一双蓝眼睛 英文版 A Pair of Blue Eyes
托马斯.哈代 Thomas Hardy
Chapter XXIII
'Should auld acquaintance be forgot?'
By this time Stephen Smith had stepped out upon the quay at CastleBoterel, and breathed his native air.
A darker skin, a more pronounced moustache, and an incipientbeard, were the chief additions and changes noticeable in hisappearance.
In spite of the falling rain, which had somewhat lessened, he tooka small valise in his hand, and, leaving the remainder of hisluggage at the inn, ascended the hills towards East Endelstow.This place lay in a vale of its own, further inland than the westvillage, and though so near it, had little of physical feature incommon with the latter. East Endelstow was more wooded andfertile: it boasted of Lord Luxellian's mansion and park, and wasfree from those bleak open uplands which lent such an air ofdesolation to the vicinage of the coast--always excepting thesmall valley in which stood the vicarage and Mrs. Swancourt's oldhouse, The Crags.
Stephen had arrived nearly at the summit of the ridge when therain again increased its volume, and, looking about for temporaryshelter, he ascended a steep path which penetrated dense hazelbushes in the lower part of its course. Further up it emergedupon a ledge immediately over the turnpike-road, and sheltered byan overhanging face of rubble rock, with bushes above. For areason of his own he made this spot his refuge from the storm, andturning his face to the left, conned the landscape as a book.
He was overlooking the valley containing Elfride's residence.
From this point of observation the prospect exhibited thepeculiarity of being either brilliant foreground or the subduedtone of distance, a sudden dip in the surface of the countrylowering out of sight all the intermediate prospect. In apparentcontact with the trees and bushes growing close beside himappeared the distant tract, terminated suddenly by the brink ofthe series of cliffs which culminated in the tall giant without aname--small and unimportant as here beheld. A leaf on a bough atStephen's elbow blotted out a whole hill in the contrastingdistrict far away; a green bunch of nuts covered a complete uplandthere, and the great cliff itself was outvied by a pigmy crag inthe bank hard by him. Stephen had looked upon these thingshundreds of times before to-day, but he had never viewed them withsuch tenderness as now.
Stepping forward in this direction yet a little further, he couldsee the tower of West Endelstow Church, beneath which he was tomeet his Elfride that night. And at the same time he noticed,coming over the hill from the cliffs, a white speck in motion. Itseemed first to be a sea-gull flying low, but ultimately proved tobe a human figure, running with great rapidity. The form flittedon, heedless of the rain which had caused Stephen's halt in thisplace, dropped down the heathery hill, entered the vale, and wasout of sight.
Whilst he meditated upon the meaning of this phenomenon, he wassurprised to see swim into his ken from the same point ofdeparture another moving speck, as different from the first aswell could be, insomuch that it was perceptible only by itsblackness. Slowly and regularly it took the same course, andthere was not much doubt that this was the form of a man. He,too, gradually descended from the upper levels, and was lost inthe valley below.
The rain had by this time again abated, and Stephen returned tothe road. Looking ahead, he saw two men and a cart. They weresoon obscured by the intervention of a high hedge. Just beforethey emerged again he heard voices in conversation.
''A must soon be in the naibourhood, too, if so be he's a-coming,'said a tenor tongue, which Stephen instantly recognized as MartinCannister's.
''A must 'a b'lieve,' said another voice--that of Stephen'sfather.
Stephen stepped forward, and came before them face to face. Hisfather and Martin were walking, dressed in their second bestsuits, and beside them rambled along a grizzel horse and brightlypainted spring-cart.
'All right, Mr. Cannister; here's the lost man!' exclaimed youngSmith, entering at once upon the old style of greeting. 'Father,here I am.'
'All right, my sonny; and glad I be for't!' returned John Smith,overjoyed to see the young man. 'How be ye? Well, come alonghome, and don't let's bide out here in the damp. Such weathermust be terrible bad for a young chap just come from a fierynation like Indy; hey, naibour Cannister?'
'Trew, trew. And about getting home his traps? Boxes, monstrousbales, and noble packages of foreign description, I make nodoubt?'
'Hardly all that,' said Stephen laughing.
'We brought the cart, maning to go right on to Castle Boterelafore ye landed,' said his father. '"Put in the horse," saysMartin. "Ay," says I, "so we will;" and did it straightway. Now,maybe, Martin had better go on wi' the cart for the things, andyou and I walk home-along.'
