Everything seemed to have gone smash for the young man. He could not paint. The picture he finished on the day of his mother's death--one that satisfied him--was the last thing he did. At work there was no Clara. When he came home he could not take up his brushes again. There was nothing left.
So he was always in the town at one place or another, drinking, knocking about with the men he knew. It really wearied him. He talked to barmaids, to almost any woman, but there was that dark, strained look in his eyes, as if he were hunting something.
Everything seemed so different, so unreal. There seemed no reason why people should go along the street, and houses pile up in the daylight. There seemed no reason why these things should occupy the space, instead of leaving it empty. His friends talked to him: he heard the sounds, and he answered. But why there should be the noise of speech he could not understand.
He was most himself when he was alone, or working hard and mechanically at the factory. In the latter case there was pure forgetfulness, when he lapsed3 from consciousness. But it had to come to an end. It hurt him so, that things had lost their reality. The first snowdrops came. He saw the tiny drop-pearls among the grey. They would have given him the liveliest emotion at one time. Now they were there, but they did not seem to mean anything. In a few moments they would cease to occupy that place, and just the space would be, where they had been. Tall, brilliant tram-cars ran along the street at night. It seemed almost a wonder they should trouble to rustle4 backwards5 and forwards. "Why trouble to go tilting6 down to Trent Bridges?" he asked of the big trams. It seemed they just as well might NOT be as be.
The realest thing was the thick darkness at night. That seemed to him whole and comprehensible and restful. He could leave himself to it. Suddenly a piece of paper started near his feet and blew along down the pavement. He stood still, rigid7, with clenched8 fists, a flame of agony going over him. And he saw again the sick-room, his mother, her eyes. Unconsciously he had been with her, in her company. The swift hop9 of the paper reminded him she was gone. But he had been with her. He wanted everything to stand still, so that he could be with her again.
The days passed, the weeks. But everything seemed to have fused, gone into a conglomerated mass. He could not tell one day from another, one week from another, hardly one place from another. Nothing was distinct or distinguishable. Often he lost himself for an hour at a time, could not remember what he had done.
One evening he came home late to his lodging1. The fire was burning low; everybody was in bed. He threw on some more coal, glanced at the table, and decided10 he wanted no supper. Then he sat down in the arm-chair. It was perfectly11 still. He did not know anything, yet he saw the dim smoke wavering up the chimney. Presently two mice came out, cautiously, nibbling12 the fallen crumbs13. He watched them as it were from a long way off. The church clock struck two. Far away he could hear the sharp clinking of the trucks on the railway. No, it was not they that were far away. They were there in their places. But where was he himself?
The time passed. The two mice, careering wildly, scampered14 cheekily over his slippers15. He had not moved a muscle. He did not want to move. He was not thinking of anything. It was easier so. There was no wrench16 of knowing anything. Then, from time to time, some other consciousness, working mechanically, flashed into sharp phrases.
"What am I doing?"
And out of the semi-intoxicated trance came the answer:
"Destroying myself."
Then a dull, live feeling, gone in an instant, told him that it was wrong. After a while, suddenly came the question:
"Why wrong?"
Again there was no answer, but a stroke of hot stubbornness inside his chest resisted his own annihilation.
There was a sound of a heavy cart clanking down the road. Suddenly the electric light went out; there was a bruising17 thud in the penny-in-the-slot meter. He did not stir, but sat gazing in front of him. Only the mice had scuttled18, and the fire glowed red in the dark room.
Then, quite mechanically and more distinctly, the conversation began again inside him.
"She's dead. What was it all for--her struggle?"
That was his despair wanting to go after her.
"You're alive."
"She's not."
"She is--in you."
Suddenly he felt tired with the burden of it.
"You've got to keep alive for her sake," said his will in him.
Something felt sulky, as if it would not rouse.
"You've got to carry forward her living, and what she had done, go on with it."
But he did not want to. He wanted to give up.
"But you can go on with your painting," said the will in him. "Or else you can beget19 children. They both carry on her effort."
"Painting is not living."
"Then live."
"Marry whom?" came the sulky question.
"As best you can."
"Miriam?"
But he did not trust that.
He rose suddenly, went straight to bed. When he got inside his bedroom and closed the door, he stood with clenched fist.
"Mater, my dear---" he began, with the whole force of his soul. Then he stopped. He would not say it. He would not admit that he wanted to die, to have done. He would not own that life had beaten him, or that death had beaten him. Going straight to bed, he slept at once, abandoning himself to the sleep.
So the weeks went on. Always alone, his soul oscillated, first on the side of death, then on the side of life, doggedly20. The real agony was that he had nowhere to go, nothing to do, nothing to say, and WAS nothing himself. Sometimes he ran down the streets as if he were mad: sometimes he was mad; things weren't there, things were there. It made him pant. Sometimes he stood before the bar of the public-house where he called for a drink. Everything suddenly stood back away from him. He saw the face of the barmaid, the gobbling drinkers, his own glass on the slopped, mahogany board, in the distance. There was something between him and them. He could not get into touch. He did not want them; he did not want his drink. Turning abruptly21, he went out. On the threshold he stood and looked at the lighted street. But he was not of it or in it. Something separated him. Everything went on there below those lamps, shut away from him. He could not get at them. He felt he couldn't touch the lamp-posts, not if he reached. Where could he go? There was nowhere to go, neither back into the inn, or forward anywhere. He felt stifled22. There was nowhere for him. The stress grew inside him; he felt he should smash.
"I mustn't," he said; and, turning blindly, he went in and drank. Sometimes the drink did him good; sometimes it made him worse. He ran down the road. For ever restless, he went here, there, everywhere. He determined23 to work. But when he had made six strokes, he loathed24 the pencil violently, got up, and went away, hurried off to a club where he could play cards or billiards25, to a place where he could flirt26 with a barmaid who was no more to him than the brass27 pump-handle she drew.
