The house was left; the house was deserted1. It was left like a shell on asandhill to fill with dry salt grains now that life had left it. The long nightseemed to have set in; the trifling2 airs, nibbling3, the clammy breaths,fumbling, seemed to have triumphed. The saucepan had rusted4 and themat decayed. Toads5 had nosed their way in. Idly, aimlessly, the swayingshawl swung to and fro. A thistle thrust itself between the tiles in the larder6.
The swallows nested in the drawing-roon; the floor was strewnwith straw; the plaster fell in shovelfuls; rafters were laid bare; rats carriedoff this and that to gnaw7 behind the wainscots. Tortoise-shell butterfliesburst from the chrysalis and pattered their life out on the windowpane.
Poppies sowed themselves among the dahlias; the lawn wavedwith long grass; giant artichokes towered among roses; a fringed carnationflowered among the cabbages; while the gentle tapping of a weed atthe window had become, on winters' nights, a drumming from sturdytrees and thorned briars which made the whole room green in summer.
What power could now prevent the fertility, the insensibility ofnature? Mrs McNab's dream of a lady, of a child, of a plate of milk soup?
It had wavered over the walls like a spot of sunlight and vanished. Shehad locked the door; she had gone. It was beyond the strength of onewoman, she said. They never sent. They never wrote. There were thingsup there rotting in the drawers—it was a shame to leave them so, shesaid. The place was gone to rack and ruin. Only the Lighthouse beamentered the rooms for a moment, sent its sudden stare over bed and wallin the darkness of winter, looked with equanimity8 at the thistle and theswallow, the rat and the straw. Nothing now withstood them; nothingsaid no to them. Let the wind blow; let the poppy seed itself and thecarnation mate with the cabbage. Let the swallow build in the drawing-room, and the thistle thrust aside the tiles, and the butterfly sun itself onthe faded chintz of the arm-chairs. Let the broken glass and the china lieout on the lawn and be tangled9 over with grass and wild berries.
For now had come that moment, that hesitation10 when dawn tremblesand night pauses, when if a feather alight in the scale it will be weigheddown. One feather, and the house, sinking, falling, would have turnedand pitched downwards11 to the depths of darkness. In the ruined room,picnickers would have lit their kettles; lovers sought shelter there, lyingon the bare boards; and the shepherd stored his dinner on the bricks, andthe tramp slept with his coat round him to ward12 off the cold. Then theroof would have fallen; briars and hemlocks13 would have blotted14 outpath, step and window; would have grown, unequally but lustily overthe mound15, until some trespasser16, losing his way, could have told onlyby a red-hot poker17 among the nettles18, or a scrap19 of china in the hemlock,that here once some one had lived; there had been a house.
If the feather had fallen, if it had tipped the scale downwards, thewhole house would have plunged20 to the depths to lie upon the sands ofoblivion. But there was a force working; something not highly conscious;something that leered, something that lurched; something not inspired togo about its work with dignified21 ritual or solemn chanting. Mrs McNabgroaned; Mrs Bast creaked. They were old; they were stiff; their legsached. They came with their brooms and pails at last; they got to work.
All of a sudden, would Mrs McNab see that the house was ready, one ofthe young ladies wrote: would she get this done; would she get thatdone; all in a hurry. They might be coming for the summer; had lefteverything to the last; expected to find things as they had left them.
Slowly and painfully, with broom and pail, mopping, scouring23, MrsMcNab, Mrs Bast, stayed the corruption24 and the rot; rescued from thepool of Time that was fast closing over them now a basin, now a cupboard;fetched up from oblivion all the Waverley novels and a tea-setone morning; in the afternoon restored to sun and air a brass25 fender anda set of steel fire-irons. George, Mrs Bast's son, caught the rats, and cutthe grass. They had the builders. Attended with the creaking of hingesand the screeching26 of bolts, the slamming and banging of damp-swollenwoodwork, some rusty27 laborious28 birth seemed to be taking place, as thewomen, stooping, rising, groaning29, singing, slapped and slammed, upstairsnow, now down in the cellars. Oh, they said, the work!
They drank their tea in the bedroom sometimes, or in the study; breakingoff work at mid-day with the smudge on their faces, and their oldhands clasped and cramped30 with the broom handles. Flopped31 on chairs,they contemplated32 now the magnificent conquest over taps and bath;now the more arduous33, more partial triumph over long rows of books,black as ravens34 once, now white-stained, breeding pale mushrooms andsecreting furtive35 spiders. Once more, as she felt the tea warm in her, thetelescope fitted itself to Mrs McNab's eyes, and in a ring of light she sawthe old gentleman, lean as a rake, wagging his head, as she came up withthe washing, talking to himself, she supposed, on the lawn. He never noticedher. Some said he was dead; some said she was dead. Which wasit? Mrs Bast didn't know for certain either. The young gentleman wasdead. That she was sure. She had read his name in the papers.
There was the cook now, Mildred, Marian, some such name as that—ared-headed woman, quick-tempered like all her sort, but kind, too, ifyou knew the way with her. Many a laugh they had had together. Shesaved a plate of soup for Maggie; a bite of ham, sometimes; whateverwas over. They lived well in those days. They had everything theywanted (glibly, jovially36, with the tea hot in her, she unwound her ball ofmemories, sitting in the wicker arm-chair by the nursery fender). Therewas always plenty doing, people in the house, twenty staying sometimes,and washing up till long past midnight.