'And I shall be back a'most as soon as you. Peggy is a prettystep still, though time d' begin to tell upon her as upon the resto' us.'
Stephen told Martin where to find his baggage, and then continuedhis journey homeward in the company of his father.
'Owing to your coming a day sooner than we first expected,' saidJohn, 'you'll find us in a turk of a mess, sir--"sir," says I tomy own son! but ye've gone up so, Stephen. We've killed the pigthis morning for ye, thinking ye'd be hungry, and glad of a morselof fresh mate. And 'a won't be cut up till to-night. However, wecan make ye a good supper of fry, which will chaw up well wi' adab o' mustard and a few nice new taters, and a drop of shillingale to wash it down. Your mother have scrubbed the house throughbecause ye were coming, and dusted all the chimmer furniture, andbought a new basin and jug of a travelling crockery-woman thatcame to our door, and scoured the cannel-sticks, and claned thewinders! Ay, I don't know what 'a ha'n't a done. Never were sucha steer, 'a b'lieve.'
Conversation of this kind and inquiries of Stephen for hismother's wellbeing occupied them for the remainder of the journey.When they drew near the river, and the cottage behind it, theycould hear the master-mason's clock striking off the bygone hoursof the day at intervals of a quarter of a minute, during whichintervals Stephen's imagination readily pictured his mother'sforefinger wandering round the dial in company with the minute-hand.
'The clock stopped this morning, and your mother in putting enright seemingly,' said his father in an explanatory tone; and theywent up the garden to the door.
'Really our clock is not worth a penny,' she said, turning to itand attempting to start the pendulum.
'Stopped again?' inquired Martin with commiseration.
'Yes, sure,' replied Mrs. Smith; and continued after the manner ofcertain matrons, to whose tongues the harmony of a subject with acasual mood is a greater recommendation than its pertinence to theoccasion, 'John would spend pounds a year upon the jimcrack oldthing, if he might, in having it claned, when at the same time youmay doctor it yourself as well. "The clock's stopped again,John," I say to him. "Better have en claned," says he. There'sfive shillings. "That clock grinds again," I say to en. "Betterhave en claned," 'a says again. "That clock strikes wrong, John,"says I. "Better have en claned," he goes on. The wheels wouldhave been polished to skeletons by this time if I had listened toen, and I assure you we could have bought a chainey-faced beautywi' the good money we've flung away these last ten years upon thisold green-faced mortal. And, Martin, you must be wet. My son isgone up to change. John is damper than I should like to be, but'a calls it nothing. Some of Mrs. Swancourt's servants have beenhere--they ran in out of the rain when going for a walk--and Iassure you the state of their bonnets was frightful.'
'How's the folks? We've been over to Castle Boterel, and what wi'running and stopping out of the storms, my poor head is beyondeverything! fizz, fizz fizz; 'tis frying o' fish from morning tonight,' said a cracked voice in the doorway at this instant.
'Lord so's, who's that?' said Mrs. Smith, in a privateexclamation, and turning round saw William Worm, endeavouring tomake himself look passing civil and friendly by overspreading hisface with a large smile that seemed to have no connection with thehumour he was in. Behind him stood a woman about twice his size,with a large umbrella over her head. This was Mrs. Worm,William's wife.
'Come in, William,' said John Smith. 'We don't kill a pig everyday. And you, likewise, Mrs. Worm. I make ye welcome. Since yeleft Parson Swancourt, William, I don't see much of 'ee.'
'No, for to tell the truth, since I took to the turn-pike-gateline, I've been out but little, coming to church o' Sundays notbeing my duty now, as 'twas in a parson's family, you see.However, our boy is able to mind the gate now, and I said, says I,"Barbara, let's call and see John Smith."'
'I am sorry to hear yer pore head is so bad still.'
'Ay, I assure you that frying o' fish is going on for nights anddays. And, you know, sometimes 'tisn't only fish, but rashers o'bacon and inions. Ay, I can hear the fat pop and fizz as nateralas life; can't I, Barbara?'
Mrs. Worm, who had been all this time engaged in closing herumbrella, corroborated this statement, and now, coming indoors,showed herself to be a wide-faced, comfortable-looking woman, witha wart upon her cheek, bearing a small tuft of hair in its centre.
'Have ye ever tried anything to cure yer noise, Maister Worm?'inquired Martin Cannister.