He was very thin and lantern-jawed. He dared not meet his own eyes in the mirror; he never looked at himself. He wanted to get away from himself, but there was nothing to get hold of. In despair he thought of Miriam. Perhaps--perhaps---?
Then, happening to go into the Unitarian Church one Sunday evening, when they stood up to sing the second hymn28 he saw her before him. The light glistened29 on her lower lip as she sang. She looked as if she had got something, at any rate: some hope in heaven, if not in earth. Her comfort and her life seemed in the after-world. A warm, strong feeling for her came up. She seemed to yearn30, as she sang, for the mystery and comfort. He put his hope in her. He longed for the sermon to be over, to speak to her.
The throng31 carried her out just before him. He could nearly touch her. She did not know he was there. He saw the brown, humble32 nape of her neck under its black curls. He would leave himself to her. She was better and bigger than he. He would depend on her.
She went wandering, in her blind way, through the little throngs33 of people outside the church. She always looked so lost and out of place among people. He went forward and put his hand on her arm. She started violently. Her great brown eyes dilated34 in fear, then went questioning at the sight of him. He shrank slightly from her.
"I didn't know---" she faltered35.
"Nor I," he said.
He looked away. His sudden, flaring36 hope sank again.
"What are you doing in town?" he asked.
"I'm staying at Cousin Anne's."
"Ha! For long?"
"No; only till to-morrow."
"Must you go straight home?"
She looked at him, then hid her face under her hat-brim.
"No," she said--"no; it's not necessary."
He turned away, and she went with him. They threaded through the throng of church people. The organ was still sounding in St. Mary's. Dark figures came through the lighted doors; people were coming down the steps. The large coloured windows glowed up in the night. The church was like a great lantern suspended. They went down Hollow Stone, and he took the car for the Bridges.
"You will just have supper with me," he said: "then I'll bring you back."
"Very well," she replied, low and husky.
They scarcely spoke37 while they were on the car. The Trent ran dark and full under the bridge. Away towards Colwick all was black night. He lived down Holme Road, on the naked edge of the town, facing across the river meadows towards Sneinton Hermitage and the steep scrap38 of Colwick Wood. The floods were out. The silent water and the darkness spread away on their left. Almost afraid, they hurried along by the houses.
Supper was laid. He swung the curtain over the window. There was a bowl of freesias and scarlet39 anemones40 on the table. She bent41 to them. Still touching42 them with her finger-tips, she looked up at him, saying:
"Aren't they beautiful?"
"Yes," he said. "What will you drink--coffee?"
"I should like it," she said.
"Then excuse me a moment."
He went out to the kitchen.
Miriam took off her things and looked round. It was a bare, severe room. Her photo, Clara's, Annie's, were on the wall. She looked on the drawing-board to see what he was doing. There were only a few meaningless lines. She looked to see what books he was reading. Evidently just an ordinary novel. The letters in the rack she saw were from Annie, Arthur, and from some man or other she did not know. Everything he had touched, everything that was in the least personal to him, she examined with lingering absorption. He had been gone from her for so long, she wanted to rediscover him, his position, what he was now. But there was not much in the room to help her. It only made her feel rather sad, it was so hard and comfortless.
She was curiously43 examining a sketch44-book when he returned with the coffee.
"There's nothing new in it," he said, "and nothing very interesting."
He put down the tray, and went to look over her shoulder. She turned the pages slowly, intent on examining everything.
"H'm!" he said, as she paused at a sketch. "I'd forgotten that. It's not bad, is it?"
"No," she said. "I don't quite understand it."
He took the book from her and went through it. Again he made a curious sound of surprise and pleasure.
"There's some not bad stuff in there," he said.
"Not at all bad," she answered gravely.
He felt again her interest in his work. Or was it for himself? Why was she always most interested in him as he appeared in his work?
They sat down to supper.
"By the way," he said, "didn't I hear something about your earning your own living?"
"Yes," she replied, bowing her dark head over her cup. "And what of it?"
"I'm merely going to the farming college at Broughton for three months, and I shall probably be kept on as a teacher there."
"I say--that sounds all right for you! You always wanted to be independent."
"Yes.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I only knew last week."
"But I heard a month ago," he said.
"Yes; but nothing was settled then."
"I should have thought," he said, "you'd have told me you were trying."
She ate her food in the deliberate, constrained45 way, almost as if she recoiled46 a little from doing anything so publicly, that he knew so well.
"I suppose you're glad," he said.
"Very glad."
"Yes--it will be something."
He was rather disappointed.
"I think it will be a great deal," she said, almost haughtily47, resentfully.
He laughed shortly.
"Why do you think it won't?" she asked.
"Oh, I don't think it won't be a great deal. Only you'll find earning your own living isn't everything."
"No," she said, swallowing with difficulty; "I don't suppose it is."
"I suppose work CAN be nearly everything to a man," he said, "though it isn't to me. But a woman only works with a part of herself. The real and vital part is covered up."
"But a man can give ALL himself to work?" she asked.
"Yes, practically."
"And a woman only the unimportant part of herself?"
"That's it."
She looked up at him, and her eyes dilated with anger.
"Then," she said, "if it's true, it's a great shame."
"It is. But I don't know everything," he answered.
After supper they drew up to the fire. He swung her a chair facing him, and they sat down. She was wearing a dress of dark claret colour, that suited her dark complexion48 and her large features. Still, the curls were fine and free, but her face was much older, the brown throat much thinner. She seemed old to him, older than Clara. Her bloom of youth had quickly gone. A sort of stiffness, almost of woodenness, had come upon her. She meditated49 a little while, then looked at him.
"And how are things with you?" she asked.
"About all right," he answered.
She looked at him, waiting.
"Nay," she said, very low.
