Mark Easterbrook’s Narrative1
It was after four o’clock when we left Priors Court. After a particularly de-licious lunch, Venables had taken us on a tour of the house. He had takena real pleasure in showing us his various possessions—a veritable treas-ure-house the place was.
“He must be rolling in money,” I said when we had finally departed.
“Those jades—and the African sculpture—to say nothing of all his Meissenand Bow. You’re lucky to have such a neighbour.”
“Don’t we know it?” said Rhoda. “Most of the people down here are niceenough—but definitely on the dull side. Mr. Venables is positively2 exoticby comparison.”
“How did he make his money?” asked Mrs. Oliver. “Or has he alwayshad it?”
Despard remarked wryly3 that nobody nowadays could boast of such athing as a large inherited income. Death duties and taxation4 had seen tothat.
“Someone told me,” he added, “that he started life as a stevedore5 but itseems most unlikely. He never talks about his boyhood or his family—” Heturned towards Mrs. Oliver. “A Mystery Man for you—”
Mrs. Oliver said that people were always offering her things she didn’twant—
The Pale Horse was a half-timbered building (genuine halftimbering notfaked). It was set back a little way from the village street. A walled gardencould be glimpsed behind it which gave it a pleasant old-world look.
I was disappointed in it, and said so.
“Not nearly sinister6 enough,” I complained. “No atmosphere.”
“Wait till you get inside,” said Ginger7.
We got out of the car and went up to the door, which opened as we ap-proached.
Miss Thyrza Grey stood on the threshold, a tall, slightly masculine figurein a tweed coat and skirt. She had rough grey hair springing up from ahigh forehead, a large beak8 of a nose, and very penetrating9 light blue eyes.
“Here you are at last,” she said in a hearty10 bass11 voice. “Thought you’d allgot lost.”
Behind her tweed-clad shoulders I became aware of a face peering outfrom the shadows of the dark hall. A queer, rather formless face, likesomething made in putty by a child who had strayed in to play in asculptor’s studio. It was the kind of face, I thought, that you sometimes seeamongst a crowd in an Italian or Flemish primitive12 painting.
Rhoda introduced us and explained that we had been lunching with Mr.
Venables at Priors Court.
“Ah!” said Miss Grey. “That explains it! Fleshpots. That Italian cook ofhis! And all the treasures of the treasure-house as well. Oh well, poor fel-low—got to have something to cheer him up. But come in—come in. We’rerather proud of our own little place. Fifteenth century—and some of itfourteenth.”
The hall was low and dark with a twisting staircase leading up from it.
There was a wide fireplace and over it a framed picture.
“The old inn sign,” said Miss Grey, noting my glance. “Can’t see much ofit in this light. The Pale Horse.”
“I’m going to clean it for you,” said Ginger. “I said I would. You let mehave it and you’ll be surprised.”
“I’m a bit doubtful,” said Thyrza Grey, and added bluntly, “Suppose youruin it?”
“Of course I shan’t ruin it,” said Ginger indignantly. “It’s my job.”
“I work for the London Galleries,” she explained to me. “Great fun.”
“Modern picture restoring takes a bit of getting used to,” said Thyrza. “Igasp every time I go into the National Gallery nowadays. All the pictureslook as though they’d had a bath in the latest detergent13.”
“You can’t really prefer them all dark and mustard coloured,” protestedGinger. She peered at the inn sign. “A lot more would come up. The horsemay even have a rider.”
I joined her to stare into the picture. It was a crude painting with littlemerit except the doubtful one of old age and dirt. The pale figure of a stal-lion gleamed against a dark indeterminate background.
“Hi, Sybil,” cried Thyrza. “The visitors are crabbing14 our Horse, damntheir impertinence!”
Miss Sybil Stamfordis came through a door to join us.
She was a tall willowy woman with dark, rather greasy15 hair, a simper-ing expression, and a fish-like mouth.
She was wearing a bright emerald green sari which did nothing to en-hance her appearance. Her voice was faint and fluttery.
“Our dear, dear Horse,” she said. “We fell in love with that old inn signthe moment we saw it. I really think it influenced us to buy the house.
Don’t you, Thyrza? But come in—come in.”
The room into which she led us was small and square and had probablybeen the bar in its time. It was furnished now with chintz and Chippend-ale and was definitely a lady’s sitting room, country style. There werebowls of chrysanthemums16.
Then we were taken out to see the garden which I could see would becharming in summer, and then came back into the house to find tea hadbeen laid. There were sandwiches and homemade cakes and as we satdown, the old woman whose face I had glimpsed for a moment in the hallcame in bearing a silver teapot. She wore a plain dark green overall. Theimpression of a head made crudely from Plasticine by a child was borneout on closer inspection17. It had a witless primitive face but I could notimagine why I had thought it sinister.
Suddenly I felt angry with myself. All this nonsense about a convertedinn and three middle-aged18 women!
“Thank you, Bella,” said Thyrza.
“Got all you want?”
It came out almost as a mumble19.
“Yes, thanks.”
Bella withdrew to the door. She had looked at nobody, but just beforeshe went out, she raised her eyes and took a speedy glance at me. Therewas something in that look that startled me—though it was difficult to de-scribe why. There was malice20 in it, and a curious intimate knowledge. Ifelt that without effort, and almost without curiosity, she had known ex-actly what thoughts were in my mind.
Thyrza Grey had noticed my reaction.
“Bella is disconcerting, isn’t she, Mr. Easterbrook?” she said softly. “I no-ticed her look at you.”
“She’s a local woman, isn’t she?” I strove to appear merely politely inter-ested.
“Yes. I daresay someone will have told you she’s the local witch.”
Sybil Stamfordis clanked her beads21.
“Now do confess, Mr.— Mr.—”
“Easterbrook.”
“Easterbrook. I’m sure you’ve heard that we all practice witchcraft22. Con-fess now. We’ve got quite a reputation, you know—”
“Not undeserved, perhaps,” said Thyrza. She seemed amused. “Sybilhere has great gifts.”
Sybil sighed pleasurably.
“I was always attracted by the occult,” she murmured. “Even as a child Irealised that I had unusual powers. Automatic writing came to me quitenaturally. I didn’t even know what it was! I’d just sit there with a pencil inmy hand — and not know a thing about what was happening. And ofcourse I was always ultrasensitive. I fainted once when taken to tea in afriend’s house. Something awful had happened in that very room… I knewit! We got the explanation later. There had been a murder there—twenty-five years ago. In that very room!”
She nodded her head and looked round at us with great satisfaction.
“Very remarkable,” said Colonel Despard with polite distaste.
“Sinister things have happened in this house,” said Sybil darkly. “But wehave taken the necessary steps. The earthbound spirits have been freed.”
“A kind of spiritual spring cleaning?” I suggested.
Sybil looked at me rather doubtfully.
“What a lovely coloured sari you are wearing,” said Rhoda.
Sybil brightened.
“Yes, I got it when I was in India. I had an interesting time there. I ex-plored yoga, you know, and all that. But I could not help feeling that it wasall too sophisticated—not near enough to the natural and the primitive.
One must go back, I feel, to the beginnings, to the early primitive powers. Iam one of the few women who have visited Haiti. Now there you really dotouch the original springs of the occult. Overlaid, of course, by a certainamount of corruption23 and distortion. But the root of the matter is there.
“I was shown a great deal, especially when they learnt that I had twinsisters a little older than myself. The child who is born next after twins hasspecial powers, so they told me. Interesting, wasn’t it? Their death dancesare wonderful. All the panoply24 of death, skulls25 and crossbones, and thetools of a gravedigger, spade, pick and hoe. They dress up as undertakers’
mutes, top hats, black clothes—
“The Grand Master is Baron26 Samedi, and the Legba is the god he in-vokes, the god who ‘removes the barrier.’ You send the dead forth—tocause death. Weird27 idea, isn’t it?
“Now this,” Sybil rose and fetched an object from the window sill. “Thisis my Asson. It’s a dried gourd28 with a network of beads and—you see thesebits?—dried snake vertebrae.”
We looked politely, though without enthusiasm.
Sybil rattled29 her horrid30 toy affectionately.
“Very interesting,” said Despard courteously31.
“I could tell you lots more—”
At this point my attention wandered. Words came to me hazily32 as Sybilcontinued to air her knowledge of sorcery and voodoo—Ma?tre Carrefour,the Coa, the Guidé family—
I turned my head to find Thyrza looking at me quizzically.
“You don’t believe any of it, do you?” she murmured. “But you’re wrong,you know. You can’t explain away everything as superstition33, or fear, or re-ligious bigotry34. There are elemental truths and elemental powers. Therealways have been. There always will be.”
“I don’t think I would dispute that,” I said.
“Wise man. Come and see my library.”
I followed her out through the french windows into the garden andalong the side of the house.
“We made it out of the old stables,” she explained.
The stables and outbuildings had been reconstituted as one large room.
The whole of one long wall was lined with books. I went across to themand was presently exclaiming.
“You’ve got some very rare works here, Miss Grey. Is this an originalMalleus Maleficorum? My word, you have some treasures.”
“I have, haven’t I?”
“That Grimoire—very rare indeed.” I took down volume after volumefrom the shelves. Thyrza watched me—there was an air of quiet satisfac-tion about her which I did not understand.
I put back Sadducismus Triumphatus as Thyrza said:
“It’s nice to meet someone who can appreciate one’s treasures. Mostpeople just yawn or gape35.”
“There can’t be much about the practice of witchcraft, sorcery, and allthe rest of it that you don’t know,” I said. “What gave you an interest in itin the first place?”
“Hard to say now… It’s been so long… One looks into a thing idly—andthen—one gets gripped! It’s a fascinating study. The things people believed—and the damn’ fool things they did!”
I laughed.
“That’s refreshing36. I’m glad you don’t believe all you read.”
“You mustn’t judge me by poor Sybil. Oh yes, I saw you looking super-ior! But you were wrong. She’s a silly woman in a lot of ways. She takesvoodoo, and demonology, and black magic and mixes everything up into aglorious occult pie—but she has the power.”
“The power?”
“I don’t know what else you can call it… There are people who can be-come a living bridge between this world and a world of strange uncannypowers. Sybil is one of them. She is a first-class medium. She has neverdone it for money. But her gift is quite exceptional. When she and I andBella—”
“Bella?”
“Oh yes. Bella has her own powers. We all have, in our different de-grees. As a team—”
She broke off.
“Sorcerers Ltd?” I suggested with a smile.
“One could put it that way.”
I glanced down at the volume I was holding in my hand.
“Nostradamus and all that?”
“Nostradamus and all that.”
I said quietly: “You do believe it, don’t you?”
“I don’t believe. I know.”
She spoke37 triumphantly38— I looked at her.
“But how? In what way? For what reason?”
She swept her hand out towards the bookshelves—“All that! So much of it nonsense! Such grand ridiculous phraseology!
But sweep away the superstitions39 and the prejudices of the times—and thecore is truth! You only dress it up—it’s always been dressed up—to im-press people.”
“I’m not sure I follow you.”
“My dear man, why have people come throughout the ages to the necro-mancer—to the sorcerer—to the witch doctor? Only two reasons really.
There are only two things that are wanted badly enough to risk damna-tion. The love potion or the cup of poison.”
“Ah.”
“So simple, isn’t it? Love—and death. The love potion—to win the manyou want—the black mass—to keep your lover. A draught40 to be taken atthe full of the moon. Recite the names of devils or of spirits. Draw patternson the floor or on the wall. All that’s window dressing41. The truth is theaphrodisiac in the draught!”
“And death?” I asked.
“Death?” She laughed, a queer little laugh that made me uncomfortable.
“Are you so interested in death?”
“Who isn’t?” I said lightly.
“I wonder.” She shot me a glance, keen, searching. It took me aback.
“Death. There’s always been a greater trade in that than there ever hasbeen in love potions. And yet—how childish it all was in the past! The Bor-gias and their famous secret poisons. Do you know what they really used?
Ordinary white arsenic42! Just the same as any little wife poisoner in theback streets. But we’ve progressed a long way beyond that nowadays. Sci-ence has enlarged our frontiers.”
“With untraceable poisons?” My voice was sceptical.
“Poisons! That’s vieux jeu. Childish stuff. There are new horizons.”
“Such as?”
“The mind. Knowledge of what the mind is—what it can do—what it canbe made to do.”
“Please go on. This is most interesting.”
“The principle is well known. Medicine men have used it in primitivecommunities for centuries. You don’t need to kill your victim. All you needdo is—tell him to die.”
“Suggestion? But it won’t work unless the victim believes in it.”
“It doesn’t work on Europeans, you mean,” she corrected me. “It doessometimes. But that’s not the point. We’ve gone further ahead than thewitch doctor has ever gone. The psychologists have shown the way. Thedesire for death! It’s there—in everyone. Work on that! Work on the deathwish.”
“It’s an interesting idea.” I spoke with a muted scientific interest. “Influ-ence your subject to commit suicide? Is that it?”
“You’re still lagging behind. You’ve heard of traumatic illnesses?”
“Of course.”
“People who, because of an unconscious wish to avoid returning towork, develop real ailments43. Not malingering—real illnesses with symp-toms, with actual pain. It’s been a puzzle to doctors for a long time.”
“I’m beginning to get the hang of what you mean,” I said slowly.
“To destroy your subject, power must be exerted on his secret uncon-scious self. The death wish that exists in all of us must be stimulated,heightened.” Her excitement was growing. “Don’t you see? A real illnesswill be induced, caused by that death seeking self. You wish to be ill, youwish to die—and so—you do get ill, and die.”
She had flung her head up now, triumphantly. I felt suddenly very cold.
All nonsense, of course. This woman was slightly mad… And yet—Thyrza Grey laughed suddenly.
“You don’t believe me, do you?”
“It’s a fascinating theory, Miss Grey—quite in line with modern thought,I’ll admit. But how do you propose to stimulate44 this death wish that we allpossess?”
“That’s my secret. The way! The means! There are communicationswithout contact. You’ve only to think of wireless45, radar46, television. Experi-ments in extrasensory perception haven’t gone ahead as people hoped,but that’s because they haven’t grasped the first simple principle. You canaccomplish it sometimes by accident—but once you know how it works,you could do it every time….”
“Can you do it?”
She didn’t answer at once—then she said, moving away:
“You mustn’t ask me, Mr. Easterbrook, to give all my secrets away.”
I followed her towards the garden door—
“Why have you told me all this?” I asked.
“You understand my books. One needs sometimes to—to—well—talk tosomeone. And besides—”
“Yes?”
“I had the idea— Bella has it, too—that you—may need us.”
“Need you?”
“Bella thinks you came here—to find us. She is seldom at fault.”
“Why should I want to—‘find you,’ as you put it?”
“That,” said Thyrza Grey softly, “I do not know—yet.”
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收听单词发音
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1
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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wryly
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| adv. 挖苦地，嘲弄地 | |
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taxation
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| n.征税，税收，税金 | |
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stevedore
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| n.码头工人；v.装载货物 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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ginger
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| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
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beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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detergent
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| n.洗涤剂；adj.有洗净力的 | |
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crabbing
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| v.捕蟹( crab的现在分词 ) | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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chrysanthemums
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| n.菊花( chrysanthemum的名词复数 ) | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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mumble
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| n./v.喃喃而语，咕哝 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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witchcraft
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| n.魔法，巫术 | |
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corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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panoply
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| n.全副甲胄，礼服 | |
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skulls
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| 颅骨( skull的名词复数 )； 脑袋； 脑子； 脑瓜 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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gourd
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| n.葫芦 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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hazily
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| ad. vaguely, not clear | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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bigotry
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| n.偏见，偏执，持偏见的行为[态度]等 | |
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gape
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| v.张口，打呵欠，目瞪口呆地凝视 | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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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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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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arsenic
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| n.砒霜，砷；adj.砷的 | |
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ailments
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| 疾病（尤指慢性病），不适( ailment的名词复数 ) | |
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stimulate
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| vt.刺激，使兴奋；激励，使…振奋 | |
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wireless
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| adj.无线的；n.无线电 | |
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radar
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| n.雷达，无线电探测器 | |
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