“Wherefore Is Light Given to Him That Is in Misery1”
One evening, about three weeks after the funeral of Mrs. Yeobright, when the silver face of the moon sent a bundle of beams directly upon the floor of Clym’s house at Alderworth, a woman came forth2 from within. She reclined over the garden gate as if to refresh herself awhile. The pale lunar touches which make beauties of hags lent divinity to this face, already beautiful.
She had not long been there when a man came up the road and with some hesitation3 said to her, “How is he tonight, ma’am, if you please?”
“He is better, though still very unwell, Humphrey,” replied Eustacia.
“Is he light-headed, ma’am?”
“No. He is quite sensible now.”
“Do he rave4 about his mother just the same, poor fellow?” continued Humphrey.
“Just as much, though not quite so wildly,” she said in a low voice.
“It was very unfortunate, ma’am, that the boy Johnny should ever ha’ told him his mother’s dying words, about her being broken-hearted and cast off by her son. ‘Twas enough to upset any man alive.”
Eustacia made no reply beyond that of a slight catch in her breath, as of one who fain would speak but could not; and Humphrey, declining her invitation to come in, went away.
Eustacia turned, entered the house, and ascended5 to the front bedroom, where a shaded light was burning. In the bed lay Clym, pale, haggard, wide awake, tossing to one side and to the other, his eyes lit by a hot light, as if the fire in their pupils were burning up their substance.
“Is it you, Eustacia?” he said as she sat down.
“Yes, Clym. I have been down to the gate. The moon is shining beautifully, and there is not a leaf stirring.”
“Shining, is it? What’s the moon to a man like me? Let it shine—let anything be, so that I never see another day!...Eustacia, I don’t know where to look—my thoughts go through me like swords. O, if any man wants to make himself immortal6 by painting a picture of wretchedness, let him come here!”
“Why do you say so?”
“I cannot help feeling that I did my best to kill her.”
“No, Clym.”
“Yes, it was so; it is useless to excuse me! My conduct to her was too hideous—I made no advances; and she could not bring herself to forgive me. Now she is dead! If I had only shown myself willing to make it up with her sooner, and we had been friends, and then she had died, it wouldn’t be so hard to bear. But I never went near her house, so she never came near mine, and didn’t know how welcome she would have been—that’s what troubles me. She did not know I was going to her house that very night, for she was too insensible to understand me. If she had only come to see me! I longed that she would. But it was not to be.”
There escaped from Eustacia one of those shivering sighs which used to shake her like a pestilent blast. She had not yet told.
But Yeobright was too deeply absorbed in the ramblings incidental to his remorseful8 state to notice her. During his illness he had been continually talking thus. Despair had been added to his original grief by the unfortunate disclosure of the boy who had received the last words of Mrs. Yeobright—words too bitterly uttered in an hour of misapprehension. Then his distress9 had overwhelmed him, and he longed for death as a field labourer longs for the shade. It was the pitiful sight of a man standing10 in the very focus of sorrow. He continually bewailed his tardy11 journey to his mother’s house, because it was an error which could never be rectified12, and insisted that he must have been horribly perverted13 by some fiend not to have thought before that it was his duty to go to her, since she did not come to him. He would ask Eustacia to agree with him in his self-condemnation; and when she, seared inwardly by a secret she dared not tell, declared that she could not give an opinion, he would say, “That’s because you didn’t know my mother’s nature. She was always ready to forgive if asked to do so; but I seemed to her to be as an obstinate14 child, and that made her unyielding. Yet not unyielding—she was proud and reserved, no more....Yes, I can understand why she held out against me so long. She was waiting for me. I dare say she said a hundred times in her sorrow, ‘What a return he makes for all the sacrifices I have made for him!’ I never went to her! When I set out to visit her it was too late. To think of that is nearly intolerable!”
Sometimes his condition had been one of utter remorse7, unsoftened by a single tear of pure sorrow: and then he writhed15 as he lay, fevered far more by thought than by physical ills. “If I could only get one assurance that she did not die in a belief that I was resentful,” he said one day when in this mood, “it would be better to think of than a hope of heaven. But that I cannot do.”
“You give yourself up too much to this wearying despair,” said Eustacia. “Other men’s mothers have died.”
“That doesn’t make the loss of mine less. Yet it is less the loss than the circumstances of the loss. I sinned against her, and on that account there is no light for me.”
“She sinned against you, I think.”
“No, she did not. I committed the guilt16; and may the whole burden be upon my head!”
