his old brother-at-arms, and little Ruster, the flute-player, who had been drummer in the V?rmland chasseurs, and during many years had followed the colonel as his friend and servant.
On the other shore of the lake lies the churchyard, the neglected churchyard, of the Svartsj? parish, sparsely3 set with crooked4, rattling5 iron crosses, full of hillocks like an unploughed meadow, overgrown with sedges and striped grasses, which had been sowed there as a reminder6 that no man’s life is like another’s, but changes like the leaf of the grass. There are no gravel7 walks there, no shading trees except the big linden on the forgotten grave of some old priest. A stone wall, rough and high, encloses the miserable9 field. Miserable and desolate10 is the churchyard, ugly as the face of a miser8, which has withered11 at the laments12 of those whose happiness he[351] has stolen. And yet they who rest there are blessed, they who have been sunk into consecrated13 earth to the sound of psalms14 and prayers. Acquilon, the gambler, he who died last year at Ekeby, had had to be buried outside the wall. That man, who once had been so proud and courtly, the brave warrior15, the bold hunter, the gambler who held fortune in his hand, he had ended by squandering16 his children’s inheritance, all that he had gained himself, all that his wife had saved. Wife and children he had forsaken17 many years before, to lead the life of a pensioner18 at Ekeby. One evening in the past summer he had played away the farm which gave them their means of subsistence. Rather than to pay his debt he had shot himself. But the suicide’s body was buried outside the moss-grown wall of the miserable churchyard.
Since he died the pensioners19 had only been twelve; since he died no one had come to take the place of the thirteenth,—no one but the devil, who on Christmas Eve had crept out of the furnace.
The pensioners had found his fate more bitter than that of his predecessors20. Of course they knew that one of them must die each year. What harm was there in that? Pensioners may not be old. Can their dim eyes no longer distinguish the cards, can their trembling hands no longer lift the glass, what is life for them, and what are they for life? But to lie like a dog by the churchyard wall, where the protecting sods may not rest in peace, but are trodden by grazing sheep, wounded by spade and plough, where the wanderer goes by without slackening his pace, and where the children play without subduing21 their laughter and jests,—to rest there,[352] where the stone wall prevents the sound from coming when the angel of the day of doom22 wakes with his trumpet23 the dead within,—oh, to lie there!
Beerencreutz rows his boat over the L?fven. He passes in the evening over the lake of my dreams, about whose shores I have seen gods wander, and from whose depths my magic palace rises. He rows by Lag?n’s lagoons24, where the pines stand right up from the water, growing on low, circular shoals, and where the ruin of the tumble-down Viking castle still remains25 on the steep summit of the island; he rows under the pine grove26 on Borg’s point, where one old tree still hangs on thick roots over the cleft27, where a mighty28 bear had been caught and where old mounds29 and graves bear witness of the age of the place.
He rows to the other side of the point, gets out below the churchyard, and then walks over mowed30 fields, which belong to the count at Borg, to Acquilon’s grave.
Arrived there, he bends down and pats the turf, as one lightly caresses31 the blanket under which a sick friend is lying. Then he takes out a pack of cards and sits down beside the grave.
“He is so lonely outside here, Johan Fredrik. He must long sometimes for a game.”
“It is a sin and a shame that such a man shall lie here,” says the great bear-hunter, Anders Fuchs, and sits down at his side.
But little Ruster, the flute-player, speaks with broken voice, while the tears run from his small red eyes.
“Next to you, colonel, next to you he was the finest man I have ever known.”
[353]
These three worthy32 men sit round the grave and deal the cards seriously and with zeal33.
I look out over the world, I see many graves. There rest the mighty ones of the earth, weighed down by marble. Funeral marches thunder over them. Standards are sunk over those graves. I see the graves of those who have been much loved. Flowers, wet with tears, caressed34 with kisses, rest lightly on their green sods. I see forgotten graves, arrogant35 graves, lying resting-places, and others which say nothing, but never before did I see the right-bower and the joker with the bells in his cap offered as entertainment to a grave’s occupant.
