Sin
i
From her bed Hilda could see the trees waving in the wind. Every morning she had thus watched them, without interest. At first the branches had been utterly1 bare, and beyond their reticulation had been visible the rosy2 fa?ade of a new Board-school. But now the branches were rich with leafage, hiding most of the Board-school, so that only a large upper window of it could be seen. This window, upon which the sun glinted dazzlingly, threw back the rays on to Hilda’s bed, giving her for a few moments the illusion of direct sunlight. The hour was eleven o’clock. On the night-table lay a tea-tray in disorder3, and on the turned-down sheet some crumbs4 of toast. A low, nervous tap at the door caused Hilda to stir in the bed. Sarah Gailey entered hurriedly. In her bony yellowed hand she held a collection of tradesmen’s account-books.
“Good morning, dear, how are you?” she asked, bending awkwardly over the bed. In the same instant she looked askance at the tray.
“I’m all right, thanks,” said Hilda lazily, observing the ceiling.
“You haven’t been too cold without the eiderdown? I forgot to ask you before. You know I only took it off because I thought the weather was getting too warm.... I didn’t want it for another bed. I assure you it’s in the chest of drawers in my room.” Sarah Gailey added the last words as if supplicating5 to be believed.
“You needn’t tell me that,” said Hilda. She was not angry, but bored, by this characteristic remark of Miss Gailey’s. In three months she had learnt a great deal about the new landlady6 of the Cedars7, that strange neurotic8 compound of ability, devotion, thin-skinned vanity, and sheer, narrow stupidity. “I’ve been quite warm enough,” Hilda added as quickly as she could, lest Miss Gailey might have time to convince herself to the contrary.
“And the toast? I do hope—after all I’ve said to that Hettie about—”
“You see I’ve eaten it all,” Hilda interrupted her, pointing to the plate.
Their faces were close together; they exchanged a sad smile. Miss Gailey was still bending over her, anxiously, as over a child. Yet neither the ageing and worn woman nor the flaccid girl felt the difference between them in age. Nor was Hilda in any ordinary sense ill. The explanation of Miss Gailey’s yearning9 attitude lay in an exaggerated idea of her duty to Hilda, whose mother’s death had been the result of an act of friendliness10 to her. If Mrs. Lessways had not come to London in order to keep company with Sarah, she might—she would, under Providence—have been alive and well that day; such was Sarah’s reasoning, which by the way ignored certain statements of the doctor. Sarah would never forgive herself. But she sought, by an infatuated devotion, to earn the forgiveness of Caroline’s daughter. Her attentions might have infuriated an earlier Hilda, or at least have been met with disdain11 only half concealed12. But on the present actual Hilda they produced simply no effect of any kind. The actual Hilda, living far within the mysterious fastness of her own being, was too solitary13, too preoccupied14, and too fatigued15, to be touched even by the noble beauty that distinguished16 the expiatory17 and protective gesture of the spinster, otherwise somewhat ludicrous, as she leaned across the bed and cut off the sunshine.
ii
On the morning of her mother’s funeral, Hilda had gone to Hornsey Station to meet an uncle of Mrs. Lessways, who was coming down from Scotland by the night-train. She scarcely knew him, but he was to be recognizable by his hat and his muffler, and she was to await him at the ticket-gate. An entirely18 foolish and unnecessary arrangement, contrived19 by a peculiar20 old man: the only possible course was to accept it.
She had waited over half an hour, between eight and nine, and in that time she had had full opportunity to understand why those suburban21 stations had been built so large. A dark torrent22 of human beings, chiefly men, gathered out of all the streets of the vicinity, had dashed unceasingly into the enclosure and covered the long platforms with tramping feet. Every few minutes a train rolled in, as if from some inexhaustible magazine of trains beyond the horizon, and, sucking into itself a multitude and departing again, left one platform for one moment empty,—and the next moment the platform was once more filled by the quenchless23 stream. Less frequently, but still often, other trains thundered through the station on a line removed from platforms, and these trains too were crammed24 with dark human beings, frowning in study over white newspapers. For even in 1880 the descent upon London from the suburbs was a formidable phenomenon. Train after train fled downwards25 with its freight towards the hidden city, and the torrent still surged, more rapid than ever, through the narrow gullet of the station. It was like the flight of some enormous and excited population from a country menaced with disaster.
