life is a struggle

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【英文读物】AStruggleForLife

AStruggleForLife

OnemorningasIwaspassingthroughBostonCommon,whichliesbetweenmyhomeandmy

office,erallypreoccupiedwhenwalking,and

oftents

man'sfaceforceditlfuponme,swerefaded,andhishair,

whichheworelong,randeyes,ifImaysayso,weresixtyyearsold,

thfulnessofhisfigure,theelasticityofhisgait,andthe

venerableappearanceofhisheadwereincongruitiesthatdrewmorethanonepairofcurious

eyestowardshim,Heexcitedinmethepainfulsuspicionthathehadgoteithersomebodyel's

headorsomebodyel'videntlyanAmerican,atleastsofarastheupperpartof

himwasconcerned—theNewEnglandcutofcountenanceisunmistakable—evidentlyaman

whohadensomethingoftheworld,butstrangelyyoungandold.

BeforereachingtheParkStreetgate,Ihadtakenupthethreadofthoughtwhichhehad

unconsciouslybroken;yetthroughoutthedaythisoldyoungman,withhisunwrinkledbrowand

silveredlocks,glidedinlikeaphantombetweenmeandmyduties.

estinglazilyonthegreenrails,

watchingtwolittlesloopsindistress,whichtworaggedship-ownershadconsignedtothemimic

lslaybecalmedinthemiddleoftheocean,displayingatantalizing

entleman

obrvedtheirdilemma,alightcameintohisfadedeyes,thendiedoutleavingthemdrearier

redifhe,too,inhistime,hadntoutshipsthatdriftedanddriftedand

nevercametoport;andifthepoortoysweretohimtypesofhisownloss.

“Thatmanhasastory,andIshouldliketoknowit,”Isaid,halfaloud,haltinginoneoftho

windingpathswhichbranchofffromthepastoralquietnessofthePond,andendintherushand

tumultofTremontStreet.

“Wouldyou?”dandfacedMr.H———,aneighborof

mine,wholaughedheartilyatfindingmetalkingtomylf.“Well,”headded,reflectingly,“I

cantellyouthisman'sstory;andifyouwillmatchthenarrativewithanythingascurious,Ishall

begladtohearit.”

“Youknowhim,then?”

“tosay,Idonotknowhimpersonally;butIknowasingularpassageinhislife.

IhappenedtobeinPariswhenhewasburied.”

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“Buried!”

“Well,strictlyspeaking,notburied;'veasparehalfhour,”

continuedmyfriendH———,“we'llsitonthisbench,andIwilltellyouallIknowofanaffair

tlemanhimlf,standingyonder,will

rveasasortoffrontispiecetotheromance—afull-pageillustration,asitwere.”

ThefollowingpagescontainthestoryWhichMr.H———ewastellingit,

agentlewindaro;theminiaturesloopsdriftedfeeblyabouttheocean;thewretchedowners

flewfrompointtopoint,asthedeceptivebreezepromidtowaftthebarkstoeithershore;the

earlyrobinstrillednowandthenfromthenewlyfringedelms;andtheoldyoungmanleanedon

therailinthesunshine,littledreamingthattwogossipswerediscussinghisaffairswithintwenty

yardsofhim.

ThreepersonsweresittinginasalonwhoonelargewindowoverlookedthePlace

Vendô,withhisbackhalfturnedontheothertwooccupantsofthe

apartment,wasreadingtheJournaldesDébatsinanalcove,pausingfromtimetotimetowipe

hisglass,andtakingscrupulouspainsnottoglancetowardstheloungeathisright,onwhich

andayoungAmericangentleman,whohandsomefaceratherfrankly

asnotahappiermaninParisthatafternoonthanPhilip

dbecomesodelicioustohimthatheshrunkfromlookingbeyondto-day.

Whatcouldthefutureaddtohisfullheart,whatmightitnottakeaway?Thedeepestjoyhas

alwayssomethingofmelancholyinit—aprentiment,afleetingsadness,afeelingwithouta

rthwasconsciousofthissubtileshadowthatnight,whenherofromthelounge

andthoughtfullyheldJulie'essobrver

wouldnothavethoughthim,ashewas,thehappiestmaninParis.

laiddownhispaper,andcameforward.“Ifthehou,”hesaid,“issuchasM.

Cherbonneaudescribesit,accompanyyou,Philip,

butthetruthis,Iamtoosadatlosingthislittlebirdtoassistyouinlectingacageforher.

Remember,nottomissit;forwehaveatsfor

Sardou'-morrownight,”headdedlaughingly,“littleJulie

herewillbeanoldlady—itissuchanagefromnowuntilthen.”

