I suppose I had slept for about four hours, when I woke suddenly thinking I heard a noise in the garden. And, immediately, before my eyes were open, cold terrible fear seized me—not fear of something that was happening, like the fear in the wood, but fear of something that might happen.
Our room was on the first floor, looking out on to the garden—or terrace, it was rather: a wedge-shaped block of ground covered with roses and vines, and intersected with little asphalt paths. It was bounded on the small side by the house; round the two long sides ran a wall, only three feet above the terrace level, but with a good twenty feet drop over it into the olive yards, for the ground fell very precipitously away.
Trembling all over I stole to the window. There, pattering up and down the asphalt, paths, was something white. I was too much alarmed to see clearly; and in the uncertain light of the stars the thing took all manner of curious shapes. Now it was a great dog, now an enormous white bat, now a mass of quickly travelling cloud. It would bounce like a ball, or take short flights like a bird, or glide1 slowly; like a wraith2. It gave no sound—save the pattering sound of what, after all, must be human feet. And at last the obvious explanation forced itself upon my disordered mind; and I realized that Eustace had got out of bed, and that we were in for something more.
I hastily dressed myself, and went down into the dining-room which opened upon the terrace. The door was already unfastened. My terror had almost entirely3 passed away, but for quite five minutes I struggled with a curious cowardly feeling, which bade me not interfere4 with the poor strange boy, but leave him to his ghostly patterings, and merely watch him from the window, to see he took no harm.
But better impulses prevailed and, opening the door, I called out:
"Eustace! what on earth are you doing? Come in at once."
He stopped his antics, and said: "I hate my bedroom. I could not stop in it, it is too small."
"Come! come! I'm tired of affectation. You've never complained of it before."
"Besides I can't see anything—no flowers, no leaves, no sky: only a stone wall." The outlook of Eustace's room certainly was limited; but, as I told him, he had never complained of it before.
He did not move.
"Very well: I shall carry you in by force." I added, and made a few steps towards him. But I was soon convinced of the futility7 of pursuing a boy through a tangle8 of asphalt paths, and went in instead, to call Mr. Sandbach and Leyland to my aid.
When I returned with them he was worse than ever. He would not even answer us when we spoke9, but began singing and chattering10 to himself in a most alarming way.
"It's a case for the doctor now," said Mr. Sandbach, gravely tapping his forehead.
He had stopped his running and was singing, first low, then loud—singing five-finger exercises, scales, hymn11 tunes12, scraps13 of Wagner—anything that came into his head. His voice—a very untuneful voice—grew stronger and stronger, and he ended with a tremendous shout which boomed like a gun among the mountains, and awoke everyone who was still sleeping in the hotel. My poor wife and the two girls appeared at their respective windows, and the American ladies were heard violently ringing their bell.
"Eustace," we all cried, "stop! stop, dear boy, and come into the house."
He shook his head, and started off again—talking this time. Never have I listened to such an extraordinary speech. At any other time it would have been ludicrous, for here was a boy, with no sense of beauty and a puerile14 command of words, attempting to tackle themes which the greatest poets have found almost beyond their power. Eustace Robinson, aged15 fourteen, was standing16 in his nightshirt saluting17, praising, and blessing18, the great forces and manifestations19 of Nature.
He spoke first of night and the stars and planets above his head, of the swarms20 of fire-flies below him, of the invisible sea below the fire-flies, of the great rocks covered with anemones21 and shells that were slumbering22 in the invisible sea. He spoke of the rivers and water-falls, of the ripening23 bunches of grapes, of the smoking cone24 of Vesuvius and the hidden fire-channels that made the smoke, of the myriads25 of lizards26 who were lying curled up in the crannies of the sultry earth, of the showers of white rose-leaves that were tangled27 in his hair. And then he spoke of the rain and the wind by which all things are changed, of the air through which all things live, and of the woods in which all things can be hidden.
Of course, it was all absurdly high fainting: yet I could have kicked Leyland for audibly observing that it was 'a diabolical28 caricature of all that was most holy and beautiful in life.'