Her brown, nervous hands were clasped over her knee. They had still the lack of confidence or repose50, the almost hysterical51 look. He winced52 as he saw them. Then he laughed mirthlessly. She put her fingers between her lips. His slim, black, tortured body lay quite still in the chair. She suddenly took her finger from her mouth and looked at him.
"And you have broken off with Clara?"
"Yes."
His body lay like an abandoned thing, strewn in the chair.
"You know," she said, "I think we ought to be married."
He opened his eyes for the first time since many months, and attended to her with respect.
"Why?" he said.
"See," she said, "how you waste yourself! You might be ill, you might die, and I never know--be no more then than if I had never known you."
"And if we married?" he asked.
"At any rate, I could prevent you wasting yourself and being a prey53 to other women--like--like Clara."
"A prey?" he repeated, smiling.
She bowed her head in silence. He lay feeling his despair come up again.
"I'm not sure," he said slowly, "that marriage would be much good."
"I only think of you," she replied.
"I know you do. But--you love me so much, you want to put me in your pocket. And I should die there smothered54."
She bent her head, put her fingers between her lips, while the bitterness surged up in her heart.
"And what will you do otherwise?" she asked.
"I don't know--go on, I suppose. Perhaps I shall soon go abroad."
The despairing doggedness in his tone made her go on her knees on the rug before the fire, very near to him. There she crouched55 as if she were crushed by something, and could not raise her head. His hands lay quite inert56 on the arms of his chair. She was aware of them. She felt that now he lay at her mercy. If she could rise, take him, put her arms round him, and say, "You are mine," then he would leave himself to her. But dare she? She could easily sacrifice herself. But dare she assert herself? She was aware of his dark-clothed, slender body, that seemed one stroke of life, sprawled57 in the chair close to her. But no; she dared not put her arms round it, take it up, and say, "It is mine, this body. Leave it to me." And she wanted to. It called to all her woman's instinct. But she crouched, and dared not. She was afraid he would not let her. She was afraid it was too much. It lay there, his body, abandoned. She knew she ought to take it up and claim it, and claim every right to it. But--could she do it? Her impotence before him, before the strong demand of some unknown thing in him, was her extremity58. Her hands fluttered; she half-lifted her head. Her eyes, shuddering59, appealing, gone, almost distracted, pleaded to him suddenly. His heart caught with pity. He took her hands, drew her to him, and comforted her.
"Will you have me, to marry me?" he said very low.
Oh, why did not he take her? Her very soul belonged to him. Why would he not take what was his? She had borne so long the cruelty of belonging to him and not being claimed by him. Now he was straining her again. It was too much for her. She drew back her head, held his face between her hands, and looked him in the eyes. No, he was hard. He wanted something else. She pleaded to him with all her love not to make it her choice. She could not cope with it, with him, she knew not with what. But it strained her till she felt she would break.
"Do you want it?" she asked, very gravely.
"Not much," he replied, with pain.
She turned her face aside; then, raising herself with dignity, she took his head to her bosom60, and rocked him softly. She was not to have him, then! So she could comfort him. She put her fingers through his hair. For her, the anguished61 sweetness of self-sacrifice. For him, the hate and misery62 of another failure. He could not bear it--that breast which was warm and which cradled him without taking the burden of him. So much he wanted to rest on her that the feint of rest only tortured him. He drew away.
"And without marriage we can do nothing?" he asked.
His mouth was lifted from his teeth with pain. She put her little finger between her lips.
"No," she said, low and like the toll63 of a bell. "No, I think not."
It was the end then between them. She could not take him and relieve him of the responsibility of himself. She could only sacrifice herself to him--sacrifice herself every day, gladly. And that he did not want. He wanted her to hold him and say, with joy and authority: "Stop all this restlessness and beating against death. You are mine for a mate." She had not the strength. Or was it a mate she wanted? or did she want a Christ in him?
He felt, in leaving her, he was defrauding64 her of life. But he knew that, in staying, stilling the inner, desperate man, he was denying his own life. And he did not hope to give life to her by denying his own.
She sat very quiet. He lit a cigarette. The smoke went up from it, wavering. He was thinking of his mother, and had forgotten Miriam. She suddenly looked at him. Her bitterness came surging up. Her sacrifice, then, was useless. He lay there aloof65, careless about her. Suddenly she saw again his lack of religion, his restless instability. He would destroy himself like a perverse66 child. Well, then, he would!
"I think I must go," she said softly.
By her tone he knew she was despising him. He rose quietly.
"I'll come along with you," he answered.
She stood before the mirror pinning on her hat. How bitter, how unutterably bitter, it made her that he rejected her sacrifice! Life ahead looked dead, as if the glow were gone out. She bowed her face over the flowers--the freesias so sweet and spring-like, the scarlet anemones flaunting67 over the table. It was like him to have those flowers.
He moved about the room with a certain sureness of touch, swift and relentless68 and quiet. She knew she could not cope with him. He would escape like a weasel out of her hands. Yet without him her life would trail on lifeless. Brooding, she touched the flowers.
"Have them!" he said; and he took them out of the jar, dripping as they were, and went quickly into the kitchen. She waited for him, took the flowers, and they went out together, he talking, she feeling dead.
She was going from him now. In her misery she leaned against him as they sat on the car. He was unresponsive. Where would he go? What would be the end of him? She could not bear it, the vacant feeling where he should be. He was so foolish, so wasteful69, never at peace with himself. And now where would he go? And what did he care that he wasted her? He had no religion; it was all for the moment's attraction that he cared, nothing else, nothing deeper. Well, she would wait and see how it turned out with him. When he had had enough he would give in and come to her.
