anner.themummy-第33节

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！


ck　began　its　deep；　melodious　chime。
　
　Roman　numerals。　Everywhere　he　looked　he　saw　them；　on　cornerstones；　in　the　pages　of　books；　on　the　facades　of　buildings。　In　fact；　the　art；　the　language；　the　spirit　of　Rome　ran　through　this　entire　culture；　hooking　it　firmly　to　the　past。　Even　the　concept　of　justice　which　so　strongly　influenced　Julie　Stratford　had　e　down　not　from　the　barbarians　who　once　ruled　this　place　with　their　crude　ideas　of　revealed　law　and　tribal　vengeance；　but　from　the　courts　and　judges　of　Rome　where　reason　had　reigned。
　
　The　great　banks　of　the　money　changers　were　fashioned　like　Roman　temples。　Great　marble　statues　of　figures　in　Roman　dress　stood　in　public　places。　The　curiously　graceless　houses　that　crowded　this　street　had　small　Roman　columns　and　even　peristyles　over　the　doors。
　
　He　turned　around　and　went　back　into　the　library　of　Lawrence　Stratford　and　sat　down　again　in　the　man's　fortable　leather　chair。　He　had　placed　lighted　candles　all　about　this　room　for　his　own　pleasure；　and　now　it　had　the　very　pitch　of　light　he　so　loved。　Of　course　the　little　maidservant　would　faint　dead　away　in　the　morning　when　she　saw　the　dripping　wax　everywhere；　but　never　mind。　She　would　certainly　clean　it　away。
　
　He　loved　this　room　of　Lawrence　Stratford…Lawrence　Stratford's　books　and　his　desk。　Lawrence　Stratford's　gramophone　playing〃　Beethoven；〃　　a　medley　of　squeaky　little　horns　that　sounded　oddly　like　a　chorus　of　cats。
　
　How　curious　that　he　had　taken　possession　of　so　much　that　had　belonged　to　this　white…haired　Englishman　who　had　broken　down　the　door　of　his　tomb。
　
　All　day　wearing　Lawrence　Stratford's　stiff　and　heavy　official　garments。　And　now；　at　ease　once　again；　in　Lawrence　Stratford's　silk〃　pyjamas〃　　and　satin　robe。　The　most　puzzling　part　of　modern　dress　had　been　the　man's　leather　shoes。　Surely　human　feet　were　not　meant　to　wear　this　kind　of　covering。　It　was　more　than　a　soldier　needed　to　protect　him　in　the　heat　of　battle。　Yet　even　the　poor　wore　these　little　torture　chambers；　though　some　were　lucky　enough　to　have　worn　holes　through　the　leather；　making　a　rough　sandal　of　sorts　so　their　feet　could　breathe。
　
　He　laughed　at　himself。　After　all　he　had　seen　today；　he　was　thinking　of　shoes。　His　feet　didn't　hurt　anymore。　So　why　not　forget　it？
　
　No　pain　ever　stayed　with　him　very　long；　or　any　pleasure。　For　example；　he　smoked　Lawrence　Stratford's　delicious　cigars　now；　drawing　in　the　smoke　slowly；　so　that　it　made　him　dizzy。　But　the　dizziness　went　away　at　once。　So　it　was　with　the　brandy　as　it　always　had　been。　He　experienced　drunkenness　only　for　an　instant；　when　he　first　swallowed　and　the　delicious　heat　of　the　drink　was　still　in　his　chest。
　
　His　body　simply　threw　off　the　effects　of　things。　Yet　he　could　taste　and　smell　and　feel。　And　the　strange　tinny　music　winding　out　of　the　gramophone　gave　him　so　much　pleasure　that　he　felt　he　might　start　weeping　again。
　