'Oh ay; bless ye, I've tried everything. Ay, Providence is amerciful man, and I have hoped He'd have found it out by thistime, living so many years in a parson's family, too, as I have,but 'a don't seem to relieve me. Ay, I be a poor wambling man,and life's a mint o' trouble!'
'True, mournful true, William Worm. 'Tis so. The world wantslooking to, or 'tis all sixes and sevens wi' us.'
'Take your things off, Mrs. Worm,' said Mrs. Smith. 'We be ratherin a muddle, to tell the truth, for my son is just dropped in fromIndy a day sooner than we expected, and the pig-killer is comingpresently to cut up.'
Mrs. Barbara Worm, not wishing to take any mean advantage ofpersons in a muddle by observing them, removed her bonnet andmantle with eyes fixed upon the flowers in the plot outside thedoor.
'What beautiful tiger-lilies!' said Mrs. Worm.
'Yes, they be very well, but such a trouble to me on account ofthe children that come here. They will go eating the berries onthe stem, and call 'em currants. Taste wi' junivals is quitefancy, really.'
'And your snapdragons look as fierce as ever.'
'Well, really,' answered Mrs. Smith, entering didactically intothe subject, 'they are more like Christians than flowers. Butthey make up well enough wi' the rest, and don't require muchtending. And the same can be said o' these miller's wheels. 'Tisa flower I like very much, though so simple. John says he nevercares about the flowers o' 'em, but men have no eye for anythingneat. He says his favourite flower is a cauliflower. And Iassure you I tremble in the springtime, for 'tis perfect murder.'
'You don't say so, Mrs. Smith!'
'John digs round the roots, you know. In goes his blunderingspade, through roots, bulbs, everything that hasn't got a goodshow above ground, turning 'em up cut all to slices. Only thevery last fall I went to move some tulips, when I found every bulbupside down, and the stems crooked round. He had turned 'em overin the spring, and the cunning creatures had soon found thatheaven was not where it used to be.'
'What's that long-favoured flower under the hedge?'
'They? O Lord, they are the horrid Jacob's ladders! Instead ofpraising 'em, I be mad wi' 'em for being so ready to bide wherethey are not wanted. They be very well in their way, but I do notcare for things that neglect won't kill. Do what I will, dig,drag, scrap, pull, I get too many of 'em. I chop the roots: upthey'll come, treble strong. Throw 'em over hedge; there they'llgrow, staring me in the face like a hungry dog driven away, andcreep back again in a week or two the same as before. 'TisJacob's ladder here, Jacob's ladder there, and plant 'em wherenothing in the world will grow, you get crowds of 'em in a monthor two. John made a new manure mixen last summer, and he said,"Maria, now if you've got any flowers or such like, that you don'twant, you may plant 'em round my mixen so as to hide it a bit,though 'tis not likely anything of much value will grow there." Ithought, "There's them Jacob's ladders; I'll put them there, sincethey can't do harm in such a place; "and I planted the Jacob'sladders sure enough. They growed, and they growed, in the mixenand out of the mixen, all over the litter, covering it quite up.When John wanted to use it about the garden, 'a said, "Nationseize them Jacob's ladders of yours, Maria! They've eat thegoodness out of every morsel of my manure, so that 'tis no betterthan sand itself!" Sure enough the hungry mortals had. 'Tis mybelief that in the secret souls o' 'em, Jacob's ladders be weeds,and not flowers at all, if the truth was known.'
Robert Lickpan, pig-killer and carrier, arrived at this moment.The fatted animal hanging in the back kitchen was cleft down themiddle of its backbone, Mrs. Smith being meanwhile engaged incooking supper.
Between the cutting and chopping, ale was handed round, and Wormand the pig-killer listened to John Smith's description of themeeting with Stephen, with eyes blankly fixed upon the table-cloth, in order that nothing in the external world shouldinterrupt their efforts to conjure up the scene correctly.
Stephen came downstairs in the middle of the story, and after thelittle interruption occasioned by his entrance and welcome, thenarrative was again continued, precisely as if he had not beenthere at all, and was told inclusively to him, as to somebody whoknew nothing about the matter.
'"Ay," I said, as I catched sight o' en through the brimbles,"that's the lad, for I d' know en by his grand-father's walk; "for'a stapped out like poor father for all the world. Still therewas a touch o' the frisky that set me wondering. 'A got closer,and I said, "That's the lad, for I d' know en by his carrying ablack case like a travelling man." Still, a road is common to allthe world, and there be more travelling men than one. But I keptmy eye cocked, and I said to Martin, "'Tis the boy, now, for I d'know en by the wold twirl o' the stick and the family step." Then'a come closer, and a' said, "All right." I could swear to enthen.'