He shook hands and left her at the door of her cousin's house. When he turned away he felt the last hold for him had gone. The town, as he sat upon the car, stretched away over the bay of railway, a level fume70 of lights. Beyond the town the country, little smouldering spots for more towns--the sea--the night--on and on! And he had no place in it! Whatever spot he stood on, there he stood alone. From his breast, from his mouth, sprang the endless space, and it was there behind him, everywhere. The people hurrying along the streets offered no obstruction71 to the void in which he found himself. They were small shadows whose footsteps and voices could be heard, but in each of them the same night, the same silence. He got off the car. In the country all was dead still. Little stars shone high up; little stars spread far away in the flood-waters, a firmament72 below. Everywhere the vastness and terror of the immense night which is roused and stirred for a brief while by the day, but which returns, and will remain at last eternal, holding everything in its silence and its living gloom. There was no Time, only Space. Who could say his mother had lived and did not live? She had been in one place, and was in another; that was all. And his soul could not leave her, wherever she was. Now she was gone abroad into the night, and he was with her still. They were together. But yet there was his body, his chest, that leaned against the stile, his hands on the wooden bar. They seemed something. Where was he?--one tiny upright speck73 of flesh, less than an ear of wheat lost in the field. He could not bear it. On every side the immense dark silence seemed pressing him, so tiny a spark, into extinction74, and yet, almost nothing, he could not be extinct. Night, in which everything was lost, went reaching out, beyond stars and sun. Stars and sun, a few bright grains, went spinning round for terror, and holding each other in embrace, there in a darkness that outpas sed them all, and left them tiny and daunted75.
So much, and himself, infinitesimal, at the core a nothingness, and yet not nothing.
"Mother!" he whispered--"mother!"
She was the only thing that held him up, himself, amid all this. And she was gone, intermingled herself. He wanted her to touch him, have him alongside with her.
But no, he would not give in. Turning sharply, he walked towards the city's gold phosphorescence. His fists were shut, his mouth set fast. He would not take that direction, to the darkness, to follow her. He walked towards the faintly humming, glowing town, quickly.
克莱拉跟着她丈夫回到了雪菲尔德，从那以后，保罗就很少再见她。沃尔特·莫瑞尔也似乎就听任自己湮没在这痛苦之中，可他还要一如既往在痛苦中挣扎着活下去。连接父子俩人的纽带，只是彼此想到一定不能让对方陷入的确无法过下去的困境，再也没有别的感情了。由于家里再也没有人守着，父子俩都无法忍受家里的这种空旷寂寞，保罗索性搬到诺丁汉郡去住，莫瑞尔也住到贝斯伍德的一位朋友家去了。
对于这个年轻人来说，仿佛一切都破碎崩溃了。他不能再画画。母亲临终那天他完成的那幅画成了他最后的作品——他对那幅画还比较欣赏。工作时也没有克莱拉陪伴。回家后，他再也不愿拿起画笔了。似乎母亲的死带走了他的一切。
于是，他老是在城里四处瞎逛，跟他认识的人一起喝酒厮混。他厌倦了这种日子。他跟酒吧的女招待打情骂俏，无论碰见任何女人他都随便调笑几句，不过，他的眼神却总是那么忧郁和焦虑，好像在寻求着什么。
一切都显得与往日不同，一切都显得虚无缥缈。人们似乎没有理由在大街上行走。房屋似乎没有理由在阳光下挤在一起，这些东西似乎没有理由占据空间，应该让世界就这么空着。朋友们跟他说话时，他听见声音，也能回答别人，可是他却不明白为什么说话时会发生那种嘈杂的声音。
只有当他独自一个人的时候，或者在工厂拼命地干活时，他才恢复了本性。也只有干活时他才能真正地忘记一切，在那时，他仿佛没有意识，头脑里空空如也。但工作也有干完的时候，他很伤心，觉得万事万物都失去了它的本来面目。第一场雪飘飘扬扬地下着，在灰蒙蒙的天空中，他看见了那些小小的晶莹的雪片飞舞。这在过去，雪花会引起他最生动强烈的激情，但现在它们已经失去任何作用了。雪花刚飘下来就融化了，只剩下原来的空间。夜晚，高大朗亮的电车一路开来，他也觉得很奇怪，这些电车为什么老是这么不厌其烦地开来开去呢？他问这些高大的电车：“为什么不辞劳苦地往特伦特桥开去？”似乎它们并不应该像现在这样存在。
最起初的东西是夜里的那一片漆黑。在他眼里，黑暗是十全十美的，能够让人理解，也能让人安宁平静，他可以毫无忧虑的让自己沉浸在黑暗中。忽然之间，他脚边的一张纸随风飘去，沿着人行道吹跑了。他一动不动地站着，身体笔直，两个拳头紧握着，心里煎熬着痛苦。似乎又看见母亲的病房，又看见母亲，又看见母亲的那双眼睛。他曾经不知不觉地跟母亲生活在一起，陪伴着她。这随冈飘零的纸片提醒他她已经不复存在了。可是他曾经跟母亲相依相守。他希望时光永驻，这样他就可以又跟母亲在一起了。
日子一天一天、一星期一星期地过去了。可是在保罗看来，世界成了混沌一片，他简直分不清今天和昨天，这星期和上星期，此处与彼地，什么都分不清楚，什么都认不出来了。他常常整小时地出神，记不清自己做了些什么事。
一天晚上，他回到住处时已经相当晚了。炉火奄奄一息，所有的人都睡了。他添了一点煤，朝桌子上看了一眼，决定不吃晚饭。于是，他就坐在扶手椅上，房里一片寂静。他什么都不知道，只看见那淡淡的烟袅袅地向烟囱飘去。突然，两只耗子心凉胆颤地钻了出来，吃着掉在地下的面包屑。他仿佛隔着遥远的距离看着这一切。教堂的钟声“当当”地响了两下。远远传来了货车在铁路上发出的刺耳的哐当哐当声。起初，货车也不远，依然在它们原来的地方。不过，他到底身处何方呢？
