When I came to the precipice, I took my way betwixt the branches, for I would pass again by the cottage of Mara, lest she should have returned: I longed to see her once more ere I went to sleep; and now I knew where to cross the channels, even if the river should have overtaken me and filled them. But when I reached it, the door stood open still; the bread and the water were still on the table; and deep silence was within and around it. I stopped and called aloud at the door, but no voice replied, and I went my way.
A little farther, I came where sat a grayheaded man on the sand, weeping.
“I weep,” he answered, “because they will not let me die. I have been to the house of death, and its mistress, notwithstanding my years, refuses me. Intercede9 for me, sir, if you know her, I pray you.”
“Nay, sir,” I replied, “that I cannot; for she refuses none whom it is lawful10 for her to receive.”
“How know you this of her? You have never sought death! you are much too young to desire it!”
“I fear your words may indicate that, were you young again, neither would you desire it.”
“Indeed, young sir, I would not! and certain I am that you cannot.”
“I may not be old enough to desire to die, but I am young enough to desire to live indeed! Therefore I go now to learn if she will at length take me in. You wish to die because you do not care to live: she will not open her door to you, for no one can die who does not long to live.”
“Did not then the Mother tell you something of the same sort?”
“Ah, then, sir,” I rejoined, “it is but too plain you have not yet learned to die, and I am heartily13 grieved for you. Such had I too been but for the Lady of Sorrow. I am indeed young, but I have wept many tears; pardon me, therefore, if I presume to offer counsel:—Go to the Lady of Sorrow, and ‘take with both hands’ * what she will give you. Yonder lies her cottage. She is not in it now, but her door stands open, and there is bread and water on her table. Go in; sit down; eat of the bread; drink of the water; and wait there until she appear. Then ask counsel of her, for she is true, and her wisdom is great.”
He fell to weeping afresh, and I left him weeping. What I said, I fear he did not heed. But Mara would find him!
The sun was down, and the moon unrisen, when I reached the abode14 of the monsters, but it was still as a stone till I passed over. Then I heard a noise of many waters, and a great cry behind me, but I did not turn my head.
Ere I reached the house of death, the cold was bitter and the darkness dense15; and the cold and the darkness were one, and entered into my bones together. But the candle of Eve, shining from the window, guided me, and kept both frost and murk from my heart.
The door stood open, and the cottage lay empty. I sat down disconsolate16.
And as I sat, there grew in me such a sense of loneliness as never yet in my wanderings had I felt. Thousands were near me, not one was with me! True, it was I who was dead, not they; but, whether by their life or by my death, we were divided! They were alive, but I was not dead enough even to know them alive: doubt WOULD come. They were, at best, far from me, and helpers I had none to lay me beside them!
Never before had I known, or truly imagined desolation! In vain I took myself to task, saying the solitude17 was but a seeming: I was awake, and they slept—that was all! it was only that they lay so still and did not speak! they were with me now, and soon, soon I should be with them!
I dropped Adam’s old spade, and the dull sound of its fall on the clay floor seemed reverberated18 from the chamber19 beyond: a childish terror seized me; I sat and stared at the coffin-door.—But father Adam, mother Eve, sister Mara would soon come to me, and then—welcome the cold world and the white neighbours! I forgot my fears, lived a little, and loved my dead.
Something did move in the chamber of the dead! There came from it what was LIKE a dim, far-off sound, yet was not what I knew as sound. My soul sprang into my ears. Was it a mere20 thrill of the dead air, too slight to be heard, but quivering in every spiritual sense? I KNEW without hearing, without feeling it!
The something was coming! it drew nearer! In the bosom21 of my desertion awoke an infant hope. The noiseless thrill reached the coffin-door—became sound, and smote22 on my ear.
The door began to move—with a low, soft creaking of its hinges. It was opening! I ceased to listen, and stared expectant.
It opened a little way, and a face came into the opening. It was Lona’s. Its eyes were closed, but the face itself was upon me, and seemed to see me. It was white as Eve’s, white as Mara’s, but did not shine like their faces. She spoke23, and her voice was like a sleepy night-wind in the grass.
“Are you coming, king?” it said. “I cannot rest until you are with me, gliding24 down the river to the great sea, and the beautiful dream-land. The sleepiness is full of lovely things: come and see them.”
“Ah, my darling!” I cried. “Had I but known!—I thought you were dead!”
She lay on my bosom—cold as ice frozen to marble. She threw her arms, so white, feebly about me, and sighed—
“Carry me back to my bed, king. I want to sleep.”
I bore her to the death-chamber, holding her tight lest she should dissolve out of my arms. Unaware25 that I saw, I carried her straight to her couch.
“Lay me down,” she said, “and cover me from the warm air; it hurts—a little. Your bed is there, next to mine. I shall see you when I wake.”
She was already asleep. I threw myself on my couch—blessed as never was man on the eve of his wedding.
“Come, sweet cold,” I said, “and still my heart speedily.”
But there came instead a glimmer26 of light in the chamber, and I saw the face of Adam approaching. He had not the candle, yet I saw him. At the side of Lona’s couch, he looked down on her with a questioning smile, and then greeted me across it.
“We have been to the top of the hill to hear the waters on their way,” he said. “They will be in the den2 of the monsters to-night.—But why did you not await our return?”
“My child could not sleep,” I answered.
“She is fast asleep!” he rejoined.
“Yes, now!” I said; “but she was awake when I laid her down.”
“She was asleep all the time!” he insisted. “She was perhaps dreaming about you—and came to you?”
“She did.”
“And did you not see that her eyes were closed?”
“Now I think of it, I did.”
“If you had looked ere you laid her down, you would have seen her asleep on the couch.”
“That would have been terrible!”
“You would only have found that she was no longer in your arms.”
