At nine-and-twenty I was gaunt and gray; my nerves were shattered, my heart was broken; and my face showed it without let or hindrance1 from the spirit that was broken too. Pride, will, courage, and endurance, all these had expired in my long and lonely battle with the sea. They had kept me alive-for this. And now they left me naked to mine enemies.
For every hand seemed raised against me, though in reality it was the hand of fellowship that the world stretched out, and the other was the reading of a jaundiced eye. I could not help it: there was a poison in my veins2 that made me all ingratitude3 and perversity4. The world welcomed me back, and I returned the compliment by sulking like the recaptured runaway5 I was at heart. The world showed a sudden interest in me; so I took no further interest in the world, but, on the contrary, resented its attentions with unreasonable6 warmth and obduracy7; and my would-be friends I regarded as my very worst enemies. The majority, I feel sure, meant but well and kindly8 by the poor survivor9. But the survivor could not forget that his name was still in the newspapers, nor blink the fact that he was an unworthy hero of the passing hour. And he suffered enough from brazenly10 meddlesome11 and self-seeking folk, from impudent12 and inquisitive13 intruders, to justify14 some suspicion of old acquaintances suddenly styling themselves old friends, and of distant connections newly and unduly15 eager to claim relationship. Many I misjudged, and have long known it. On the whole, however, I wonder at that attitude of mine as little as I approve of it.
If I had distinguished16 myself in any other way, it would have been a different thing. It was the fussy17, sentimental18, inconsiderate interest in one thrown into purely19 accidental and necessarily painful prominence—the vulgarization of an unspeakable tragedy—that my soul abhorred20. I confess that I regarded it from my own unique and selfish point of view. What was a thrilling matter to the world was a torturing memory to me. The quintessence of the torture was, moreover, my own secret. It was not the loss of the Lady Jermyn that I could not bear to speak about; it was my own loss; but the one involved the other. My loss apart, however, it was plain enough to dwell upon experiences so terrible and yet so recent as those which I had lived to tell. I did what I considered my duty to the public, but I certainly did no more. My reticence21 was rebuked22 in the papers that made the most of me, but would fain have made more. And yet I do not think that I was anything but docile23 with those who had a manifest right to question me; to the owners, and to other interested persons, with whom I was confronted on one pretext24 or another, I told my tale as fully25 and as freely as I have told it here, though each telling hurt more than the last. That was necessary and unavoidable; it was the private intrusions which I resented with all the spleen the sea had left me in exchange for the qualities it had taken away.
Relatives I had as few as misanthropist could desire; but from self-congratulation on the fact, on first landing, I soon came to keen regret. They at least would have sheltered me from spies and busybodies; they at least would have secured the peace and privacy of one who was no hero in fact or spirit, whose noblest deed was a piece of self preservation26 which he wished undone27 with all his heart.
Self-consciousness no doubt multiplied my flattering assailants. I have said that my nerves were shattered. I may have imagined much and exaggerated the rest. Yet what truth there was in my suspicions you shall duly see. I felt sure that I was followed in the street, and my every movement dogged by those to whom I would not condescend28 to turn and look. Meanwhile, I had not the courage to go near my club, and the Temple was a place where I was accosted29 in every court, effusively30 congratulated on the marvellous preservation of my stale spoilt life, and invited right and left to spin my yarn31 over a quiet pipe! Well, perhaps such invitations were not so common as they have grown in my memory; nor must you confuse my then feelings on all these matters with those which I entertain as I write. I have grown older, and, I hope, something kindlier and wiser since then. Yet to this day I cannot blame myself for abandoning my chambers32 and avoiding my club.
For a temporary asylum33 I pitched upon a small, quiet, empty, private hotel which I knew of in Charterhouse Square. Instantly the room next mine became occupied.
All the first night I imagined I heard voices talking about me in that room next door. It was becoming a disease with me. Either I was being dogged, watched, followed, day and night, indoors and out, or I was the victim of a very ominous34 hallucination. That night I never closed an eye nor lowered my light. In the morning I took a four-wheel cab and drove straight to Harley Street; and, upon my soul, as I stood on the specialist's door-step, I could have sworn I saw the occupant of the room next mine dash by me in a hansom!
“Ah!” said the specialist; “so you cannot sleep; you hear voices; you fancy you are being followed in the street. You don't think these fancies spring entirely35 from the imagination? Not entirely—just so. And you keep looking behind you, as though somebody were at your elbow; and you prefer to sit with your back close to the wall. Just so—just so. Distressing36 symptoms, to be sure, but—but hardly to be wondered at in a man who has come through your nervous strain.” A keen professional light glittered in his eyes. “And almost commonplace,” he added, smiling, “compared with the hallucinations you must have suffered from on that hen-coop! Ah, my dear sir, the psychological interest of your case is very great!”