"And then,"—Eustace was going on in the pitiable conversational29 doggerel30 which was his only mode of expression—"and then there are men, but I can't make them out so well." He knelt down by the parapet, and rested his head on his arms.
"Now's the time," whispered Leyland. I hate stealth, but we darted31 forward and endeavoured to catch hold of him from behind. He was away in a twinkling, but turned round at once to look at us. As far as I could see in the starlight, he was crying. Leyland rushed at him again, and we tried to corner him among the asphalt paths, but without the slightest approach to success.
We returned, breathless and discomfited32, leaving him to his madness in the further corner of the terrace. But my Rose had an inspiration.
"Papa," she called from the window, "if you get Gennaro, he might be able to catch him for you."
I had no wish to ask a favour of Gennaro, but, as the landlady33 had by now appeared on the scene, I begged her to summon him from the charcoal-bin in which he slept, and make him try what he could do.
She soon returned, and was shortly followed by Gennaro, attired34 in a dress coat, without either waistcoat, shirt, or vest, and a ragged35 pair of what had been trousers, cut short above the knees for purposes of wading36. The landlady, who had quite picked up English ways, rebuked37 him for the incongruous and even indecent appearance which he presented.
"I have a coat and I have trousers. What more do you desire?"
"Never mind, Signora Scafetti," I put in, "As there are no ladies here, it is not of the slightest consequence." Then, turning to Gennaro, I said: "The aunts of Signor Eustace wish you to fetch him into the house."
He did not answer.
"Do you hear me? He is not well. I order you to fetch him into the house."
"Fetch! fetch!" said Signora Scafetti, and shook him roughly by the arm.
"Eustazio is well where he is."
"Fetch! fetch!" Signora Scafetti screamed, and let loose a flood of Italian, most of which, I am glad to say, I could not follow. I glanced up nervously38 at the girls' window, but they hardly know as much as I do, and I am thankful to say that none of us caught one word of Gennaro's answer.
The two yelled and shouted at each other for quite ten minutes, at the end of which Gennaro rushed back to his charcoal-bin and Signora Scafetti burst into tears, as well she might, for she greatly valued her English guests.
"He says," she sobbed39, "that Signer Eustace is well where he is, and that he will not fetch him. I can do no more."
But I could, for, in my stupid British way, I have got some insight into the Italian character. I followed Mr. Gennaro to his place of repose40, and found him wriggling41 down on to a dirty sack.
"I wish you to fetch Signor Eustace to me," I began.
"If you fetch him, I will give you this." And out of my pocket I took a new ten lira note.
This time he did not answer.
"This note is equal to ten lire in silver," I continued, for I knew that the poor-class Italian is unable to conceive of a single large sum.
"I know it."
"That is, two hundred soldi."
"I do not desire them. Eustazio is my friend."
I put the note into my pocket.
"Besides, you would not give it me."
"I am an Englishman. The English always do what they promise."
"That is true." It is astonishing how the most dishonest of nations trust us. Indeed they often trust us more than we trust one another. Gennaro knelt up on his sack. It was too dark to see his face, but I could feel his warm garlicky breath coming out in gasps44, and I knew that the eternal avarice45 of the South had laid hold upon him.
"I could not fetch Eustazio to the house. He might die there."
"You need not do that," I replied patiently. "You need only bring him to me; and I will stand outside in the garden." And to this, as if it were something quite different, the pitiable youth consented.
"But give me first the ten lire."
"No,"—for I knew the kind of person with whom I had to deal. Once faithless, always faithless.
We returned to the terrace, and Gennaro, without a single word, pattered off towards the pattering that could be heard at the remoter end. Mr. Sandbach, Leyland, and myself moved away a little from the house, and stood in the shadow of the white climbing roses, practically invisible.
We heard "Eustazio" called, followed by absurd cries of pleasure from the poor boy. The pattering ceased, and we heard them talking. Their voices got nearer, and presently I could discern them through the creepers, the grotesque46 figure of the young man, and the slim little white-robed boy. Gennaro had his arm round Eustace's neck, and Eustace was talking away in his fluent, slip-shod Italian.