“That would have been worse!”
“It is, perhaps, to think of; but to see it would not have troubled you.”
“Dear father,” I said, “how is it that I am not sleepy? I thought I should go to sleep like the Little Ones the moment I laid my head down!”
“Your hour is not quite come. You must have food ere you sleep.”
“Ah, I ought not to have lain down without your leave, for I cannot sleep without your help! I will get up at once!”
But I found my own weight more than I could move.
“There is no need: we will serve you here,” he answered. “—You do not feel cold, do you?”
“Not too cold to lie still, but perhaps too cold to eat!”
As he left me, I heard a voice, and knew it was the Mother’s. She was singing, and her song was sweet and soft and low, and I thought she sat by my bed in the dark; but ere it ceased, her song soared aloft, and seemed to come from the throat of a woman-angel, high above all the region of larks28, higher than man had ever yet lifted up his heart. I heard every word she sang, but could keep only this:—
“Many a wrong, and its curing song;
Many a road, and many an inn;
Room to roam, but only one home
For all the world to win!”
and I thought I had heard the song before.
Then the three came to my couch together, bringing me bread and wine, and I sat up to partake of it. Adam stood on one side of me, Eve and Mara on the other.
“You are good indeed, father Adam, mother Eve, sister Mara,” I said, “to receive me! In my soul I am ashamed and sorry!”
“We knew you would come again!” answered Eve.
“How could you know it?” I returned.
“Because here was I, born to look after my brothers and sisters!” answered Mara with a smile.
“Every creature must one night yield himself and lie down,” answered Adam: “he was made for liberty, and must not be left a slave!”
“It will be late, I fear, ere all have lain down!” I said.
“There is no early or late here,” he rejoined. “For him the true time then first begins who lays himself down. Men are not coming home fast; women are coming faster. A desert, wide and dreary29, parts him who lies down to die from him who lies down to live. The former may well make haste, but here is no haste.”
“To our eyes,” said Eve, “you were coming all the time: we knew Mara would find you, and you must come!”
“How long is it since my father lay down?” I asked.
“I have told you that years are of no consequence in this house,” answered Adam; “we do not heed them. Your father will wake when his morning comes. Your mother, next to whom you are lying,——”
“Ah, then, it IS my mother!” I exclaimed.
“Yes—she with the wounded hand,” he assented30; “—she will be up and away long ere your morning is ripe.”
“I am sorry.”
“Rather be glad.”
“It must be a sight for God Himself to see such a woman come awake!”
“It is indeed a sight for God, a sight that makes her Maker31 glad! He sees of the travail32 of His soul, and is satisfied!—Look at her once more, and sleep.”
He let the rays of his candle fall on her beautiful face.
“She looks much younger!” I said.
“She IS much younger,” he replied. “Even Lilith already begins to look younger!”
“But when you see your mother again,” he continued, “you will not at first know her. She will go on steadily34 growing younger until she reaches the perfection of her womanhood—a splendour beyond foresight35. Then she will open her eyes, behold36 on one side her husband, on the other her son—and rise and leave them to go to a father and a brother more to her than they.”
I heard as one in a dream. I was very cold, but already the cold caused me no suffering. I felt them put on me the white garment of the dead. Then I forgot everything. The night about me was pale with sleeping faces, but I was asleep also, nor knew that I slept.
点击收听单词发音
1 swelling | |
n.肿胀 | |
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2 den | |
n.兽穴;秘密地方;安静的小房间,私室 | |
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3 precipice | |
n.悬崖,危急的处境 | |
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4 orchard | |
n.果园,果园里的全部果树,(美俚)棒球场 | |
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5 horde | |
n.群众,一大群 | |
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6 isle | |
n.小岛,岛 | |
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7 ails | |
v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 );感到不舒服;处境困难;境况不佳 | |
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8 Forsaken | |
adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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9 intercede | |
vi.仲裁,说情 | |
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10 lawful | |
adj.法律许可的,守法的,合法的 | |
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11 riddles | |
n.谜(语)( riddle的名词复数 );猜不透的难题,难解之谜 | |
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12 heed | |
v.注意,留意;n.注意,留心 | |
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13 heartily | |
adv.衷心地,诚恳地,十分,很 | |
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14 abode | |
n.住处,住所 | |
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15 dense | |
a.密集的,稠密的,浓密的;密度大的 | |
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16 disconsolate | |
adj.忧郁的,不快的 | |
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17 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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18 reverberated | |
回响,回荡( reverberate的过去式和过去分词 ); 使反响,使回荡,使反射 | |
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19 chamber | |
n.房间,寝室;会议厅;议院;会所 | |
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20 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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21 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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22 smote | |
v.猛打,重击,打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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23 spoke | |
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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24 gliding | |
v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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25 unaware | |
a.不知道的,未意识到的 | |
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26 glimmer | |
v.发出闪烁的微光;n.微光,微弱的闪光 | |
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27 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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28 larks | |
n.百灵科鸟(尤指云雀)( lark的名词复数 );一大早就起床;鸡鸣即起;(因太费力而不想干时说)算了v.百灵科鸟(尤指云雀)( lark的第三人称单数 );一大早就起床;鸡鸣即起;(因太费力而不想干时说)算了 | |
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29 dreary | |
adj.令人沮丧的,沉闷的,单调乏味的 | |
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30 assented | |
同意,赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31 maker | |
n.制造者,制造商 | |
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32 travail | |
n.阵痛;努力 | |
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33 drowsy | |
adj.昏昏欲睡的,令人发困的 | |
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34 steadily | |
adv.稳定地;不变地;持续地 | |
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35 foresight | |
n.先见之明,深谋远虑 | |
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36 behold | |
v.看,注视,看到 | |
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