Thenextmorningthe

hour'nueau'dofdreamthe

youngmanwanderedfromroomtoroom,inspectedtheconrvatory,thestables,thelawns,the

stripofwoodlandthroughwhichamerrybrooksangtoitlfcontinually,and,afterdiningwithM.

Cherbonneau,completedthepurcha,andturnedhisstepstowardsthestationjustintimeto

catchtheexpresstrain.

AsParisstretchedoutbeforehim,withitslightstwinklingintheearlydusk,anditsspiresand

domesmeltingintotheeveningair,itemedtoPhilipasifyearshadelapdsinceheleftthe

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hingParishedrovetohishôtel,wherehefoundveralletterslyingonthe

ottroublehimlfeventoglanceattheirsuperscriptionsashethrewasidehis

travellingsurtoutforamoreappropriatedress.

If,,thecarshadappearedtowalk,thefiacre,whichhe

itturnedintothePlaceVendôme,and

'shôropenedasPhilip'sfoottouchedthefirststep.

Thevaletsilentlytookhiscloakandhat,withaspecialdeference,Philipthought;butwashenot

nowoneofthefamily?

“,”saidthervantslowly,“es

Monsieurtobeshownuptothesalon.”

“IsMademoille”—

“Yes,Monsieur.”

“Alone?”

“Alone,Monsieur,”repeatedtheman,lookingcuriouslyatPhilip,whocouldscarcelyrepress

anexclamationofpleasure.

erviewswithJuliehad

,-bred

Parisiangirlhasbutaformalacquaintancewithherlover.

Philipdidnotlingeronthestairca;withalightheart,hewentupthesteps,twoatatime,

hastenedthroughthesoftlylightedhall,inwhichhedetectedthefaintscentofherfavorite

flowers,andstealthilyopenedthedoorofthesalon.

eaththechandelierstoodaslimblackcasketontrestles.A

lightedcandle,acrucifix,orinewasdead.

heardthesuddencrythatrangthroughthesilenthou,hehurriedfromthe

library,andfoundPhilipstandinglikeaghostinthemiddleofthechamber.

ItwasnotuntillongafterwardsthatWentworthlearnedthedetailsofthecalamitythathad

hadretiredtoherroomineminglyperfect

health,an

wassittinginanarm-chair,

dleinthebougeoirhadburntdowntothesocket;abooklayhalfopen

lstartedwhenshesawthatthebedhadnotbeenoccupied,and

'ot

slumber;itwasdeath.

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TwomessageswereatoncedespatchedtoPhilip,onetothestationatG———,theothertohis

hôstmisdhimontheroad,rrival

'shou,thevalet,underthesuppositionthatWentworthhadbeenadvidofMile.

Dorine'sdeath,broketheintelligencewithawkwardcruelty,byshowinghimdirectlytothesalon.

'swealth,herbeauty,thesuddennessofherdeath,andtheromancethathadin

somewayattacheditlftoherlovefortheyoungAmericandrewcrowdstowitnessthefuneral

ceremonies,whichtookplaceinthechurchintheRued'ywastobelaidinM.

Dorine'stomb,inthecemeteryofMontmartre.

herewasagratingoffiligranediron;through

thisyoulookedintoasmallvestibuleorhall,attheendofwhichwasamassivedoorofoak

ltwasfifteenor

twentyfeetsquare,ingeniouslyventilatedfromtheceiling,ainedtwo

sarcophagi:thefirstheldtheremainsofMadameDorine,longsincedead;theotherwasnew,

andboreononesidethelettersJ.D.,inmonogram,interwovenwithfleurs-de-lis.

Thefuneraltrainstoppedatthegateofthesmallgardenthatenclodtheplaceofburial,only

erwaxcandle,suchasis

udinCatholicchurches,burntatthefootoftheuncoveredsarcophagus,castingadimglow

oyerthecentreoftheapartment,anddeepeningtheshadowswhichemedtohuddletogether

flickeringlightthecoffinwasplacedinitsgraniteshell,theheavyslablaid

overitreverently,andtheoakendoorswungonitsrustyhinges,shuttingouttheuncertainrayof

sunshinethathadventuredtopeepinonthedarkness.

,muffledinhiscloak,threwhimlfonthebackatofthelandau,tooabstractedin

asasoundofwheels

gratingonthegravelledavenue,andthenallwassilenceagaininthecemeteryofMontmartre.

Atthemainentrancethecarriagespartedcompany,dashingoffintovariousstreetsatapacethat

emedtoexpressanofrelief.

TherattleofwheelshaddiedoutoftheairwhenPhilipopenedhiyes,bewildered,likeaman

edhimlfononearmandstaredintothesurrounding

ashe?eenleftinthetomb!