"I understand almost everything," I heard him say. "The trees, hills, stars, water, I can see all. But isn't it odd! I can't make out men a bit. Do you know what I mean?"
"Ho capito," said Gennaro gravely, and took his arm off Eustace's shoulder. But I made the new note crackle in my pocket; and he heard it. He stuck his hand out with a jerk; and the unsuspecting Eustace gripped it in his own.
"It is odd!" Eustace went on—they were quite close now—"It almost seems as if—as if——"
I darted out and caught hold of his arm, and Leyland got hold of the other arm, and Mr. Sandbach hung on to his feet. He gave shrill47 heart-piercing screams; and the white roses, which were falling early that year, descended48 in showers on him as we dragged him into the house.
As soon as we entered the house he stopped shrieking49; but floods of tears silently burst forth50, and spread over his upturned face.
"Not to my room," he pleaded. "It is so small."
His infinitely51 dolorous52 look filled me with strange pity, but what could I do? Besides, his window was the only one that had bars to it.
"Never mind, dear boy," said kind Mr. Sandbach. "I will bear you company till the morning."
At this his convulsive struggles began again. "Oh, please, not that. Anything but that. I will promise to lie still and not to cry more than I can help, if I am left alone."
So we laid him on the bed, and drew the sheets over him, and left him sobbing53 bitterly, and saying: "I nearly saw everything, and now I can see nothing at all."
We informed the Miss Robinsons of all that had happened, and returned to the dining-room, where we found Signora Scafetti and Gennaro whispering together. Mr. Sandbach got pen and paper, and began writing to the English doctor at Naples. I at once drew out the note, and flung it down on the table to Gennaro.
"Here is your pay," I said sternly, for I was thinking of the Thirty Pieces of Silver.
"Thank you very much, sir," said Gennaro, and grabbed it.
He was going off, when Leyland, whose interest and indifference54 were always equally misplaced, asked him what Eustace had meant by saying 'he could not make out men a bit.'
"I cannot say. Signor Eustazio—" (I was glad to observe a little deference55 at last) "has a subtle brain. He understands many things."
"But I heard you say you understood," Leyland persisted.
"I understand, but I cannot explain. I am a poor Italian fisher-lad. Yet, listen: I will try." I saw to my alarm that his manner was changing, and tried to stop him. But he sat down on the edge of the table and started off, with some absolutely incoherent remarks.
"It is sad," he observed at last. "What has happened is very sad. But what can I do? I am poor. It is not I."
I turned away in contempt. Leyland went on asking questions. He wanted to know who it was that Eustace had in his mind when he spoke.
"That is easy to say," Gennaro gravely answered. "It is you, it is I. It is all in this house, and many outside it. If he wishes for mirth, we discomfort56 him. If he asks to be alone, we disturb him. He longed for a friend, and found none for fifteen years. Then he found me, and the first night I—I who have been in the woods and understood things too—betray him to you, and send him in to die. But what could I do?"
"Gently, gently," said I.
"Oh, assuredly he will die. He will lie in the small room all night, and in the morning he will be dead. That I know for certain."
"There, that will do," said Mr. Sandbach. "I shall be sitting with him."
"Filomena Giusti sat all night with Caterina, but Caterina was dead in the morning. They would not let her out, though I begged, and prayed, and cursed, and beat the door, and climbed the wall. They were ignorant fools, and thought I wished to carry her away. And in the morning she was dead."
"What is all this?" I asked Signora Scafetti.
"All kinds of stories will get about," she replied, "and he, least of anyone, has reason to repeat them."
"And I am alive now," he went on, "because I had neither parents nor relatives nor friends, so that, when the first night came, I could run through the woods, and climb the rocks, and plunge57 into the water, until I had accomplished58 my desire!"
We heard a cry from Eustace's room—a faint but steady sound, like the sound of wind in a distant wood, heard by one standing in tranquillity59.
"That," said Gennaro, "was the last noise of Caterina. I was hanging on to her window then, and it blew out past me."