时间不停地逝去。两只小耗子胆大起来，竟猖狂地在他拖鞋边蹿来蹿去。他纹丝不动地坐在那儿。他不想动，什么也不想，这样似乎过得轻松些，没有百事烦心。然而，他的意识又在不停地机械地活动着，时不时地促使他冒出这样的话。
“我在干什么？”
他在自我麻醉的恍惚状态下，自问自答。
“在自杀。”
接着，一股模糊而有力的感觉立即告诉他，这样不对，一会儿之后，突然又问道：
“为什么不对？”
又没有回答，但他胸膛里却有一股火热的执着阻止他自寻绝路。
街上传来一辆沉重的双轮马车当啷当啷驶过的声音，突然，电灯灭了，自动配电机的电表格嗒响了一声，他没有反应，就那么坐着直愣愣地望着前方。那两只耗子急匆匆地逃走了。黑沉沉的屋里只有炉火一闪一闪地发着红光。
接着，更加机械、更加清晰的内心的对白又开始了。
“她死了。她一辈子挣扎着——全是为了什么呢？”
这就是他绝望地想随她而去的原因。
“你活着。”
“她没活着。”
“她活着——就在你心里。”
突然，他对这个思想负担感到厌倦。
“你一定得为她而继续活下去。”他内心说。
不知什么东西，总让他觉得很别扭，仿佛让他无法振作起来。
“你一定得把她的生活和她生前所做的一切继承下来，继续下去。”
可他并不想这么做，他想放弃这一切。
“但你可以继续画画，”他的意志说，“或者你可以有个后代，这两者都是她所努力要做的。”
“画画又不是生活。”
“那就活下去吧。”
“跟谁结婚呢？”这个让他痛苦的问题又来了。
“尽你最大的努力去找吧。”
“米丽亚姆？”
不过他对这些没有信心。
他突然站起身，上床去睡觉。走进卧室，他就关上房门，紧握拳头站在那儿。
“妈妈，我亲爱的……”他开始说，似乎竭尽他心灵的全部力量。说着他又停下，不愿说下去。他不愿承认自己想去死，想去结果自己的生命；他不愿承认自己被生活打败了，也不愿承认死亡打败了他。他径直走上去睡觉，很快他便酣然入梦，梦境中无忧无虑。
好几个礼拜就这样飞逝过去。他依旧孤独地生活着，内心犹豫不决，一会儿决意要去死，一会儿又想顽强地活。真正让他痛苦的是他无处可去，无事可做，无话可说，自己不再是自己。有时他像疯子一般在大街上狂奔；有时候他的确疯了，仿佛看见了什么东西时隐时现，折腾得他喘不过气来。有时候，他刚要了一杯酒，正站在酒馆里的酒柜前，突然，一切仿佛都向后退去，飘然离开了他，他远远地看见那酒吧女招待的脸，看见滔滔不绝地谈论着什么的酒徒，看见红木酒柜上自己的酒杯。仿佛有一层什么东西横隔在他与这些之间，可望而不可及，他也不想接近这些，也没有心思再浅酌低饮。于是，他突然转身出去。站在门槛上，看着那华灯初照的大街，他觉得这一切仿佛与他格格不入，似乎有什么东西把他从整个世界隔离开来，大街上，路灯下，一切仍如既往的运行，可就是把他远远地隔开，使他望尘莫及。他觉得自己不能触摸到路灯柱子，即使能得也还是触摸不到。他能去哪里？他无处可去，既不能再回酒馆，也不能到前面什么地方去。他喘不上气来了。偌大的世界竟没有他的安身立命之处。他内心的压力越来越大，觉得自己要粉身碎骨了。
“我可不能这样。”他说着转过身来，到酒馆里一醉方休。有时，酒能让他感觉好受些，可有时酒也让他感觉更痛苦。他沿路跑着，永远坐立不安，东奔西颠，四处飘荡。他决心要去工作，可是他刚涂了几下，就又狠狠地扔下画笔，站起身匆匆地逃到俱乐部去了，在那儿打牌、打弹子，或者去一个能和酒吧女招待鬼混的地方，在他看来，那些女招待只不过跟他手里拿着的汲酒铜把手差不多。
他愈来愈显得清瘦，下巴尖尖的。他从不敢从镜子里看自己的眼睛，也从不敢照镜子。他想要摆脱自己，可又没有什么东西好支撑攀附。绝望中，他想起了米丽亚姆，也许，也许……？
星期天的晚上，他去了那个唯一神教派教堂，教徒们起立唱着第二支赞美诗时，保罗看见了站在他前面的米丽亚姆。她唱圣歌时，下唇圣光闪闪，她那副神情，仿佛彻悟尘世事理：人世没有快乐，寄希望于天国，她似乎把她所有的安慰和生活都寄托于了来世。一股对她强烈而温暖的感情不禁油然而生。她唱圣歌时全神贯注，仿佛一心向往着来世的神秘和慰藉。他把自己的希望寄托于她。他盼望着布道赶快结束，那样他就可以向她倾诉内心郁积的千言万语。
米丽亚姆拥在人群中从他面前一哄而过，他几乎都触摸着她了。她也不知道他就在那儿，他可以看见她黑色卷发下那谦恭温顺的褐色的后颈。他要把自己交给她，她比他强大得多，他要依靠她。
她盲目地在教堂外面那些善男信女中转悠着。她在人群中总是这么神情恍惚，不得其所。他走上前去，按住她的胳膊，她吃了一惊，那双棕色眼睛恐惧得大睁着，当看清楚是他时，脸上不禁露出疑惑的神色。他从她身边稍稍退开了一点。
“我没想到……”她嗫嚅地说。
“我也没想到。”他说。
他移开了眼神，他那突然燃起的希望火花又熄灭了。
“你在城里干什么呢？”他问。
“我在表姐安妮的家里。”
“噢，要呆很长时间吗？”
“不，就住到明天。”
“你必须得直接回家吗？”
她看了他一眼，又把脸隐到了帽檐的阴影里。
“不，”她说，“不，没有那个必要。”
他转身走去，她伴他而行。他们穿行在那些善男信女中，圣玛利亚教堂的风琴还在飘出悠扬的乐声，黑鸦鸦的人群从亮着灯光的门口不断地涌出来，纷纷走下台阶。那巨大的彩色窗户在夜空中闪着光，教堂就像是一盏大灯笼。他们沿着石洞街走着，他租了辆车到特伦特桥去。
“你最好和我一起吃晚饭，”他说，“然后我送你回去。”
“好吧。”她答道，声音沙哑而低沉。
在车上，他们没说几句话。特伦特河那黑沉沉的涌满两岸的河水在桥下旧泊地奔流着。克威克那面一片黑暗。他住在霍尔姆路，座落在荒凉的市郊，面临着河对岸那片草地，草地靠近思宁顿修道院和克威克森林陡坡。潮水已退去了。静静的河水和黑暗就在他们左侧，他们有些害怕，于是很快沿着屋舍院落的那一侧匆匆向前走去。
晚饭摆好后，他把窗帘撩开，桌子上摆着一瓶鸢屋花和猩红色的秋牡丹。她冲着花俯下身去，一边用指头抚摸着花，一边问他说：
“美不美？”
“美。”他说，“你想喝点什么——咖啡？”
“好的，我喜欢喝咖啡。”她说。
“稍等片刻。”
他进了厨房。
米丽亚姆脱下外衣，四周望了望。屋子陈设十分简朴，几乎没有家具。墙上挂着她、克莱拉还有安妮的像片。她去看画板想看看他最近在画些什么，上面只有几根毫无意义的线条。她又去看他在读什么书，很显然只在读一本普通的小说。书架上有几封安妮和亚瑟以及她不认识的人写来的信。她非常仔细地察看着那些凡是他接触过、或者跟他有一点点关系的东西。他们分开已经好久了，她要重新看看他，看看他的生活状况，看看他在做些什么。不过屋子里没有什么东西可以让她了解到这些。这间屋子只能让她感到难过，使一切显得那么艰苦和不舒适。
米丽亚姆正好奇地翻看他的速写本，保罗端着咖啡进屋了。
“那里没什么新画，”他说，“也没什么特别有意思的东西。”
他放下茶盘，从她的肩头往下看着。她慢慢地一页页地翻着，仔细地察看着。
当她停在一线速写上时，“呣！”他说。“我都忘了，这张画怎么样，不错吧？”
“不错，”她说：“但我不太懂。”
他从她手里接过本子，一张张翻着看，不断地发出一种又惊又喜的声音。
“这里面有些画还是不错的。”他说。
一很不错。”她慎重地说。
保罗又感到了她对他的画的欣赏。难道这是因为关心他吗？为什么总是当他把自己表现在画里时，她才流露出对他的欣赏？
他们坐下来开始吃晚饭。
“我想问一下，”他说，“听说你好象自食其力了？”
“是的。”她低头喝着咖啡。
“干什么工作？”
“我只是到布鲁顿农学院去念三个月的书，将来也许会留在那儿当老师。”
“哦——我觉得这对你挺合适的！你总是想自立。”
“是的。”
“你为什么没有告诉我？”
“我上个星期才知道的。”
“可是我一个月前就听说了。”他说。
“是的，不过当时还没有确定。”
“我早就应该想到的，”他说，“我原以为你会告诉我你的奋斗情况。”
她吃东西时显得拘谨而不自然，就好像她害怕公开地做他所熟悉的事情似的。
“我想你一定很高兴吧。”他说。
“非常高兴。”
“是的——这不管怎么说是件好事啊。”
其实他心里相当失望。
“我也觉得这事很了不起。”她用那种傲慢的语调忿忿不平地说。
他笑了两声。
“为什么你对此不以为然？”她问。
“哦，我可没对此不以为然。不过你以后就会明白的，自食其力只是人生的一部分罢了。”
“不，”她忍气吞声地说，“我可没这样认为。”
“我认为工作对一个男人来说。几乎可以说是最重要的了，”他说，“虽然对我不是这样。不过女人工作是她生活的一种调剂，只使出一部分精力，真正最有意义的一部分生活却被掩盖起来了。”
“难道男人就能全心全意地工作了？”她问。
“是的，实际上是这样。”
“女人只能使出不重要的那份精力工作？”
“是这样的。”
她气愤地睁大双眼望着他。
“那么，”她说，“如果真是这样，那真是让人感到耻辱。”
“是的，不过我也不是什么都知道的。”他回答道。
饭后，他们靠近炉边，保罗给米丽亚姆端来一把椅子，放在自己的对面，两人坐下。她穿着一件深红色的衣服，这与她的深色皮肤和舒展的容貌非常相称，她那头卷发依然美丽而飘洒。不过，她的脸却显得老多了，那褐色的脖颈也瘦了少许，他觉得她比克莱拉还苍老。时光飞逝，转眼之间她的青春年华已不复存在，身上出现了一种呆板迟钝的神态。她坐在那儿深思了一会，然后抬起眼望着他。
“你的一切怎么样？”她问。
“还可以吧。”他答道。
她看着他，等待着。
“不是吧？”她说，声音很低。
她那双褐色的手紧张地抓住自己的膝盖，却仍旧显得不知所措，甚至有点歇斯底里。他看见这双手不由得哆嗦了一下，接着他苦笑了。她又把手指放在两唇之间。他那细长黝黑、备受痛苦的身子静静地躺在椅子里。她突然从嘴边拿开手，看着他。
“你跟克莱拉散了吗？”
“散了。”