Borne on and buffeted26 by the torrent, Hilda had seen a well-dressed epileptic youth, in charge of an elderly woman, approaching the station. He had passed slowly close by her, as she modestly waited in her hasty mourning, and she had had a fearful vision of his idiotic27 greenish face supported somehow like a mask at the summit of that shaky structure of limbs. He had indeed stared at her with his apelike eyes. She had watched him, almost shuddering28, till he was lost amid the heedless crowd within. Then, without waiting longer for her relative, without reflecting upon what she did, she had walked tremblingly back to the Cedars, checked by tributaries29 of the torrent at every street corner....
She had known nothing of the funeral. She had not had speech with the relative. She was in bed, somehow. The day had elapsed. And in the following night, when she was alone and quite awake, she had become aware that she, she herself, was that epileptic shape; that that epileptic shape was lying in her bed and that there was none other in the bed. Nor was this a fancy of madness! She knew that she was not mad, that she was utterly sane30; and the conviction of sanity31 only intensified32 her awful discovery. She passed a trembling hand over her face, and felt the skin corrupt33 and green. Gazing into the darkness, she knew that her stare was apelike. She had felt, then, the fullest significance of horror. In the morning she had ceased to be the epileptic shape, but the risk of retransformation had hovered34 near her, and the intimidation35 of it was such that she had wept, aghast and broken as much by the future as by the past. She had been discovered weeping....
Later, the phrase ‘nervous breakdown36’ had lodged37 in her confused memory. The doctor had been very matter-of-fact, logical, and soothing38. Overwork, strain, loss of sleep, the journey, anxiety, lack of food, the supreme39 shock, the obstinate40 refusal of youth to succumb41, and then the sudden sight of the epileptic (with whom the doctor was acquainted): thus had run the medical reasoning, after a discreet42 but thorough cross-examination of her; and it had seemed so plausible43 and so convincing that the doctor’s pride in it was plain on his optimistic face as he gave the command: “Absolute repose44.” But to Hilda the reasoning and the resultant phrase, ‘nervous breakdown,’ had meant nothing at all. Words! Empty words! She knew, profoundly and fatally, the evil principle which had conquered her so completely that she had no power left with which to fight it. This evil principle was Sin; it was not the force of sins, however multifarious; it was Sin itself. She was the Sinner, convicted and self-convicted. One of the last intelligent victims of a malady45 which has now almost passed away from the civilized46 earth, she existed in the chill and stricken desolation of incommutable doom47.
iii
She had sinned against her mother, and she could not make amends48. The mere49 thought of her mother, so vivacious50, cheerful, life-loving, even-tempered, charitable, disorderly, incompetent51, foolish, and yet shrewd, caused pain of such intensity52 that it ceased to be pain. She ought to have seen her mother before she died; she might have seen her, had she done what was obviously her duty. It was inconceivable to her, now, that she should have hesitated to fly instantly to London on receipt of the telegram. But she had hesitated, and her mother had expired without having sight of her. All exculpatory53 arguments were futile54 against the fact itself. In vain she blamed the wording of the telegram! In vain she tried to reason that chance, and not herself, was the evil-doer! In vain she invoked55 the aid of simple common sense against sentimental56 fancy! In vain she went over the events of the afternoon preceding the death, in order to prove that at no moment had she been aware of not acting57 in accordance with her conscience! The whole of her conduct had been against her conscience, but pride and selfishness had made her deaf to conscience. She was the Sinner.