　So　much　to　enjoy。　So　much　to　study！　Since　ing　back　from　the　museum；　he　had　torn　through　five　or　six　books　in　the　library　of　Lawrence　Stratford。　He　had　read　plex　and　exhilarating　discussions　of　the〃　Industrial　Revolution。〃　　He　had　dabbled　a　bit　in　the　ideas　of　Karl　Marx；　which　were　sheer　nonsense；　as　far　as　he　could　see。　A　rich　man；　it　seemed；　writing　about　poor　men　when　he　did　not　know　how　their　minds　worked。　He　had　reexamined　the　world　globe　many　times　as　he　memorized　the　names　of　continents　and　countries。　Russia；　now　that　was　an　interesting　country。　And　this　America　was　the　greatest　mystery　of　all。
　
　Then　he　had　read　Plutarch；　the　liar！　How　dare　the　bastard　say　that　Cleopatra　had　tried　to　seduce　Octavian；　her　last　conqueror。　What　a　monstrous　idea！　There　was　something　about　Plutarch　which　made　him　think　of　old　men　gossiping　as　they　gathered　on　benches　in　public　squares。　No　gravitas　to　the　history。
　
　But　enough。　Why　think　about　that！　There　was　a　sudden　confusion　in　him。　What　troubled　him；　made　him　a　little　afraid？
　
　Not　all　the　wonders　he'd　discovered　in　this　twentieth…century　world　since　morning；　not　the　coarse　abrasive　English　language；　which　he　had　mastered　before　afternoon；　not　the　length　of　time　（hat　had　passed　since　he'd　closed　his　eyes。　What　troubled　him　was　this　entire　question　of　the　way　his　body　constantly　restored　itself…wounds　healing；　cramped　feet　relaxing；　brandy　having　little　or　no　effect。
　
　It　was　troubling　him　because　for　the　first　time　in　all　his　long　existence　he　was　beginning　to　wonder　if　his　heart　and　mind　were　not　subject　to　some　similar　system　of　uncontrollable　renewal。　Did　mental　pain　leave　him　as　easily　as　physical　pain？
　
　Not　possible。　Yet　if　that　was　not　so；　why　hadn't　his　little　trip　to　the　British　Museum　made　him　cry　out　in　agony？　Numb　and　silent；　he　had　walked　among　mummies　and　sarcophagi　and　manuscripts　stolen　from　all　the　dynasties　of　Egypt　even　to　the　time　in　which　he　had　retreated　from　Alexandria　to　his　last　tomb　in　the　Egyptian　hills。　Yet　Samir　had　been　the　one　who　suffered；　beautiful　golden…skinned　Samir；　whose　eyes　were　black　as　Ramses'　had　once　been。　Great　Egyptian　eyes；　those；　the　same　after　countless　centuries。　Samir；　his　child。
　
　It　was　not　that　the　memories　weren't　vivid。　They　were。　Like　yesterday；　it　seemed；　that　he　had　watched　them　carry　the　coffin　of　Cleopatra　out　of　the　mausoleum　and　down　to　the　Roman　cemetery　by　the　sea。　He　could　smell　that　sea　again　if　he　wanted　to。　He　could　hear　the　weeping　all　around　him。　He　could　feel　the　stones　through　the　thin　leather　of　his　sandals　as　he'd　felt　it　then。
　
　Beside　Mark　Antony　she　had　asked　to　be　buried；　and　so　it　had　been　done。　He'd　stood　in　the　crowds；　a　mon　man；　with　his　coarse　cloak　wrapped　around　him；　listening　to　the　wailing　of　the　mourners。〃　　Our　great　Queen　is　dead。〃
　
　His　grief　had　been　an　agony。　So　why　was　he　not　weeping　now？　He　sat　in　this　room　staring　at　her　marble　bust；　and　the　pain　was　just　beyond　his　reach。
　
　〃Cleopatra；〃　　he　whispered。　Playfully；　he　envisioned　her　not　as　the　woman　on　her　deathbed；　but　as　the　young　girt　who　had　awakened　him：　Rise；　Ramses　the　Great。　A　Queen　of　Egypt　calls　you。　e　out　of　your　deep　sleep　and　be　my　counsel　in　this　time　of　woe。
　