他的身子像是被抛弃的废物一样横在椅子里。
“你知道，”她说，“我想我们应该结婚。”
数月来，他第一次睁大眼睛，怀着敬意看着她。
“为什么？”他说。
“瞧，”她说，“你是在自暴自弃！你会生病，你会死的，而我却从来不知道——到那时就同我从来不认识你没什么两样。”
“那如果我们结婚呢？”他问。
“起码，我可以阻止你自暴自弃，阻止你沦为一个像克莱拉那样的女人的牺牲品。”
“牺牲品？”他笑着重复了一遍。
她默默地低下了头。他躺在那儿，又感到一阵绝望袭来。
“我不太确信，”他慢吞吞地说，“结婚会带来多大的好处。”
“我只是为你着想。”她答道。
“我知道你是为我着想，不过——你这么爱我，你想把我放在你的口袋里，那我可会憋死的。”
她低下头，把手指噙在嘴里，心头涌起阵阵痛苦。
“那你打算怎么办？”她问。
我不知道——继续这样混下去吧，我想。也许不久我就要出国了。”
他语调中的那种绝望、孤注一掷的意味，使她不禁一下子跪倒在他身边不远处的炉边地毯上。她就那么蜷缩着身子，仿佛被什么给压垮了，抬不起头来。他那双手无力地搁在椅子的扶手上。她注意到了这双手，觉得他躺在那儿仿佛在听凭她的摆布，如果她能站起来，拉住他，拥抱他说：“你是我的。”那么他就会投入她的怀抱。可是她敢这么做吗？她可以轻易地牺牲自己，大胆地表明自己的心迹吗？她注意到了他穿着深色衣服里的削瘦的身子，似乎一息尚存，瘫在她身边的椅子里。她不敢，她不敢伸出双臂搂住他，把他拉过来，说：“这是我的，这身体是我的，给我吧。”然而她想这么做，她那天性的本能被唤醒了。可她仍旧跑在那里，不敢这么做。她也害怕他不让她这样做，担心这样做太过分。他的身子就像垃圾似的，躺在那儿。她知道她应该把它拉过来，宣称是自己的，宣称拥有对它的一切权利。可是——她能这么做吗？面对着他，面对着他内心那股求知的强烈欲望，她完全束手无策。她微仰着脸，两手颤抖。哀怨的眼神呀栗着，显得困惑茫然，突然，她向他露出了恳求的神情，他的同情心不禁油然而生，他抓住她的双手，把她拉到身边，安慰着她。
“你想要我，想嫁给我吗？”他低低地说。
哦，为什么她不要他呢？她的心已经属于他。他为什么不要属于他的东西呢？她已经对他苦苦相思了这么久，他却一直不要她。现在他又来折磨她，这未免有些太过分。她向后仰着头，双手捧着他的脸，望着他的眼睛。不，他冷酷无情，他要的是别的东西。她以全心全意的爱祈求他不要让她自己做出选择。她应付不了这事，也应付不了他，她也不知道究竟如何应付。可是这件事在煎熬着她，她觉得心快要碎了。
“你想这样吗？”她非常认真地问。
“不是非常想。”他痛苦地回答。
她把脸转向一边，然后庄重地站起身来，把他的头搂在怀里，温柔地摇晃着。然而，她还是没有得到他！所以她在抚慰着他，她把手指插在他的头发里，这对她来说，是痛苦中带着甜蜜的自我牺牲。对他来说呢，这则是充满怨恨和痛苦的又一次失败。他无法忍受——她温暖的胸脯，像摇篮似的轻轻晃荡着他，却并不能分担他的负担和愁苦。他是多么想依靠她而得到心灵的宁静，可此刻这种伪装出来的宁静只能使他更加痛苦难耐。他把身子缩了回去。
“难道我们不结婚就什么也干不了吗？”他问。
他痛苦地努着嘴唇。她把小巧的手指放在嘴里。
“是的，”她说，像丧钟低沉的声音，“是的，我想是这样的。”
两人的关系只有这样的结局了。她不能带着他，把他从责任的重负下解脱出来。她只能对他做出自我牺牲——天天都心甘情愿地自我牺牲。然而他却并不需要她这样。他渴望她抱住他，高兴而不容抗拒地说：“别这么烦躁不安，寻死觅活了，你是我的伴侣。”可是她没有这种力量和勇气。再说她要的真是一个伴侣吗？她想要的也许是她心中的救世主吧？
保罗想如果离开她，等于自己欺骗了她的生命，可是他也清楚，如果留下来陪伴她，像一个绝望者一样窒息内心的一切，那就等于放弃自己的生活。然而，他并不希望放弃自己的生活，把它献给她。
米丽亚姆静静地坐在那里。保罗点燃一根烟，烟雾袅袅而上。他在思念母亲，忘记米丽亚姆的存在。突然，她看着他，内心又涌起阵阵痛苦的浪潮。看来，她的牺牲毫无价值。他冷漠地躺在那儿，对她漠不关心。突然，她又发现他缺乏信仰、浮躁易变。他会像个任性的孩子一样毁了自己。很好，他应该那样！
“我想我该走了。”她温柔地说。
从她的声调中，他听出她有些蔑视他。他一声不响地站起来。
“我送送你。”他答道。
她站在镜子前用别针别上帽子。他竟然拒绝了她的牺牲，多么痛苦啊，真是苦不堪言！以后的日子如死了一般，仿佛前途的明灯全熄灭了。她低头看着花——桌上的花散发出一阵阵幽香，洋溢着春天气息的鸢屋花和猩红色的秋牡丹竟相斗艳。这些花的确像他一样。
他摆出几分自信的神态，在屋子里默默而焦虑地快速踱着步。她知道她对付不了他，他会像黄鼠狼一样从她手里溜走。然而没有他，她的生活就只能僵死般再蹉跎下去。她沉思着，抚摸着花。
“拿去吧！”他说着把花从花盆里取出来，拿起滴着水的花，冲进厨房。她等着，接过花，两人就一起出去。他对她说着话，可仿佛觉得死去一般。
她就要离开他了。他们坐在车上时，她痛苦地依偎着他，而他却毫无反应。他要去哪儿？他会有一个什么样的结局？她无法忍受他在她心中留下的那种空虚的感觉。他如此愚蠢，如此自暴自弃，从来没有安宁过。现在他要去哪儿？他浪费了她的青春，他对此表示过关心吗？他没有信仰，只是关心自己眼前片刻的欢乐，除此他什么也满不在乎，也没有更深沉的思想。好了，她要等着瞧他会变成什么样子，等他折腾够了，会死心塌地地回到她的身边。
他在她表姐家门口跟她握了握手，就离开了她。在他转过身的那一瞬间，他感到自己最后一线希望都失去了。他坐在车上，外面的城市顺着铁道沿伸开来，前方一片灯海迷朦。城郊以外是乡村，那些将发展为更多的城市的小镇，灯火点点——大海——黑夜——所有的一切！可偏偏没有他的容身之地！他不管站在哪里，总是孑然一身。从他的胸膛，从他的嘴里，喷出一片茫茫无际的空虚，同样在他身后，在四面八方，也是一片无垠的空虚。街上的路人行色匆匆，却没有谁能消除他内心的那种空虚感。他们只是渺小的黑影，他能听得见他们的脚步声和说话声，但每个人影都沉浸在同样的黑夜，同样的沉寂中。他下了车，乡村中一片死寂。繁星在天空中闪闪，像河流一样伸向远处，苍穹在下。到处都是辽阔的空间、恐怖的黑夜，它只有在白昼会惊醒片刻，很快又回到黑夜，永恒的黑夜把世间万物都包罗在它的沉寂和活生生的昏暗中。这里的世界变得没有时间，只有空间。谁能说他母亲曾经拥有生命，而现在却命丧黄泉？她只是曾经到过的一个地方，现在又去了别处，如此而已。可是不管他母亲身在何方，他的灵魂都永远不能和她分开。如今她去了黑夜之中，而他仍然与她同在。母子俩人形影不离。然而，此刻他的身子，他的胸膛正靠着台阶的围栏上，他的双手也正抓着横木。这些多少还是实在之物。他在哪儿呢——只不过是个微不足道的一堆腐肉立在那儿罢了，还不如洒落在田野间的一棵麦穗。他不堪忍受那无边无际的黑夜，似乎从四面八方向他这渺小的生命火花压来，想强迫扑灭它。不过，他尽管极为渺小，却不可被消灭。黑夜吞尽万物向周边伸展开去，超越了星星和太阳，星星和太阳只是几个寥寥可数的小亮点，在黑暗中恐惧得旋转不停，互相抱成一团，在一片仿佛能压倒一切的黑暗里，连星星和太阳都显得渺小和恐惧。这一切，包括他自己，全都是那么微不足道，几近于无，可又不是无。
“妈妈！”他低声喊道，“妈妈！”
茫茫人海中，只有她是他的精神支柱。如今她已经离开了，融进那一片夜色，他多么希望她能抚摸自己，把他带走。
可是，不行，他不愿就这样屈服。他猛地转过身来，朝着城市那片繁华灿烂的金光走去。他紧握着拳头，嘴巴也紧抿着。他决不会随她而去，走上那条通向黑暗之路。他加快了步伐，朝着远处隐约有声、灯光辉煌的城市走去。
THE END
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1
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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3
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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4
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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5
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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tilting
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| 倾斜，倾卸 | |
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7
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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9
hop