“Johan Fredrik has won,” says the colonel, proudly. “Did I not know it? I taught him to play. Yes, now we are dead, we three, and he alone alive.”
Thereupon he gathers together the cards, rises, and goes, followed by the others, back to Ekeby.
May the dead man have known and felt that not every one has forgotten him or his forsaken grave.
Strange homage36 wild hearts bring to them they love; but he who lies outside the wall, he whose dead body was not allowed to rest in consecrated ground, he ought to be glad that not every one has rejected him.
Friends, children of men, when I die I shall surely rest in the middle of the churchyard, in the tomb of my ancestors. I shall not have robbed my family of their means of subsistence, nor lifted my hand against my own life, but certainly I have not won such a love, surely will no one do as much for me as the pensioners did for that culprit. It is certain that no one will come in the evening, when the sun sets and it is lonely and dreary37 in the gardens of the dead,[354] to place between my bony fingers the many-colored cards.
Not even will any one come, which would please me more,—for cards tempt38 me little,—with fiddle39 and bow to the grave, that my spirit, which wanders about the mouldering40 dust, may rock in the flow of melody like a swan on glittering waves.
点击收听单词发音
1 haze | |
n.霾,烟雾;懵懂,迷糊;vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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2 wrestler | |
n.摔角选手,扭 | |
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3 sparsely | |
adv.稀疏地;稀少地;不足地;贫乏地 | |
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4 crooked | |
adj.弯曲的;不诚实的,狡猾的,不正当的 | |
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5 rattling | |
adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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6 reminder | |
n.提醒物,纪念品;暗示,提示 | |
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7 gravel | |
n.砂跞;砂砾层;结石 | |
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8 miser | |
n.守财奴,吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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9 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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10 desolate | |
adj.荒凉的,荒芜的;孤独的,凄凉的;v.使荒芜,使孤寂 | |
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11 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 | |
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12 laments | |
n.悲恸,哀歌,挽歌( lament的名词复数 )v.(为…)哀悼,痛哭,悲伤( lament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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13 consecrated | |
adj.神圣的,被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣,给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 );奉献 | |
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14 psalms | |
n.赞美诗( psalm的名词复数 );圣诗;圣歌;(中的) | |
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15 warrior | |
n.勇士,武士,斗士 | |
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16 squandering | |
v.(指钱,财产等)浪费,乱花( squander的现在分词 ) | |
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17 Forsaken | |
adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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18 pensioner | |
n.领养老金的人 | |
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19 pensioners | |
n.领取退休、养老金或抚恤金的人( pensioner的名词复数 ) | |
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20 predecessors | |
n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 );前辈;(被取代的)原有事物;前身 | |
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21 subduing | |
征服( subdue的现在分词 ); 克制; 制服; 色变暗 | |
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22 doom | |
n.厄运,劫数;v.注定,命定 | |
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23 trumpet | |
n.喇叭,喇叭声;v.吹喇叭,吹嘘 | |
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24 lagoons | |
n.污水池( lagoon的名词复数 );潟湖;(大湖或江河附近的)小而浅的淡水湖;温泉形成的池塘 | |
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25 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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26 grove | |
n.林子,小树林,园林 | |
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27 cleft | |
n.裂缝;adj.裂开的 | |
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28 mighty | |
adj.强有力的;巨大的 | |
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29 mounds | |
土堆,土丘( mound的名词复数 ); 一大堆 | |
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30 mowed | |
v.刈,割( mow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31 caresses | |
爱抚,抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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32 worthy | |
adj.(of)值得的,配得上的;有价值的 | |
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33 zeal | |
n.热心,热情,热忱 | |
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34 caressed | |
爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35 arrogant | |
adj.傲慢的,自大的 | |
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36 homage | |
n.尊敬,敬意,崇敬 | |
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37 dreary | |
adj.令人沮丧的,沉闷的,单调乏味的 | |
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38 tempt | |
vt.引诱,勾引,吸引,引起…的兴趣 | |
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39 fiddle | |
n.小提琴;vi.拉提琴;不停拨弄,乱动 | |
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40 mouldering | |
v.腐朽( moulder的现在分词 );腐烂,崩塌 | |
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