Whilekneelingonthefarthersideofthestonebox,perhapshehadfainted,andduringthelast

solemnriteshisabncehadbeenunnoticed.

dcead

tobesoveryprecioustohim;andifitwerehisfatetodieatJulie'sside,wasnotthatthe

fulfilmentofthedesirewhichhehadexpresdtohimlfahundredtimesthatmorning?What

diditmatter,afewyearssoonerorlater?then?A

esolightlythrowasidethelovethathad

otcowardly

toyieldupwithoutastrugglethelifewhenheshouldguardforhersake?Wasitnothisdutyto

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thelivingandthedeadtofacethedifficultiesofhisposition,andovercomethemifitwerewithin

humanpower?

Withanorganizationasdelicateasawoman'shehadthatspiritwhich,howeversluggishin

repo,leapswithakindofexultationtomeasureitsstrengthwithdisaster.

Thevaguefearofthesupernatural,thatwouldaffectmostmeninasimilarsituation,foundno

implyshutinachamberfromwhichitwasnecessarythatheshould

ischambercontainedthebodyofthewomanhe

loved,sofarfromaddingtotheterroroftheca,wasacircumstancefromwhichhedrew

lwasfarhence;andifthatpurespirit

couldreturn,woulditnotbetoshieldhimwithherlove?Itwasimpossiblethattheplaceshould

otputthethoughtentirelyfromhimashero

tohisfeetandstretchedouthishandsinthedarkness;buthismindwastoohealthyand

practicaltoindulgelonginsuchspeculations.

Philip,beingasmoker,everalineffectual

essays,hesucceededinignitingoneagainstthedankwall,andbyitsmomentaryglareperceived

uldrvehiminexaminingthefasteningsof

uldforcetheinnerdoorbyanymeans,andreachthegrating,ofwhichhehad

anindistinctrecollection,oakendoorwas

immovable,assolidasthewallitlf,hehadhadtherequisite

tools,therewerenofasteningstoberemoved;thehingesweretontheoutside.

Havingascertainedthis,Philipreplacedthecandleonthefloor,andleanedagainstthewall

thoughtfully,watchingthebluefanofflamethatwaveredtoandfro,threateningtodetachitlf

fromthewick.“Atallevents,”hethought,“theplaceisventilated.”Suddenlyhesprang

forwardandextinguishedthelight.

Hixistencedependedonthatcandle!Hehadreadsomewhere,insomeaccountofshipwreck,

howthesurvivorshadlivedfordaysuponafewcandleswhichoneofthepasngershad

ehehadbeenburningawayhisverylife!

Bythetransientilluminationofoneofthetapers,toppedat

eleven—buteleventhatday,ortheprecedingnight?Thefuneral,heknew,hadleftthechurchat

yhourshadpasdsincethen?Ofwhatdurationhadbeenhisswoon?Alas!itwas

nolongerpossibleforhimtomeasurethohourswhichcrawllikesnailsbythewretched,and

flylikeswallowsoverthehappy.

Hepickedupthecandle,sanguineman,but,as

heweighedthechancesofescape,

disappearanceunderthecircumstanceswouldsurelyalarmhisfriends;theywouldinstitutea

archforhim;butwhowouldthinkofarchingforalivemaninthecemeteryofMontmartre?

Thepréfetofpolicewouldtahundredintelligencesatworktofindhim;theSeinemightbe

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dragged,lesmisérablesturnedoverattheMorgue;aminutedescriptionofhimwouldbein

everydetective'spocket;andhe—'sfamilytomb!

Yet,ontheotherhand,itwashere,hewaslasten;fromthispointakeendetectivewould

ghtnottheundertakerreturnforthecandlestick,probably

notleftbydesign?Or,again,ndfreshwreathsofflowers,totaketheplace

ofthowhichnowdiffudapungent,aromaticodorthroughoutthechamber?Ah!what

unlikelychances!Butifoneofthethingsdidnothappenspeedily,ithadbetterneverhappen.

Howlongcouldhekeeplifeinhimlf?

Withhispocket-knifeWentworthcutthehalf-burnedcandleintofourequalparts.“To-night,”

hemeditated,“Iwilleatthefirstofthepieces;to-morrow,thecond;to-morrowevening,

thethird;thenextday,thefourth;andthen—thenI'llwait!”

Hehadtakennobreakfastthatmorning,

ostponedthemealas

havebeennearmidnight,accordingtohiscalculation,whenhe

ofwhite-waxwastasteless;butit

rveditspurpo.

Hisappetiteforthetimeappead,idityofthewalls,and

thewindthatcreptthroughtheunenventilator,walkingwas

hisonlyresource.