　No；　he　did　not　feel　either　the　joy　or　the　pain。
　
　Did　this　mean　the　capacity　to　suffer　had　been　affected　by　the　powerful　elixir　that　never　ceased　its　work　in　his　veins？　Or　was　it　something　else；　that　he　had　long　suspected；　that　when　he　slept；　he　somehow　knew　the　passage　of　time？　Somehow　even　in　that　unconscious　state；　he　travelled　away　from　the　things　that　had　hurt　him；　and　his　dreams　were　only　one　indication　of　the　reasoning　that　went　on　in　darkness　and　in　stillness。　Without　panic；　he　had　known　before　the　sunlight　ever　touched　his　body　mat　hundreds　of　years　had　passed。
　
　Perhaps　he　was　merely　so　shocked　by　all　he'd　seen　about　him　in　the　twentieth　century　that　the　memories　had　not　attained　their　fall　emotional　force。　The　pain　would　return　all　at　once　and　he　would　find　himself　weeping　uncontrollably　on　the　edge　of　madness…unable　to　embrace　all　the　beauty　that　he　saw。
　
　There　had　been　a　moment　in　the　wax　museum；　yes；　when　he　had　seen　that　vulgar　effigy　of　Cleopatra；　and　the　ludicrous；　expressionless　Antony　beside　her；　when　he　had　felt　something　akin　to　panic。　It　had　soothed　him　to　return　to　the　noisy；　bustling　London　streets　outside。　He　had　heard　her　crying　in　his　memory：〃　Ramses；　Antony　is　dying。　Give　him　the　elixir！　Ramses！〃　　It　seemed　a　voice　from　somewhere　outside　of　him；　which　he　could　not　silence　at　will。　It　disturbed　him　that　she　had　been　so　grossly　represented。　And　his　heart　had　been　tripping　like　those　steam　hammers　that　broke　the　cement　pavings　of　London。　Tripping。　But　that　was　not　pain。
　
　And　what　did　it　matter　that　the　wax　statue　had　so　cheapened　her　beauty？　His　statues　bore　no　resemblance　to　him　finally；　and　he　had　stood　about　in　the　hot　sun　chatting　with　the　workmen　who　made　them！　Nobody　expected　public　art　to　have　anything　much　to　do　with　the　flesh…and…blood　model；　that　is；　not　until　the　Romans　started　filling　their　gardens　with　portraits　of　themselves；　down　to　the　very　warts。
　
　Cleopatra　had　been　no　Roman。　Cleopatra　had　been　a　Greek　and　an　Egyptian。　And　the　horror　was；　Cleopatra　meant　something　to　these　modern　people　of　the　twentieth　century　which　was　altogether　wrong。　She　had　bee　a　symbol　of　licentiousness；　when　in　fact　she　had　possessed　a　multitude　of　amazing　talents。　They　had　punished　her　for　her　one　flaw　by　forgetting　everything　else。
　
　Yes；　that　is　what　had　shocked　him　in　the　wax　museum。　Remembered；　but　not　for　what　she　was。　A　painted　whore　lying　on　a　silken　couch。
　
　Silence。　His　heart　was　thudding　again。　He　listened。　He　heard　the　ticking　of　the　clock。
　
　A　tray　of　savory　pastries　lay　before　him。　There　was　the　brandy；　oranges　and　pears　on　a　china　plate。　He　should　eat　and　drink；　for　that　always　calmed　him；　just　as　if　he'd　been　starving　when　he　was　not　starving　at　all。
　
　And　he　did　not　want　to　feel　the　agony　again；　did　he？　Yet　he　was　frightened。　Because　he　did　not　want　to　lose　his　vast　experience　of　human　feeling。　That　would　be　like　dying！
　
　Once　again　he　looked　at　her　beautiful　face；　rendered　there　in　marble；　more　truly　Cleopatra　than　that　wax　horror。　And　something　deep　inside　threatened　the　strange　quiet　of　h