Mrs Bast (she had never known them; had lived in Glasgow at thattime) wondered, putting her cup down, whatever they hung that beast'sskull there for? Shot in foreign parts no doubt.
It might well be, said Mrs McNab, wantoning on with her memories;they had friends in eastern countries; gentlemen staying there, ladies inevening dress; she had seen them once through the dining-room door allsitting at dinner. Twenty she dared say all in their jewellery, and sheasked to stay help wash up, might be till after midnight.
Ah, said Mrs Bast, they'd find it changed. She leant out of the window.
She watched her son George scything37 the grass. They might well ask,what had been done to it? seeing how old Kennedy was supposed tohave charge of it, and then his leg got so bad after he fell from the cart;and perhaps then no one for a year, or the better part of one; and thenDavie Macdonald, and seeds might be sent, but who should say if theywere ever planted? They'd find it changed.
She watched her son scything. He was a great one for work—one ofthose quiet ones. Well they must be getting along with the cupboards,she supposed. They hauled themselves up.
At last, after days of labour within, of cutting and digging without,dusters were flicked38 from the windows, the windows were shut to, keyswere turned all over the house; the front door was banged; it wasfinished.
And now as if the cleaning and the scrubbing and the scything and themowing had drowned it there rose that half-heard melody, that intermittentmusic which the ear half catches but lets fall; a bark, a bleat39; irregular,intermittent, yet somehow related; the hum of an insect, the tremorof cut grass, disevered yet somehow belonging; the jar of a dorbeetle, thesqueak of a wheel, loud, low, but mysteriously related; which the earstrains to bring together and is always on the verge40 of harmonising, butthey are never quite heard, never fully22 harmonised, and at last, in theevening, one after another the sounds die out, and the harmony falters,and silence falls. With the sunset sharpness was lost, and like mist rising,quiet rose, quiet spread, the wind settled; loosely the world shook itselfdown to sleep, darkly here without a light to it, save what came greensuffused through leaves, or pale on the white flowers in the bed by thewindow.
[Lily Briscoe had her bag carried up to the house late one evening inSeptember. Mr Carmichael came by the same train.]
1 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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2 trifling | |
adj.微不足道的;没什么价值的 | |
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3 nibbling | |
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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4 rusted | |
v.(使)生锈( rust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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5 toads | |
n.蟾蜍,癞蛤蟆( toad的名词复数 ) | |
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6 larder | |
n.食物贮藏室,食品橱 | |
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7 gnaw | |
v.不断地啃、咬;使苦恼,折磨 | |
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8 equanimity | |
n.沉着,镇定 | |
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9 tangled | |
adj. 纠缠的,紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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10 hesitation | |
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
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11 downwards | |
adj./adv.向下的(地),下行的(地) | |
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12 ward | |
n.守卫,监护,病房,行政区,由监护人或法院保护的人(尤指儿童);vt.守护,躲开 | |
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13 hemlocks | |
由毒芹提取的毒药( hemlock的名词复数 ) | |
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14 blotted | |
涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 ); (用吸墨纸)吸干 | |
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15 mound | |
n.土墩,堤,小山;v.筑堤,用土堆防卫 | |
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16 trespasser | |
n.侵犯者;违反者 | |
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17 poker | |
n.扑克;vt.烙制 | |
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18 nettles | |
n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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19 scrap | |
n.碎片;废料;v.废弃,报废 | |
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20 plunged | |
v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 );暴跌;骤降;突降 | |
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21 dignified | |
a.可敬的,高贵的 | |
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22 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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23 scouring | |
擦[洗]净,冲刷,洗涤 | |
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24 corruption | |
n.腐败,堕落,贪污 | |
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25 brass | |
n.黄铜;黄铜器,铜管乐器 | |
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26 screeching | |
v.发出尖叫声( screech的现在分词 );发出粗而刺耳的声音;高叫 | |
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27 rusty | |
adj.生锈的;锈色的;荒废了的 | |
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28 laborious | |
adj.吃力的,努力的,不流畅 | |
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29 groaning | |
adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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30 cramped | |
a.狭窄的 | |
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31 flopped | |
v.(指书、戏剧等)彻底失败( flop的过去式和过去分词 );(因疲惫而)猛然坐下;(笨拙地、不由自主地或松弛地)移动或落下;砸锅 | |
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32 contemplated | |
adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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33 arduous | |
adj.艰苦的,费力的,陡峭的 | |
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34 ravens | |
n.低质煤;渡鸦( raven的名词复数 ) | |
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35 furtive | |
adj.鬼鬼崇崇的,偷偷摸摸的 | |
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36 jovially | |
adv.愉快地,高兴地 | |
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37 scything | |
v.(长柄)大镰刀( scythe的现在分词 ) | |
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38 flicked | |
(尤指用手指或手快速地)轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 ); (用…)轻挥; (快速地)按开关; 向…笑了一下(或瞥了一眼等) | |
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39 bleat | |
v.咩咩叫,(讲)废话,哭诉;n.咩咩叫,废话,哭诉 | |
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40 verge | |
n.边,边缘;v.接近,濒临 | |
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