Stephen's personal appearance was next criticised.
'He d' look a deal thinner in face, surely, than when I seed en atthe parson's, and never knowed en, if ye'll believe me,' saidMartin.
'Ay, there,' said another, without removing his eyes fromStephen's face, 'I should ha' knowed en anywhere. 'Tis hisfather's nose to a T.'
'It has been often remarked,' said Stephen modestly.
'And he's certainly taller,' said Martin, letting his glance runover Stephen's form from bottom to top.
'I was thinking 'a was exactly the same height,' Worm replied.
'Bless thy soul, that's because he's bigger round likewise.' Andthe united eyes all moved to Stephen's waist.
'I be a poor wambling man, but I can make allowances,' saidWilliam Worm. 'Ah, sure, and how he came as a stranger andpilgrim to Parson Swancourt's that time, not a soul knowing enafter so many years! Ay, life's a strange picter, Stephen: but Isuppose I must say Sir to ye?'
'Oh, it is not necessary at present,' Stephen replied, thoughmentally resolving to avoid the vicinity of that familiar friendas soon as he had made pretensions to the hand of Elfride.
'Ah, well,' said Worm musingly, 'some would have looked for noless than a Sir. There's a sight of difference in people.'
and planets, with an occasional dash of a comet-like aspectto diversify.
'And in pigs likewise,' observed John Smith, looking at the halvedcarcass of his own.
Robert Lickpan, the pig-killer, here seemed called upon to enterthe lists of conversation.
'Yes, they've got their particular naters good-now,' he remarkedinitially. 'Many's the rum-tempered pig I've knowed.'
'I don't doubt it, Master Lickpan,' answered Martin, in a toneexpressing that his convictions, no less than good manners,demanded the reply.
'Yes,' continued the pig-killer, as one accustomed to be heard.'One that I knowed was deaf and dumb, and we couldn't make outwhat was the matter wi' the pig. 'A would eat well enough when 'aseed the trough, but when his back was turned, you might a-rattledthe bucket all day, the poor soul never heard ye. Ye could playtricks upon en behind his back, and a' wouldn't find it out noquicker than poor deaf Grammer Cates. But a' fatted well, and Inever seed a pig open better when a' was killed, and 'a was verytender eating, very; as pretty a bit of mate as ever you see; youcould suck that mate through a quill.
'And another I knowed,' resumed the killer, after quietly lettinga pint of ale run down his throat of its own accord, and settingdown the cup with mathematical exactness upon the spot from whichhe had raised it--'another went out of his mind.'
'How very mournful!' murmured Mrs. Worm.
'Ay, poor thing, 'a did! As clean out of his mind as the cleverestChristian could go. In early life 'a was very melancholy, andnever seemed a hopeful pig by no means. 'Twas Andrew Stainer'spig--that's whose pig 'twas.'
'I can mind the pig well enough,' attested John Smith.
'And a pretty little porker 'a was. And you all know FarmerBuckle's sort? Every jack o' em suffer from the rheumatism to thisday, owing to a damp sty they lived in when they were striplings,as 'twere.'
'Well, now we'll weigh,' said John.
'If so be he were not so fine, we'd weigh en whole: but as he is,we'll take a side at a time. John, you can mind my old joke, ey?'
'I do so; though 'twas a good few years ago I first heard en.'
'Yes,' said Lickpan, 'that there old familiar joke have been inour family for generations, I may say. My father used that jokeregular at pig-killings for more than five and forty years--thetime he followed the calling. And 'a told me that 'a had it fromhis father when he was quite a chiel, who made use o' en just thesame at every killing more or less; and pig-killings were pig-killings in those days.'
'Trewly they were.'
'I've never heard the joke,' said Mrs. Smith tentatively.
'Nor I,' chimed in Mrs. Worm, who, being the only other lady inthe room, felt bound by the laws of courtesy to feel like Mrs.Smith in everything.
'Surely, surely you have,' said the killer, looking sceptically atthe benighted females. 'However, 'tisn't much--I don't wish tosay it is. It commences like this: "Bob will tell the weight ofyour pig, 'a b'lieve," says I. The congregation of neighboursthink I mane my son Bob, naturally; but the secret is that I manethe bob o' the steelyard. Ha, ha, ha!'