Akindofdrowsiness,too,p,

hefelt,wastodie,andhehadmadeuphismindtolive.

Thestrangestfanciesflittedthroughhisheadashegropedupanddownthestonefloorofthe

dungeon,thathadlongbeensilent

spokewordsthathadlongbeenforgotten;faceshehadknowninchildhoodgrewpalpable

lelifeindetailwasunrolledbeforehimlikeapanorama;thechangesof

ayear,withitsburdenofloveanddeath,itssweetsanditsbitterness,wereepitomizedina

iretosleephadlefthim,butthekeenhungercameagain.

“Itmustbenearmorningnow,”hemud;“perhapsthesunisjustgildingthetowersofNotre

Dame;or,maybe,adull,drizzlingrainisbeatingonParis,sobbingonthemoundsaboveme.

Paris!erwalkinitsgayboulevardsinthegoldenair?Oh,thedelight

andpainandpassionofthatsweethumanlife!”

Philipbecameconsciousthatthegloom,thesilence,andthecoldweregraduallyconqueringhim.

lethargic;hesunkdownonthe

steps,dfellbychanceononeofthepiecesofcandle;hegrasped

vivedhim.“Howstrange,”hethought,“thatIamnot

ssiblethatthedampnessofthewalls,whichImustinhalewitheverybreath,has

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suppliedtheneedofwater?Notadrophaspasdmylipsfortwodays,andstillIexperienceno

owsiness,thankHeaven,

tthedreadofsleep

hassomethingtodowiththis.”

alkedasbrisklyashedaredupanddownthetomb;now

anoncehewastemptedtothrowhimlfuponthestone

coffinthatheldJulie,andmakenofurtherstruggleforhislife.

atenthethirdportion,nottosatisfyhunger,but

fromaprecautionarymotivehehadtakenitasamantakessomedisagreeabledruguponthe

ewasrapidlyapproachingwheneventhispoorsubstitute

himlfalongfastthis

islast

defenceagainstdeath.

Finally,withsuchasinkingatheartashehadnotknownbefore,

paud,thenhehurledthefragmentacrossthetomb,thentheoakendoorwasflungopen,and

Philip,withdazzledeyes,'sformsharplydefinedagainstthebluesky.

Whentheyledhimout,halfblinded,intothebroaddaylight,noticedthatPhilip'shair,

whichashorttimesincewasasblackasacrow'swing,

man'yes,too,hadfaded;thedarknesshaddimmedtheirlustre.

“Andhowlongwashereallyconfinedinthetomb?”Iasked,asMr.H———concludedthe

story.

“Justonehourandtwentyminutes!”repliedMr.H———,smilingblandly.

Ashespoke,theLilliputiansloops,withtheirsailsallblownoutlikewhiteros,camefloating

bravelyintoport,andPhilipWentworthloungedbyus,wearily,inthepleasantAprilsunshine.

Mr.H———'

minuteshad

emedliketwodaystohim!Ifhehadreallybeenimmuredtwodaysinthetomb,thestory,

frommypointofview,wouldhavelostitstragicvalue.

himfromdaytoday,passingthroughtheCommonwiththatsameintrospectiveair,therewas

redthatIhadnotreadbeforeinhispale,

meditativefacesomesuchsadhistoryasMr.H———dthe

resolutionofspeakingtohim,ningwecamefaceto

edcourteouslytoallowmetheprecedence.

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“rth,”Ibegan,“I”—

Heinterruptedme.

“Myname,sir,”hesaid,inanoff-handmanner,“isJones.”

“Jo-Jo-Jones!”Igasped.

“No,notJophJones,”hereturned,withaglacialair—“Frederick.”

Adimlight,inwhichtheperfidyofmyfriendH———wasbecomingdiscernible,begantobreak

uponmymind.

ickJoneswhyastrangemanaccostedhimone

morningontheCommonas“rth,”andthendashedmadlydownthenearest

foot-pathanddisappearedinthecrowd.

Thefactis,IhadbeendupedbyMr.H———,whoisagentlemanofliteraryproclivities,andhas,

itiswhispered,becomesomewhatdementedinbroodingovertheGreatAmericanNovel—not

yethatched,Hehadactuallytriedtheeffectofoneofhischaptersonme!

Myhero,asIsubquentlylearned,isacommonplaceyoungperson,whohadsomeconnection,

Iknownotwhat,withthebuildingofthatgracefulgranitebridgewhichspansthecrookedsilver

lakeinthePublicGarden.

WhenIthinkofthereadinesswithwhichMr.H———builtuphisairyfabriconmycredulity,I

feelhalfinclinedtolaugh,thoughIamdeeplymortifiedathavingbeentheunresistingvictimof

hisBlackArt.