Her despair, except when at intervals58 she became the loathed59 epileptic shape, had been calm. Its symptoms had been, and remained, a complete lack of energy, and a most extraordinary black indifference60 to the surrounding world. Save in the deep centre of her soul, where she agonized61, she seemed to have lost all capacity for emotion. Nothing moved her, or even interested her. She sat in the house, and ate a little, and talked a little, like an automaton62. She walked about the streets like a bored exile, but an exile who has forgotten his home. Her spirit never responded to the stimulus63 of environment. Suggestions at once lost their tonic64 force in the woolly cushion of her apathy65. If she continued to live, it was by inertia66; to cease from life would have required an effort. She did not regret the vocation67 which she had abandoned; she felt no curiosity about the fortunes of the newspaper. A tragic68 nonchalance69 held her.
After several weeks she had naturally begun to think of religion; for the malady alone was proof enough that she had a profoundly religious nature. Miss Gailey could rarely go to church, but one Sunday morning— doubtless with intent—she asked Hilda if they should go together, and Hilda agreed. As they approached the large, high-spired church, Hilda had vague prickings of hope, and was thereby70 much astonished. But the service in no way responded to her expectations. “How silly I am!” she thought disdainfully. “This sort of thing has never moved me before. Why should it move me now?” The sermon, evangelical, was upon the Creed71, and the preacher explained the emotional quality of real belief. It was a goodish sermon. But the preacher had effectually stopped the very last of those exquisite72 vague prickings of hope. Hilda agreed with his definition of real belief, and she knew that real belief was impossible for her. She could never say, with joyous73 fervour: “I believe!” At best she could only assert that she did not disbelieve—and was she so sure even of that? No! Belief had been denied to her; and to dream of consolation74 from religion was sentimentally75 womanish; even in her indifference she preferred straightforward76, honest damnation to the soft self-deceptions of feminine religiosity. Ah! If she could have been a Roman Catholic, genuine and convinced—with what ardour would she have cast herself down before the confessional, and whispered her sinfulness to the mysterious face within; and with what ecstasy77 would she have received the absolution—that cleansing78 bath of the soul! Then—she could have recommenced!... But she was not a Roman Catholic. She could no more become a Roman Catholic than she could become the queen of some romantic Latin country of palaces and cathedrals. She was a young provincial79 girl staying in a boarding-house at Hornsey, on the Great Northern line out of London, and she was suffering from nervous breakdown. Such was the exterior80 common sense of the situation.
Occasionally the memory of some verse of Victor Hugo, sounding the beat of one of his vast melancholies, would float through her mind and cause it to vibrate for an instant with a mournful sensation that resembled pleasure.
iv
“Are you thinking of getting up, dear?” asked Sarah Gailey, as she arranged more securely the contents of the tray and found space on it for her weekly books.
“Yes, I suppose I may as well,” Hilda murmured. “It’ll be lunch-time soon.” The days were long, yet somehow they seemed short too. Already before getting up, she would begin to think of the evening and of going to bed; and Saturday night followed quickly on Monday morning. It was scarcely credible81 that sixteen weeks had passed, thus, since her mother’s death,—sixteen weeks whose retrospect82 showed no achievement of any kind, and hardly a desire.
“I’ve given those Boutwoods notice,” said Sarah Gailey suddenly, the tray in her hands ready to lift.
“Not really?”
“They were shockingly late for breakfast again, this morning, both of them. And Mr. Boutwood had the face to ask for another egg. Hettie came and told me, so I went in myself. I told him breakfast was served in my house at nine o’clock, and there was a notice to that effect in the bedrooms, not to mention the dining-room. And as good a breakfast as they’d get in any of their hotels, I lay! If the eggs are cold at ten o’clock and after, that’s not my fault. They’re both of them perfectly83 healthy, and yet they’re bone-idle. They never want to go to bed and they never want to get up. It isn’t as if they went to theatres and got home late and so on. I could make excuses for that—now and then. No! It’s just idleness and carelessness. And if you saw their bedroom! Oh, my! A nice example to servants! Well, he was very insulting—most insulting. He said he paid me to give him not what I wanted, but what he wanted! He said if I went into a shop, and they began to tell me what I ought to want and when I ought to want it, I should be annoyed. I said I didn’t need anyone to tell me that, I said! And my house wasn’t a shop. He said it was a shop, and if it wasn’t, it ought to be! Can you imagine it?”