“It may be,” said I, brusquely. “But I come to you to get that hen-coop out of my head, not to be reminded of it. Everybody asks me about the damned thing, and you follow everybody else. I wish it and I were at the bottom of the sea together!”
This speech had the effect of really interesting the doctor in my present condition, which was indeed one of chronic37 irritation38 and extreme excitability, alternating with fits of the very blackest despair. Instead of offending my gentleman I had put him on his mettle39, and for half an hour he honored me with the most exhaustive inquisition ever elicited40 from a medical man. His panacea41 was somewhat in the nature of an anti-climax, but at least it had the merits of simplicity42 and of common sense. A change of air—perfect quiet—say a cottage in the country—not too near the sea. And he shook my hand kindly when I left.
“Keep up your heart, my dear sir,” said he. “Keep up your courage and your heart.”
“My heart!” I cried. “It's at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.”
He was the first to whom I had said as much. He was a stranger. What did it matter? And, oh, it was so true—so true.
Every day and all day I was thinking of my love; every hour and all hours she was before me with her sunny hair and young, young face. Her wistful eyes were gazing into mine continually. Their wistfulness I had never realized at the time; but now I did; and I saw it for what it seemed always to have been, the soft, sad, yearning43 look of one fated to die young. So young—so young! And I might live to be an old man, mourning her.
That I should never love again I knew full well. This time there was no mistake. I have implied, I believe, that it was for another woman I fled originally to the diggings. Well, that one was still unmarried, and when the papers were full of me she wrote me a letter which I now believe to have been merely kind. At the time I was all uncharitableness; but words of mine would fail to tell you how cold this letter left me; it was as a candle lighted in the full blaze of the sun.
With all my bitterness, however, you must not suppose that I had quite lost the feelings which had inspired me at sunset on the lonely ocean, while my mind still held good. I had been too near my Maker44 ever to lose those feelings altogether. They were with me in the better moments of these my worst days. I trusted His wisdom still. There was a reason for everything; there were reasons for all this. I alone had been saved out of all those souls who sailed from Melbourne in the Lady Jermyn. Why should I have been the favored one; I with my broken heart and now lonely life? Some great inscrutable reason there must be; at my worst I did not deny that. But neither did I puzzle my sick brain with the reason. I just waited for it to be revealed to me, if it were God's will ever to reveal it. And that I conceive to be the one spirit in which a man may contemplate45, with equal sanity46 and reverence47, the mysteries and the miseries48 of his life.
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
hindrance
|
|
| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
veins
|
|
| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
ingratitude
|
|
| n.忘恩负义 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
perversity
|
|
| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
runaway
|
|
| n.逃走的人，逃亡，亡命者；adj.逃亡的，逃走的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
unreasonable
|
|
| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
obduracy
|
|
| n.冷酷无情，顽固，执拗 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
kindly
|
|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
survivor
|
|
| n.生存者，残存者，幸存者 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
brazenly
|
|
| adv.厚颜无耻地；厚脸皮地肆无忌惮地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
meddlesome
|
|
| adj.爱管闲事的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
impudent
|
|
| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
inquisitive
|
|
| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
justify
|
|
| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
unduly
|
|
| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
distinguished
|
|
| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
fussy
|
|
| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
sentimental
|
|
| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
purely
|
|
| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
abhorred
|
|
| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
reticence
|
|
| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
rebuked
|
|
| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
docile
|
|
| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
pretext
|
|
| n.借口，托词 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
fully
|
|
| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
preservation
|
|
| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
undone
|
|
| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
condescend
|
|
| v.俯就，屈尊；堕落，丢丑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
accosted
|
|
| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
effusively
|
|
| adv.变溢地，热情洋溢地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
yarn
|
|
| n.纱，纱线，纺线；奇闻漫谈，旅行轶事 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
chambers
|
|
| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
asylum
|
|
| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
ominous
|
|
| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
distressing
|
|
| a.使人痛苦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
chronic
|
|
| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
irritation
|
|
| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
mettle
|
|
| n.勇气，精神 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
elicited
|
|
| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
panacea
|
|
| n.万灵药；治百病的灵药 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
simplicity
|
|
| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
yearning
|
|
| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
maker
|
|
| n.制造者，制造商 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
contemplate
|
|
| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
sanity
|
|
| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
reverence
|
|
| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
miseries
|
|
| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |