the beast in the jungle-第12章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


　others　while　he　was　but　wondrous　for　himself；　which；　however；　was　exactly　the　cause　of　his　haste　to　renew　the　wonder　by　getting　back；　as　he　might　put　it；　into　his　own　presence。　　That　had　quickened　his　steps　and　checked　his　delay。　　If　his　visit　was　prompt　it　was　because　he　had　been　separated　so　long　from　the　part　of　himself　that　alone　he　now　valued。

It's　accordingly　not　false　to　say　that　he　reached　his　goal　with　a　certain　elation　and　stood　there　again　with　a　certain　assurance。　The　creature　beneath　the　sod　knew　of　his　rare　experience；　so　that；　strangely　now；　the　place　had　lost　for　him　its　mere　blankness　of　expression。　　It　met　him　in　mildnessnot；　as　before；　in　mockery；　it　wore　for　him　the　air　of　conscious　greeting　that　we　find；　after　absence；　in　things　that　have　closely　belonged　to　us　and　which　seem　to　confess　of　themselves　to　the　connexion。　　The　plot　of　ground；　the　graven　tablet；　the　tended　flowers　affected　him　so　as　belonging　to　him　that　he　resembled　for　the　hour　a　contented　landlord　reviewing　a　piece　of　property。　　Whatever　had　happenedwell；　had　happened。　　He　had　not　come　back　this　time　with　the　vanity　of　that　question；　his　former　worrying　〃What；　WHAT？〃　now　practically　so　spent。　　Yet　he　would　none　the　less　never　again　so　cut　himself　off　from　the　spot；　he　would　come　back　to　it　every　month；　for　if　he　did　nothing　else　by　its　aid　he　at　least　held　up　his　head。　　It　thus　grew　for　him；　in　the

oddest　way；　a　positive　resource；　he　carried　out　his　idea　of　periodical　returns；　which　took　their　place　at　last　among　the　most　inveterate　of　his　habits。　　What　it　all　amounted　to；　oddly　enough；　was　that　in　his　finally　so　simplified　world　this　garden　of　death　gave　him　the　few　square　feet　of　earth　on　which　he　could　still　most　live。　　It　was　as　if；　being　nothing　anywhere　else　for　any　one；　nothing　even　for　himself；　he　were　just　everything　here；　and　if　not　for　a　crowd　of　witnesses　or　indeed　for　any　witness　but　John　Marcher；　then　by　clear　right　of　the　register　that　he　could　scan　like　an　open　page。　　The　open　page　was　the　tomb　of　his　friend；　and　there　were　the　facts　of　the　past；　there　the　truth　of　his　life；　there　the　backward　reaches　in　which　he　could　lose　himself。　　He　did　this　from　time　to　time　with　such　effect　that　he　seemed　to　wander　through　the　old　years　with　his　hand　in　the　arm　of　a　companion　who　was；　in　the　most　extraordinary　manner；　his　other；　his　younger　self；　and　to　wander；　which　was　more　extraordinary　yet；　round　and　round　a　third　presencenot　wandering　she；　but　stationary；　still；　whose　eyes；　turning　with　his　revolution；　never　ceased　to　follow　him；　and　whose　seat　was　his　point；　so　to　speak；　of　orientation。　　Thus　in　short　he　settled　to　livefeeding　all　on　the　sense　that　he　once　HAD　lived；　and　dependent　on　it　not　alone　for　a　support　but　for　an　identity。

It　sufficed　him　in　its　way　for　months　and　the　year　elapsed；　it　would　doubtless　even　have　carried　him　further　but　for　an　accident；　superficially　slight；　which　moved　him；　quite　in　another　direction；　with　a　force　beyond　any　of　his　impressions　of　Egypt　or　of　India。　It　was　a　thing　of　the　merest　chancethe　turn；　as　he　afterwards　felt；　of　a　hair；　though　he　was　indeed　to　live　to　believe　that　if　light　hadn't　come　to　him　in　this　particular　fashion　it　would　still　have　come　in　another。　　He　was　to　live　to　believe　this；　I　say；　though　he　was　not　to　live；　I　may　not　less　definitely　mention；　to　do　much　else。　　We　allow　him　at　any　rate　the　benefit　of　the　conviction；　struggling　up　for　him　at　the　end；　that；　whatever　might　have　happened　or　not　happened；　he　would　have　come　round　of　himself　to　the　light。　　The　incident　of　an　autumn　day　had　put　the　match　to　the　train　laid　from　of　old　by　his　misery。　　With　the　light　before　him　he　knew　that　even　of　late　his　ache　had　only　been　smothered。　　It　was　strangely　drugged；　but　it　throbbed；　at　the　touch　it　began　to　bleed。　And　the　touch；　in　the　event；　was　the　face　of　a　fellow…mortal。　　This　face；　one　grey　afternoon　when　the　leaves　were　thick　in　the　alleys；　looked　into　Marcher's　own；　at　the　cemetery；　with　an　expression　like　the　cut　of　a　blade。　　He　felt　it；　that　is；　so　deep　down　that　he　winced　at　the　steady　thrust。　　The　person　who　so　mutely　assaulted　him　was　a　figure　he　had　noticed；　on　reaching　his　own　goal；　absorbed　by　a　grave　a　short　distance　away；　a　grave　apparently　fresh；　so　that　the　emotion　of　the　visitor　would　probably　match　it　for　frankness。　This　fact　alone　forbade　further　attention；　though　during　the　time　he　stayed　he　remained　vaguely　conscious　of　his　neighbour；　a　middle…　aged　man　apparently；　in　mourning；　whose　bowed　back；　among　the　clustered　monuments　and　mortuary　yews；　was　constantly　presented。　Marcher's　theory　that　these　were　elements　in　contact　with　which　he　himself　revived；　had　suffered；　on　this　occasion；　it　may　be　granted；　a　marked；　an　excessive　check。　　The　autumn　day　was　dire　for　him　as　none　had　recently　been；　and　he　rested　with　a　heaviness　he　had　not　yet　known　on　the　low　stone　table　that　bore　May　Bartram's　name。　　He　rested　without　power　to　move；　as　if　some　spring　in　him；　some　spell　vouchsafed；　had　suddenly　been　broken　for　ever。　　If　he　could　have　done　that　moment　as　he　wanted　he　would　simply　have　stretched　himself　on　the　slab　that　was　ready　to　take　him；　treating　it　as　a　place　prepared　to　receive　his　last　sleep。　　What　in　all　the　wide　world　had　he　now　to　keep　awake　for？　　He　stared　before　him　with　the　question；　and　it　was　then　that；　as　one　of　the　cemetery　walks　passed　near　him；　he　caught　the　shock　of　the　face。

