姐,我要。。。
轻松的小说阅读环境
双城记英文版 - Part 2 Chapter XIV. MONSEIGNEUR IN THE COUNTRY
繁体
恢复默认
返回目录【键盘操作】左右光标键:上下章节;回车键:目录;双击鼠标:停止/启动自动滚动;滚动时上下光标键调节滚动速度。
  A beautiful landscape, with the corn bright in it, but not abundant. Patches of poor rye where corn should have been, patches of poor peas and beans, patches of most coarse vegetable substitutes for wheat. On inanimate nature, as on the men and women who cultivated it, a prevalent tendency towards an appearance of vegetating unwillingly—a dejected disposition to give up, and wither away.Monsieur the Marquis in his travelling carriage (which might have been lighter), conducted by four post-horses and two postilions, fagged up a steep hill. A blush on the countenance of Monsieur the Marquis was no impeachment of his high breeding; it was not from within; it was occasioned by an external circumstance beyond his control—the setting sun.The sunset struck so brilliantly into the travelling carriage when it gained the hill-top, that its occupant was steeped in crimson. “It will die out,” said Monsieur the Marquis, glancing at his hands, “directly.”In effect, the sun was so low that it dipped at the moment. When the heavy drag had been adjusted to the wheel, and the carriage slid down hill, with a cinderous smell, in a cloud of dust, the red glow departed quickly; the sun and the Marquis going down together, there was no glow left when the drag was taken off.But there remained a broken country, bold and open, a little village at the bottom of the hill, a broad sweep and rise beyond it, a church-tower, a windmill, a forest for the chase, and a crag with a fortress on it used as a prison. Round upon all these darkening objects as the night drew on, the Marquis looked, with the air of one who was coming near home.The village had its one poor street, with its poor brewery, poor tannery, poor tavern, poor stable-yard for relays of post-horses, poor fountain, all usual poor appointments. It had its poor people too. All its people were poor, and many of them were sitting at their doors, shredding spare onions and the like for supper, while many were at the fountain, washing leaves, and grasses, and any such small yieldings of the earth that could be eaten. Expressive signs of what made them poor, were not wanting; the tax for the state, the tax for the church, the tax for the lord, tax local and tax general, were to be paid here and to be paid there, according to solemn inscription in the little village, until the wonder was, that there was any village left unswallowed.Few children were to be seen, and no dogs. As to the men and women, their choice on earth was stated in the prospect—Life on the lowest terms that could sustain it, down in the little village under the mill; or captivity and Death in the dominant prison on the crag.Heralded by a courier in advance, and by the cracking of his postilion’s whips, which twined snake-like about their heads in the evening air, as if he came attended by the Furies, Monsieur the Marquis drew up in his travelling carriage at the posting-house gate. It was hard by the fountain, and the peasants suspended their operations to look at him. He looked at them and saw in them, without knowing it, the slow sure filing down of misery- worn face and figure, that was to make the meagreness of Frenchmen and English superstition which should survive the truth through the best part of a hundred years.Monsieur the Marquis cast his eyes over the submissive faces that drooped before him, as the like of himself had dropped before Monseigneur of the Court—only the difference was, that these faces drooped merely to suffer and not to propitiate—when a grizzled mender of the roads joined the group.“Bring me hither that fellow!” said the Marquis to the courier.The fellow was brought, cap in hand, and the other fellows closed round to look and listen, in the manner of the people at the Paris fountain.“I passed you on the road?”“Monseigneur, it is true. I had the honour of being passed on the road.”“Coming up the hill, and at the top of the hill, both?”“Monseigneur, it is true.”“What did you look at so fixedly?”“Monseigneur, I looked at the man.”He stooped a little, and with his tattered blue cap pointed under the carriage. All his fellows stooped to look under the carriage.“What man, pig? And why look there?”“Pardon, Monseigneur; he swung by the chain of the shoe—the drag.”“Who?” demanded the traveller.“Monseigneur, the man.”“May the Devil carry away these idiots! How do you call the man? You know all the men of this part of the country. Who was he?”“Your clemency, Monseigneur! He was not of this part of the country. Of all the days of my life, I never saw him.”“Swinging by the chain? To be suffocated?”“With your gracious permission, that was the wonder of it, Monseigneur. His head hanging over—like this!”He turned himself sideways to the carriage, and leaned back, with his face thrown up to the sky, and his head hanging down; then recovered himself, fumbled with his cap, and made a bow.“What was he like?”“Monseigneur, he was whiter than the miller. All covered with dust, white as a spectre, tall as a spectre!”The picture produced an immense sensation in the little crowd; but all eyes, without comparing notes with other eyes, looked at Monsieur the Marquis. Perhaps, to observe whether he had any spectre on his conscience.