'Haw, haw, haw!' laughed Martin Cannister, who had heard theexplanation of this striking story for the hundredth time.
'Huh, huh, huh!' laughed John Smith, who had heard it for thethousandth.
'Hee, hee, hee!' laughed William Worm, who had never heard it atall, but was afraid to say so.
'Thy grandfather, Robert, must have been a wide-awake chap to makethat story,' said Martin Cannister, subsiding to a placid aspectof delighted criticism.
'He had a head, by all account. And, you see, as the first-bornof the Lickpans have all been Roberts, they've all been Bobs, sothe story was handed down to the present day.'
'Poor Joseph, your second boy, will never be able to bring it outin company, which is rather unfortunate,' said Mrs. Wormthoughtfully.
''A won't. Yes, grandfer was a clever chap, as ye say; but Iknowed a cleverer. 'Twas my uncle Levi. Uncle Levi made a snuff-box that should be a puzzle to his friends to open. He used tohand en round at wedding parties, christenings, funerals, and inother jolly company, and let 'em try their skill. Thisextraordinary snuff-box had a spring behind that would push in andout--a hinge where seemed to be the cover; a slide at the end, ascrew in front, and knobs and queer notches everywhere. One manwould try the spring, another would try the screw, another wouldtry the slide; but try as they would, the box wouldn't open. Andthey couldn't open en, and they didn't open en. Now what mightyou think was the secret of that box?'
All put on an expression that their united thoughts wereinadequate to the occasion.
'Why the box wouldn't open at all. 'A were made not to open, andye might have tried till the end of Revelations, 'twould have beenas naught, for the box were glued all round.'
'A very deep man to have made such a box.'
'Yes. 'Twas like uncle Levi all over.'
''Twas. I can mind the man very well. Tallest man ever I seed.'
could get one long enough. When.
''A was so. He never slept upon a bedstead after he growed up ahard boy-chap--never could get one long enough. When 'a lived inthat little small house by the pond, he used to have to leave openhis chamber door every night at going to his bed, and let his feetpoke out upon the landing.'
'He's dead and gone now, nevertheless, poor man, as we all shall,'observed Worm, to fill the pause which followed the conclusion ofRobert Lickpan's speech.
The weighing and cutting up was pursued amid an animated discourseon Stephen's travels; and at the finish, the first-fruits of theday's slaughter, fried in onions, were then turned from the paninto a dish on the table, each piece steaming and hissing till itreached their very mouths.
It must be owned that the gentlemanly son of the house lookedrather out of place in the course of this operation. Nor was hismind quite philosophic enough to allow him to be comfortable withthese old-established persons, his father's friends. He had neverlived long at home--scarcely at all since his childhood. Thepresence of William Worm was the most awkward feature of the case,for, though Worm had left the house of Mr. Swancourt, the beinghand-in-glove with a ci-devant servitor reminded Stephen tooforcibly of the vicar's classification of himself before he wentfrom England. Mrs. Smith was conscious of the defect in herarrangements which had brought about the undesired conjunction.She spoke to Stephen privately.
'I am above having such people here, Stephen; but what could I do?And your father is so rough in his nature that he's more mixed upwith them than need be.'
'Never mind, mother,' said Stephen; 'I'll put up with it now.'
'When we leave my lord's service, and get further up the country--as I hope we shall soon--it will be different. We shall be amongfresh people, and in a larger house, and shall keep ourselves up abit, I hope.'
'Is Miss Swancourt at home, do you know?' Stephen inquired
'Yes, your father saw her this morning.'
'Do you often see her?'
'Scarcely ever. Mr. Glim, the curate, calls occasionally, but theSwancourts don't come into the village now any more than to drivethrough it. They dine at my lord's oftener than they used. Ah,here's a note was brought this morning for you by a boy.'
slices. Only thevery last fall I went to move some tulips,
Stephen eagerly took the note and opened it, his mother watchinghim. He read what Elfride had written and sent before she startedfor the cliff that afternoon:
'Yes; I will meet you in the church at nine to-night.--E. S.'
'I don't know, Stephen,' his mother said meaningly, 'whe'r youstill think about Miss Elfride, but if I were you I wouldn'tconcern about her. They say that none of old Mrs. Swancourt'smoney will come to her step-daughter.'
'I see the evening has turned out fine; I am going out for alittle while to look round the place,' he said, evading the directquery. 'Probably by the time I return our visitors will be gone,and we'll have a more confidential talk.'