“I think you might consider twice before you say that,” Eustacia replied. “Single men have, no doubt, a right to curse themselves as much as they please; but men with wives involve two in the doom17 they pray down.”
“I am in too sorry a state to understand what you are refining on,” said the wretched man. “Day and night shout at me, ‘You have helped to kill her.’ But in loathing18 myself I may, I own, be unjust to you, my poor wife. Forgive me for it, Eustacia, for I scarcely know what I do.”
Eustacia was always anxious to avoid the sight of her husband in such a state as this, which had become as dreadful to her as the trial scene was to Judas Iscariot. It brought before her eyes the spectre of a worn-out woman knocking at a door which she would not open; and she shrank from contemplating19 it. Yet it was better for Yeobright himself when he spoke20 openly of his sharp regret, for in silence he endured infinitely21 more, and would sometimes remain so long in a tense, brooding mood, consuming himself by the gnawing22 of his thought, that it was imperatively23 necessary to make him talk aloud, that his grief might in some degree expend24 itself in the effort.
Eustacia had not been long indoors after her look at the moonlight when a soft footstep came up to the house, and Thomasin was announced by the woman downstairs.
“Ah, Thomasin! Thank you for coming tonight,” said Clym when she entered the room. “Here am I, you see. Such a wretched spectacle am I, that I shrink from being seen by a single friend, and almost from you.”
“You must not shrink from me, dear Clym,” said Thomasin earnestly, in that sweet voice of hers which came to a sufferer like fresh air into a Black Hole. “Nothing in you can ever shock me or drive me away.
I have been here before, but you don’t remember it.”
“Yes, I do; I am not delirious25, Thomasin, nor have I been so at all. Don’t you believe that if they say so. I am only in great misery at what I have done, and that, with the weakness, makes me seem mad. But it has not upset my reason. Do you think I should remember all about my mother’s death if I were out of my mind? No such good luck. Two months and a half, Thomasin, the last of her life, did my poor mother live alone, distracted and mourning because of me; yet she was unvisited by me, though I was living only six miles off. Two months and a half—seventy-five days did the sun rise and set upon her in that deserted26 state which a dog didn’t deserve! Poor people who had nothing in common with her would have cared for her, and visited her had they known her sickness and loneliness; but I, who should have been all to her, stayed away like a cur. If there is any justice in God let Him kill me now.
He has nearly blinded me, but that is not enough. If He would only strike me with more pain I would believe in Him forever!”
“Hush27, hush! O, pray, Clym, don’t, don’t say it!” implored28 Thomasin, affrighted into sobs29 and tears; while Eustacia, at the other side of the room, though her pale face remained calm, writhed in her chair. Clym went on without heeding30 his cousin.
“But I am not worth receiving further proof even of Heaven’s reprobation31. Do you think, Thomasin, that she knew me—that she did not die in that horrid32 mistaken notion about my not forgiving her, which I can’t tell you how she acquired? If you could only assure me of that! Do you think so, Eustacia? Do speak to me.”
“I think I can assure you that she knew better at last,” said Thomasin. The pallid33 Eustacia said nothing.
“Why didn’t she come to my house? I would have taken her in and showed her how I loved her in spite of all. But she never came; and I didn’t go to her, and she died on the heath like an animal kicked out, nobody to help her till it was too late. If you could have seen her, Thomasin, as I saw her—a poor dying woman, lying in the dark upon the bare ground, moaning, nobody near, believing she was utterly34 deserted by all the world, it would have moved you to anguish35, it would have moved a brute36. And this poor woman my mother! No wonder she said to the child, ‘You have seen a broken-hearted woman.’ What a state she must have been brought to, to say that! and who can have done it but I? It is too dreadful to think of, and I wish I could be punished more heavily than I am. How long was I what they called out of my senses?”
“A week, I think.”
“And then I became calm.”
“Yes, for four days.”
“And now I have left off being calm.”
“But try to be quiet—please do, and you will soon be strong.
If you could remove that impression from your mind—“
“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. “But I don’t want to get strong. What’s the use of my getting well? It would be better for me if I die, and it would certainly be better for Eustacia. Is Eustacia there?”
“Yes.”
“It would be better for you, Eustacia, if I were to die?”
“Don’t press such a question, dear Clym.”
“Well, it really is but a shadowy supposition; for unfortunately I am going to live. I feel myself getting better. Thomasin, how long are you going to stay at the inn, now that all this money has come to your husband?”
“Another month or two, probably; until my illness is over. We cannot get off till then. I think it will be a month or more.”