“Truly, you did well,” said the Marquis, felicitously sensible that such vermin were not to ruffle him, “to see a thief accompanying my carriage, and not open that great mouth of yours. Bah! Put him aside, Monsieur Gabelle!”Monsieur Gabelle was the Postmaster, and some other taxing functionary united; he had come out with great obsequiousness to assist at this examination, and had held the examined by the drapery of his arm in an official manner.“Bah! Go aside!” said Monsieur Gabelle.“Lay hands on this stranger if he seeks to lodge in your village tonight, and be sure that his business is honest, Gabelle.”“Monseigneur, I am flattered to devote myself to your orders.”“Did he run away, fellow?—Where is that Accursed?”The accursed was already under the carriage with some half- dozen particular friends, pointing out the chain with his blue cap.Some half-dozen other particular friends promptly hauled himout, and presented him breathless to Monsieur the Marquis.“Did the man run away, Dolt, when we stopped for the drag?”“Monseigneur, he precipitated himself over the hillside, head first, as a person plunges into the river.”“See to it, Gabelle. Go on!”The half-dozen who were peering at the chain were still among the wheels, like sheep; the wheels turned so suddenly that they were lucky to save their skins and bones; they had very little else to save, or they might not have been so fortunate.The burst with which the carriage started out of the village and up the rise beyond, was soon checked by the steepness of the hill. Gradually, it subsided to a foot pace, swinging and lumbering upward among the many sweet scents of a summer night. The postilions, with a thousand gossamer gnats circling about them in lieu of the Furies, quietly mended the points to the lashes of their whips; the valet walked by the horses; the courier was audible, trotting on ahead into the dim distance.At the steepest point of the hill there was a little burial-ground, with a Cross and a new large figure of Our Saviour on it; it was a poor figure in wood, done by some inexperienced rustic carver, but he had studied the figure from the life—his own life, maybe— for it was dreadfully spare and thin.To this distressful emblem of a great distress that had long been growing worse, and was not at its worst, a woman was kneeling. She turned her head as the carriage came up to her, rose quickly, and presented herself at the carriage-door.“It is you, Monseigneur! Monseigneur, a petition.”With an exclamation of impatience, but with his unchangeable face, Monseigneur looked out.“How, then! What is it? Always petitions!”“Monseigneur. For the love of the great God! My husband, the forester.”“What of your husband, the forester? Always the same with you people. He cannot pay something?”“He has paid all, Monseigneur. He is dead.”“Well! He is quiet. Can I restore him to you?”“Alas, no Monseigneur! But he lies yonder, under a little heap of poor grass.”“Well?”“Monseigneur, there are so many little heaps of poor grass.”“Again, well?”She looked an old woman, but was young. Her manner was one of passionate grief; by turns she clasped her veinous and knotted hands together with wild energy, and laid one of them on the carriage-door—tenderly, caressingly, as if it had been a human breast, and could be expected to feel the appealing touch.“Monseigneur, hear me! Monseigneur, hear my petition! My husband died of want; so many die of want; so many more will die of want.”“Again, well? Can I feed them?”“Monseigneur, the good God knows; but I don’t ask it. My petition is, that a morsel of stone or wood, with my husband’s name, may be placed over him to show where he lies. Otherwise, the place will be quickly forgotten, it will never be found when I am dead of the same malady. I shall be laid under some other heap of poor grass. Monseigneur, they are so many, they increase so fast, there is so much want. Monseigneur! Monseigneur!”The valet had put her away from the door, the carriage had broken into a brisk trot, the postilions had quickened the pace, she was left far behind, and Monseigneur, again escorted by the Furies, was rapidly diminishing the league or two of distance that remained between him and his chateau.The sweet scents of the summer night rose all around him, and rose, as the rain falls, impartially, on the rusty, ragged, and toilworn group at the fountain not far away; to whom the mender of roads, with the aid of the blue cap without which he was nothing, still enlarged upon his man like a spectre, as long as they could bear it. By degrees, as they could bear no more, they dropped off one by one, and lights twinkled in little casements; which lights, as the casements darkened, and more stars came out, seemed to have shot up into the sky instead of having been extinguished.The shadow of a large high-roofed house, and of many overhanging trees, was upon Monsieur the Marquis by that time; and the shadow was exchanged for the light of a flambeau, as his carriage stopped, and the great door of his chateau was opened to him.“Monsieur Charles, whom I expect; is he arrived from England?”“Monseigneur, not yet.”