Hilda tried to exhibit a tepid84 sympathy. Miss Gailey’s nostrils85 were twitching86, and the tears stood in those watery87 eyes. She could manage the house. By the exertion88 of all her powers and her force she had made of herself an exceptionally efficient mistress. But she could not manage the boarders, because she had not sufficient imagination to put herself in their place. Presiding over all her secret thoughts was the axiom that the Cedars was a perfect machine, and that the least that a grateful boarder could do was to fit into the machine.
“And so you said they could go?”
“That I did! And I’ll tell you another thing, my dear, I—”
There was a knock at the door. Sarah Gailey stopped in her confidences like a caught conspirator89, and opened the door. Hettie stood on the mat—the Hettie who despite frequent protests would leave Hilda’s toast to cool into leather on the landing somewhere between the kitchen and the bedroom. In Hettie’s hand was a telegram, which Miss Gailey accepted.
“Here, take the tray, Hettie,” said she, nervously90 tearing at the envelope. “Put these books in my desk,” she added.
“And I wonder what he’ll say!” she observed, staring absently at the opened telegram, after Hettie had gone.
“Who?”
“George. He says he’ll be up here for lunch. He’s bound to be vexed91 about the Boutwoods. But he doesn’t understand. Men don’t, you know! They don’t understand the strain it is on you.” The appeal of her eyes was strangely pathetic.
Hilda said:
“I don’t think I shall get up for lunch today.”
Sarah Gailey moved to the bed, forgetting her own trouble.
“You aren’t so well, then, after all!” she muttered, with mournful commiseration92. “But, you know, he’ll have to see you, this time. He wants to.”
“But why?”
“Your affairs, I suppose. He says so. ‘Coming lunch one. Must see Hilda.—George.’”
Sarah Gailey offered the telegram. But Hilda could not bear to take it. This telegram was the first she had set eyes on since the telegram handed to her by Florrie in George Cannon93’s office. The mere sight of the salmon-tinted paper agitated94 her. “Is it possible that I can be so silly?” she thought, “over a bit of paper!” But so it was.
On a previous visit of George Cannon’s to Hornsey she had kept her bed throughout the day, afraid to meet him, ashamed to meet him, inexplicably95 convinced that to meet him would be a crime against filial piety96. There were obscure grottoes in her soul which she had not had the courage to explore candidly97.
“I think,” said Sarah Gailey, reflective and anxious, “I think if you could get up, it would be nicer than him seeing you here in bed.”
Hilda perceived that at last she would be compelled to face George Cannon.
收听单词发音 |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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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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supplicating
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| v.祈求，哀求，恳求( supplicate的现在分词 ) | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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cedars
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| 雪松，西洋杉( cedar的名词复数 ) | |
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neurotic
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| adj.神经病的，神经过敏的；n.神经过敏者，神经病患者 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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expiatory
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| adj.赎罪的，补偿的 | |
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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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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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quenchless
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| 不可熄灭的 | |
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crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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buffeted
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| 反复敲打( buffet的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续猛击； 打来打去； 推来搡去 | |
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idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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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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tributaries
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| n. 支流 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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intensified
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| v.（使）增强， （使）加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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intimidation
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| n.恐吓，威胁 | |
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breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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succumb
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| v.屈服，屈从；死 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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exculpatory
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| adj.辩解的，辩明无罪的 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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invoked
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| v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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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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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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automaton
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| n.自动机器，机器人 | |
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stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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inertia
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| adj.惰性，惯性，懒惰，迟钝 | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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nonchalance
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| n.冷淡，漠不关心 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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sentimentally
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| adv.富情感地 | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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cleansing
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| n. 净化(垃圾) adj. 清洁用的 动词cleanse的现在分词 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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credible
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| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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watery
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| adj.有水的，水汪汪的；湿的，湿润的 | |
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exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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conspirator
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| n.阴谋者，谋叛者 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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inexplicably
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| adv.无法说明地，难以理解地，令人难以理解的是 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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