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| n.单脚跳，跳跃；vi.单脚跳，跳跃；着手做某事；vt.跳跃，跃过 | |
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10
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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11
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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12
nibbling
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的现在分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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13
crumbs
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| int. (表示惊讶)哎呀 n. 碎屑 名词crumb的复数形式 | |
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14
scampered
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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16
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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17
bruising
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| adj.殊死的；十分激烈的v.擦伤(bruise的现在分词形式) | |
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18
scuttled
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| v.使船沉没( scuttle的过去式和过去分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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19
beget
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| v.引起；产生 | |
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20
doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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21
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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22
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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23
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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24
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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25
billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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26
flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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27
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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28
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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29
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
yearn
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| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
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31
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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32
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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33
throngs
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| n.人群( throng的名词复数 )v.成群，挤满( throng的第三人称单数 ) | |
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34
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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35
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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36
flaring
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| a.火焰摇曳的，过份艳丽的 | |
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37
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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38
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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39
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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40
anemones
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| n.银莲花( anemone的名词复数 )；海葵 | |
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41
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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42
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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43
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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44
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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45
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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46
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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47
haughtily
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| adv. 傲慢地, 高傲地 | |
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48
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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49
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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50
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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51
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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52
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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54
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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55
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56
inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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57
sprawled
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| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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58
extremity
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| n.末端，尽头；尽力；终极；极度 | |
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59
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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60
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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61
anguished
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| adj.极其痛苦的v.使极度痛苦(anguish的过去式) | |
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62
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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63
toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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64
defrauding
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| v.诈取，骗取( defraud的现在分词 ) | |
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65
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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66
perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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67
flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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68
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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69
wasteful
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| adj.（造成）浪费的，挥霍的 | |
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70
fume
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| n.(usu pl.)(浓烈或难闻的)烟，气，汽 | |
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71
obstruction
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| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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72
firmament
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| n.苍穹；最高层 | |
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73
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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74
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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75
daunted
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| 使（某人）气馁，威吓( daunt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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