或许您还会喜欢:
1Q84 BOOK1
作者:佚名
章节:35 人气:2
摘要:&nbs;A.今年年初,日本著名作家村上春树凭借着《海边的卡夫卡》入选美国“2005年十大最佳图书”。而后,他又获得了有“诺贝尔文学奖前奏”之称的“弗朗茨·卡夫卡”奖。风头正健的村上春树,前不久在中国出版了新书《东京奇谭集》。 [点击阅读]
廊桥遗梦
作者:佚名
章节:47 人气:2
摘要:《廊桥遗梦》向我们描述了一段柏拉图式的经典爱情,再现了一段真挚的情感纠葛,是一部社会化和本地化思维很强的力作,《廊桥遗梦》之所以让人震惊,大概是它提出了爱情的本质问题之一——人们对于性爱的态度。 [点击阅读]
乞力马扎罗的雪
作者:佚名
章节:7 人气:3
摘要:乞力马扎罗是一座海拔一万九千七百一十英尺的长年积雪的高山,据说它是非洲最高的一座山。西高峰叫马塞人①的“鄂阿奇—鄂阿伊”,即上帝的庙殿。在西高峰的近旁,有一具已经风干冻僵的豹子的尸体。豹子到这样高寒的地方来寻找什么,没有人作过解释。“奇怪的是它一点也不痛,”他说。“你知道,开始的时候它就是这样。”“真是这样吗?”“千真万确。可我感到非常抱歉,这股气味准叫你受不了啦。”“别这么说!请你别这么说。 [点击阅读]
别相信任何人
作者:佚名
章节:66 人气:2
摘要:如果你怀疑,身边最亲近的人为你虚构了一个人生,你还能相信谁?你看到的世界,不是真实的,更何况是别人要你看的。20年来,克丽丝的记忆只能保持一天。每天早上醒来,她都会完全忘了昨天的事——包皮括她的身份、她的过往,甚至她爱的人。克丽丝的丈夫叫本,是她在这个世界里唯一的支柱,关于她生命中的一切,都只能由本告知。但是有一天,克丽丝找到了自己的日记,发现第一页赫然写着:不要相信本。 [点击阅读]
雪地上的女尸
作者:佚名
章节:6 人气:3
摘要:1“非常抱歉……”赫尔克里-波洛先生答道。他还没说完就被打断了。打断得不鲁莽,很委婉且富有技巧性,确切他说是说服,而不是制造矛盾与不和的打断。“请不要马上拒绝,波洛先生。这件事事关重大,对你的合作我们将感激不尽。”“你大热情了。 [点击阅读]
墓中人
作者:佚名
章节:6 人气:3
摘要:春日的午后,温暖的阳光透过浓密的树丛,斑驳地落在大牟田子爵家府评的西式客厅里,大牟田敏清子爵的遗孀瑙璃子慵懒地靠在沙发上,她是位鲜花般的美人,陪伴在旁的是已故子爵的好友川村义雄先生。漂亮的子爵府位于九州S市的风景秀丽的小山上,从府邸明亮的大客厅的阳台上,可以俯瞰S市那美丽的港口。 [点击阅读]
癌病船
作者:佚名
章节:27 人气:2