“Yes, yes. Of course. Ah, Cousin Tamsie, you will get over your trouble—one little month will take you through it, and bring something to console you; but I shall never get over mine, and no consolation37 will come!”
“Clym, you are unjust to yourself. Depend upon it, Aunt thought kindly38 of you. I know that, if she had lived, you would have been reconciled with her.”
“But she didn’t come to see me, though I asked her, before I married, if she would come. Had she come, or had I gone there, she would never have died saying, ‘I am a broken-hearted woman, cast off by my son.’ My door has always been open to her—a welcome here has always awaited her. But that she never came to see.”
“You had better not talk any more now, Clym,” said Eustacia faintly from the other part of the room, for the scene was growing intolerable to her.
“Let me talk to you instead for the little time I shall be here,” Thomasin said soothingly39. “Consider what a one-sided way you have of looking at the matter, Clym. When she said that to the little boy you had not found her and taken her into your arms; and it might have been uttered in a moment of bitterness. It was rather like Aunt to say things in haste. She sometimes used to speak so to me. Though she did not come I am convinced that she thought of coming to see you. Do you suppose a man’s mother could live two or three months without one forgiving thought? She forgave me; and why should she not have forgiven you?”
“You laboured to win her round; I did nothing. I, who was going to teach people the higher secrets of happiness, did not know how to keep out of that gross misery which the most untaught are wise enough to avoid.”
“How did you get here tonight, Thomasin?” said Eustacia.
“Damon set me down at the end of the lane. He has driven into East Egdon on business, and he will come and pick me up by-and-by.”
Accordingly they soon after heard the noise of wheels. Wildeve had come, and was waiting outside with his horse and gig.
“Send out and tell him I will be down in two minutes,” said Thomasin.
“I will run down myself,” said Eustacia.
She went down. Wildeve had alighted, and was standing before the horse’s head when Eustacia opened the door. He did not turn for a moment, thinking the comer Thomasin.
Then he looked, startled ever so little, and said one word:
“Well?”
“I have not yet told him,” she replied in a whisper.
“Then don’t do so till he is well—it will be fatal.
You are ill yourself.”
“I am wretched....O Damon,” she said, bursting into tears, “I—I can’t tell you how unhappy I am! I can hardly bear this. I can tell nobody of my trouble—nobody knows of it but you.”
“Poor girl!” said Wildeve, visibly affected40 at her distress, and at last led on so far as to take her hand. “It is hard, when you have done nothing to deserve it, that you should have got involved in such a web as this. You were not made for these sad scenes. I am to blame most.
If I could only have saved you from it all!”
“But, Damon, please pray tell me what I must do? To sit by him hour after hour, and hear him reproach himself as being the cause of her death, and to know that I am the sinner, if any human being is at all, drives me into cold despair. I don’t know what to do. Should I tell him or should I not tell him? I always am asking myself that. O, I want to tell him; and yet I am afraid. If he find it out he must surely kill me, for nothing else will be in proportion to his feelings now. ‘Beware the fury of a patient man’ sounds day by day in my ears as I watch him.”
“Well, wait till he is better, and trust to chance. And when you tell, you must only tell part—for his own sake.”
“Which part should I keep back?”
Wildeve paused. “That I was in the house at the time,” he said in a low tone.
“Yes; it must be concealed41, seeing what has been whispered. How much easier are hasty actions than speeches that will excuse them!”
“If he were only to die—“ Wildeve murmured.
“Do not think of it! I would not buy hope of immunity42 by so cowardly a desire even if I hated him. Now I am going up to him again. Thomasin bade me tell you she would be down in a few minutes. Good-bye.”
She returned, and Thomasin soon appeared. When she was seated in the gig with her husband, and the horse was turning to go off, Wildeve lifted his eyes to the bedroom windows. Looking from one of them he could discern a pale, tragic43 face watching him drive away. It was Eustacia’s.
收听单词发音 |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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rave
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| vi.胡言乱语；热衷谈论；n.热情赞扬 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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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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tardy
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| adj.缓慢的，迟缓的 | |
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rectified
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| [医]矫正的，调整的 | |
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perverted
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| adj.不正当的v.滥用( pervert的过去式和过去分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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writhed
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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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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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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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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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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imperatively
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| adv.命令式地 | |
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expend
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| vt.花费，消费，消耗 | |
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delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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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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sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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reprobation
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| n.斥责 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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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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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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immunity
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| n.优惠；免除；豁免，豁免权 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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