His　neighbour　at　the　other　grave　had　withdrawn；　as　he　himself；　with　force　enough　in　him；　would　have　done　by　now；　and　was　advancing　along　the　path　on　his　way　to　one　of　the　gates。　　This　brought　him　close；　and　his　pace；　was　slow；　so　thatand　all　the　more　as　there　was　a　kind　of　hunger　in　his　lookthe　two　men　were　for　a　minute　directly　confronted。　　Marcher　knew　him　at　once　for　one　of　the　deeply　strickena　perception　so　sharp　that　nothing　else　in　the　picture　comparatively　lived；　neither　his　dress；　his　age；　nor　his　presumable　character　and　class；　nothing　lived　but　the　deep　ravage　of　the　features　that　he　showed。　　He　SHOWED　themthat　was　the　point；　he　was　moved；　as　he　passed；　by　some　impulse　that　was　either　a　signal　for　sympathy　or；　more　possibly；　a　challenge　to　an　opposed　sorrow。　　He　might　already　have　been　aware　of　our　friend；　might　at　some　previous　hour　have　noticed　in　him　the　smooth　habit　of　the　scene；　with　which　the　state　of　his　own　senses　so　scantly　consorted；　and　might　thereby　have　been　stirred　as　by　an　overt　discord。　　What　Marcher　was　at　all　events　conscious　of　was　in　the　first　place　that　the　image　of　scarred　passion　presented　to　him　was　conscious　tooof　something　that　profaned　the　air；　and　in　the　second　that；　roused；　startled；　shocked；　he　was　yet　the　next　moment　looking　after　it；　as　it　went；　with　envy。　　The　most　extraordinary　thing　that　had　happened　to　himthough　he　had　given　that　name　to　other　matters　as　well　took　place；　after　his　immediate　vague　stare；　as　a　consequence　of　this　impression。　　The　stranger　passed；　but　the　raw　glare　of　his　grief　remained；　making　our　friend　wonder　in　pity　what　wrong；　what　wound　it　expressed；　what　injury　not　to　be　healed。　　What　had　the　man　HAD；　to　make　him　by　the　loss　of　it　so　bleed　and　yet　live？

Somethingand　this　reached　him　with　a　pangthat　HE；　John　Marcher；　hadn't；　the　proof　of　which　was　precisely　John　Marcher's　arid　end。　No　passion　had　ever　touched　him；　for　this　was　what　passion　meant；　he　had　survived　and　maundered　and　pined；　but　where　had　been　HIS　deep　ravage？　　The　extraordinary　thing　we　speak　of　was　the　sudden　rush　of　the　result　of　this　question。　　The　sight　that　had　just　met　his　eyes　named　to　him；　as　in　letters　of　quick　flame；　something　he　had　utterly；　insanely　missed；　and　what　he　had　missed　made　these　things　a　train　of　fire；　made　them　mark　themselves　in　an　anguish　of　inward　throbs。　　He　had　seen　OUTSIDE　of　his　life；　not　learned　it　within；　the　way　a　woman　was　mourned　when　she　had　been　loved　for　herself：　　such　was　the　force　of　his　conviction　of　the　meaning　of　the　stranger's　face；　which　still　flared　for　him　as　a　smoky　torch。　It　hadn't　come　to　him；　the　knowledge；　on　the　wings　of　experience；　it　had　brushed　him；　jostled　him；　upset　him；　with　the　disrespect　of　chance；　the　insolence　of　accident。　　Now　that　the　illumination　had　begun；　however；　it　blazed　to