摘要:第一章处女航一父母及幼小的弟弟、妹妹,四个人正围着一个在梳妆的少女淌眼泪。这是一套两间的公寓住房。父母住一间,三个孩子住一间。当然不可能让每个人都有一张桌子。孩子们每天在这狭小的房间里埋头苦读。大女儿夕雨子,已经十三岁了。但她却无法继续学习下去。她得了白血病。开始时觉得浑身无力,低烧不退。父母整天忙于自身的工作,无暇顾及自己孩子。父亲大月雄三,是个出租汽车司机。 [点击阅读]
荡魂
作者:佚名
章节:8 人气:2
摘要:由霸空港起飞的定期航班,于午后四时抵达东京羽田机场,羽田机场一片嘈杂,寺田绫子找到了机场大厅的公用电话亭。绫子身上带着拍摄完毕的胶卷,这种胶卷为深海摄影专用的胶卷,目前,只能在东洋冲印所冲印,绫子要找的冲洗师正巧不在,她只得提上行李朝单轨电车站走去。赶回调布市的私宅已是夜间了,这是一栋小巧别致的商品住宅。绫子走进房间后,立即打开所有的窗户,房间已紧闭了十来天,里面残留着夏天的湿气。 [点击阅读]
谍海
作者:佚名
章节:16 人气:2
摘要:一唐密·毕赐福在公寓过厅里把外套脱下,相当小心的挂在衣架上。他的动作很慢,帽子也很小心的挂在旁边的钩子上。他的妻子正在起居间坐着,用土黄色的毛线织一顶登山帽,他端端肩膀,换上一脸果敢的笑容,走了进去。毕赐福太太迅速的瞥他一眼,然后,又拼命的织起来。过了一两分钟,她说:“晚报上有什么消息吗?”唐密说:“闪电战来了,万岁!法国的情况不妙。”“目前的国际局势非常沉闷。”秋蓬这样说。 [点击阅读]
劳伦斯短篇小说集
作者:佚名
章节:20 人气:2
摘要:今年是20世纪英国最有成就、也是最有争议的作家之一——劳伦斯诞生!”!”0周年。这位不朽的文学大师在他近20年的创作生涯中为世人留下了!”0多部小说、3本游记、3卷短篇小说集、数本诗集、散文集、书信集,另有多幅美术作品,不愧为著作等身的一代文豪。戴维·赫伯特·劳伦斯(DavidHerbertLawrence)!”885年9月!”!”日出生在英国诺丁汉郡伊斯特伍德矿区。 [点击阅读]
厄兆
作者:佚名
章节:15 人气:2
摘要:从前,但不是很久以前,有一个恶魔来到了缅因州的小镇罗克堡。他在1970年杀死了一个名叫爱尔玛·弗莱彻特的女服务员;在1971年,一个名叫波琳·图塔克尔的女人和一个叫切瑞尔·穆迪的初中生;1974年,一个叫卡洛尔·杜巴戈的可爱的小女孩;1975年,一个名叫艾塔·林戈得的教师;最后,在同一年的早冬,一个叫玛丽·凯特·汉德拉森的小学生。 [点击阅读]
心是孤独的猎手
作者:佚名
章节:16 人气:2
摘要:《心是孤独的猎手》曾被评为百部最佳同性恋小说之一,在榜单上名列17,据翻译陈笑黎介绍,这是麦卡勒斯的第一部长篇小说,也是她一举成名的作品,出版于1940年她23岁之时。故事的背景类似于《伤心咖啡馆之歌》中炎热的南方小镇。她说:“小说中两个聋哑男子的同性之爱令人感动,而同性之恋又是若有若无的,时而激烈,时而沉默。 [点击阅读]