And, lifting up his hand, in which my ten lira note was safely packed, he solemnly cursed Mr. Sandbach, and Leyland, and myself, and Fate, because Eustace was dying in the upstairs room. Such is the working of the Southern mind; and I verily believe that he would not have moved even then, had not Leyland, that unspeakable idiot, upset the lamp with his elbow. It was a patent self-extinguishing lamp, bought by Signora Scafetti, at my special request, to replace the dangerous thing that she was using. The result was, that it went out; and the mere5 physical change from light to darkness had more power over the ignorant animal nature of Gennaro than the most obvious dictates60 of logic61 and reason.
I felt, rather than saw, that he had left the room, and shouted out to Mr. Sandbach: "Have you got the key of Eustace's room in your pocket?" But Mr. Sandbach and Leyland were both on the floor, having mistaken each other for Gennaro, and some more precious time was wasted in finding a match. Mr. Sandbach had only just time to say that he had left the key in the door, in case the Miss Robinsons wished to pay Eustace a visit, when we heard a noise on the stairs, and there was Gennaro, carrying Eustace down.
We rushed out and blocked up the passage, and they lost heart and retreated to the upper landing.
"Now they are caught," cried Signora Scafetti. "There is no other way out."
We were cautiously ascending62 the staircase, when there was a terrific scream from my wife's room, followed by a heavy thud on the asphalt path. They had leapt out of her window.
I reached the terrace just in time to see Eustace jumping over the parapet of the garden wall. This time I knew for certain he would be killed. But he alighted in an olive tree, looking like a great white moth63; and from the tree he slid on to the earth. And as soon as his bare feet touched the clods of earth he uttered a strange loud cry, such as I should not have thought the human voice could have produced, and disappeared among the trees below.
"He has understood and he is saved," cried Gennaro, who was still sitting on the asphalt path. "Now, instead of dying he will live!"
"And you, instead of keeping the ten lire, will give them up," I retorted, for at this theatrical64 remark I could contain myself no longer.
"The ten lire are mine," he hissed65 back, in a scarcely audible voice. He clasped his hand over his breast to protect his ill-gotten gains, and, as he did so, he swayed forward and fell upon his face on the path. He had not broken any limbs, and a leap like that would never have killed an Englishman, for the drop was not great. But those miserable66 Italians have no stamina67. Something had gone wrong inside him, and he was dead.
The morning was still far off, but the morning breeze had begun, and more rose leaves fell on us as we carried him in. Signora Scafetti burst into screams at the sight of the dead body, and, far down the valley towards the sea, there still resounded68 the shouts and the laughter of the escaping boy.
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1
glide
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| n./v.溜，滑行；(时间)消逝 | |
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wraith
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| n.幽灵；骨瘦如柴的人 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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futility
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| n.无用 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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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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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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puerile
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| adj.幼稚的，儿童的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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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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saluting
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的现在分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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swarms
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| 蜂群，一大群( swarm的名词复数 ) | |
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anemones
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| n.银莲花( anemone的名词复数 )；海葵 | |
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slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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cone
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| n.圆锥体，圆锥形东西，球果 | |
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myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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lizards
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| n.蜥蜴( lizard的名词复数 ) | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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diabolical
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| adj.恶魔似的，凶暴的 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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doggerel
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| n.拙劣的诗，打油诗 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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discomfited
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| v.使为难( discomfit的过去式和过去分词)；使狼狈；使挫折；挫败 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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wading
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的现在分词 ) | |
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rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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wriggling
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的现在分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等）；蠕蠕 | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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gasps
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| v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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shrieking
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| v.尖叫( shriek的现在分词 ) | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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dolorous
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| adj.悲伤的；忧愁的 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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54
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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60
dictates
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| n.命令，规定，要求( dictate的名词复数 )v.大声讲或读( dictate的第三人称单数 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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61
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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62
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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63
moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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64
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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65
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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66
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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67
stamina
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| n.体力；精力；耐力 | |
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68
resounded
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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