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第56节

villa rubein and other stories-第56节

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sometimes fell asleep; his square; pale old face nodding to one side。

He dreamed that he was gazing at the picture over the fireplace; of

an old statesman with a high collar; supremely finished face; and

sceptical eyebrowsthe picture; smooth; and reticent as sealing…wax;

of one who seemed for ever exhaling the narrow wisdom of final

judgments。  All round him; his fellow members were chattering。  Only

he himself; the old sick member; was silent。  If fellows only knew

what it was like to sit by yourself and feel ill all the time!  What

they were saying he had heard a hundred times。  They were talking of

investments; of cigars; horses; actresses; machinery。  What was that?

A foreign patent for cleaning boilers?  There was no such thing;

boilers couldn't be cleaned; any fool knew that!  If an Englishman

couldn't clean a boiler; no foreigner could clean one。  He appealed

to the old statesman's eyes。  But for once those eyes seemed

hesitating; blurred; wanting in finality。  They vanished。  In their

place were Rozsi's little deep…set eyes; with their wide and far…off

look; and as he gazed they seemed to grow bright as steel; and to

speak to him。  Slowly the whole face grew to be there; floating on

the dark background of the picture; it was pink; aloof; unfathomable;

enticing; with its fluffy hair and quick lips; just as he had last

seen it。  〃Are you looking for something?〃 she seemed to say: 〃I

could show you。〃



〃I have everything safe enough;〃 answered Swithin; and in his sleep

he groaned。



He felt the touch of fingers on his forehead。  'I'm dreaming;' he

thought in his dream。



She had vanished; and far away; from behind the picture; came a sound

of footsteps。



Aloud; in his sleep; Swithin muttered: 〃I've missed it。〃



Again he heard the rustling of those light footsteps; and close in

his ear a sound; like a sob。  He awoke; the sob was his own。  Great

drops of perspiration stood on his forehead。  'What is it?' he

thought; 'what have I lost?'  Slowly his mind travelled over his

investments; he could not think of any single one that was unsafe。

What was it; then; that he had lost?  Struggling on his pillows; he

clutched the wine…glass。  His lips touched the wine。  'This isn't the

〃Heidseck〃!' he thought angrily; and before the reality of that

displeasure all the dim vision passed away。  But as he bent to drink;

something snapped; and; with a sigh; Swithin Forsyte died above the

bubbles。。。。



When James Forsyte came in again on his way home; the valet;

trembling took his hat and stick。



〃How's your master?〃



〃My master is dead; sir!〃



〃Dead! He can't be!  I left him safe an hour ago。



On the bed Swithin's body was doubled like a sack; his hand still

grasped the glass。



James Forsyte paused。  〃Swithin!〃 he said; and with his hand to his

ear he waited for an answer; but none came; and slowly in the glass a

last bubble rose and burst。



December 1900。















To



MY SISTER



MABEL EDITH REYNOLDS











THE SILENCE



I



In a car of the Naples express a mining expert was diving into a bag

for papers。  The strong sunlight showed the fine wrinkles on his

brown face and the shabbiness of his short; rough beard。  A newspaper

cutting slipped from his fingers; he picked it up; thinking: 'How the

dickens did that get in here?'  It was from a colonial print of three

years back; and he sat staring; as if in that forlorn slip of yellow

paper he had encountered some ghost from his past。



These were the words he read: 〃We hope that the setback to

civilisation; the check to commerce and development; in this

promising centre of our colony may be but temporary; and that capital

may again come to the rescue。  Where one man was successful; others

should surely not fail?  We are convinced that it only needs。。。。〃

And the last words: 〃For what can be sadder than to see the forest

spreading its lengthening shadows; like symbols of defeat; over the

untenanted dwellings of men; and where was once the merry chatter of

human voices; to pass by in the silence。。。。〃



On an afternoon; thirteen years before; he had been in the city of

London; at one of those emporiums where mining experts perch; before

fresh flights; like sea…gulls on some favourite rock。  A clerk said

to him: 〃Mr。 Scorrier; they are asking for you downstairsMr。

Hemmings of the New Colliery Company。〃



Scorrier took up the speaking tube。  〃Is that you; Mr。 Scorrier?  I

hope you are very well; sir; I amHemmingsI amcoming up。〃



In two minutes he appeared; Christopher Hemmings; secretary of the

New Colliery Company; known in the City…behind his backas 〃Down…by…

the…starn〃 Hemmings。  He grasped Scorrier's handthe gesture was

deferential; yet distinguished。  Too handsome; too capable; too

important; his figure; the cut of his iron…grey beard; and his

intrusively fine eyes; conveyed a continual courteous invitation to

inspect their infallibilities。  He stood; like a City 〃Atlas;〃 with

his legs apart; his coat…tails gathered in his hands; a whole globe

of financial matters deftly balanced on his nose。  〃Look at me!〃 he

seemed to say。  〃It's heavy; but how easily I carry it。  Not the man

to let it down; Sir !〃



〃I hope I see you well; Mr。 Scorrier;〃 he began。  〃I have come round

about our mine。  There is a question of a fresh field being opened

upbetween ourselves; not before it's wanted。  I find it difficult

to get my Board to take a comprehensive view。  In short; the question

is: Are you prepared to go out for us; and report on it?  The fees

will be all right。〃  His left eye closed。  〃Things have been very

erdicky; we are going to change our superintendent。  I have got

little Pippinyou know little Pippin?〃



Scorrier murmured; with a feeling of vague resentment: 〃Oh yes。  He's

not a mining man!〃



Hemmings replied: 〃We think that he will do。〃  'Do you?' thought

Scorrier; 'that's good of you!'



He had not altogether shaken off a worship he had felt for Pippin

〃King〃 Pippin he was always called; when they had been boys at the

Camborne Grammar…school。  〃King〃 Pippin! the boy with the bright

colour; very bright hair; bright; subtle; elusive eyes; broad

shoulders; little stoop in the neck; and a way of moving it quickly

like a bird; the boy who was always at the top of everything; and

held his head as if looking for something further to be the top of。

He remembered how one day 〃King〃 Pippin had said to him in his soft

way; 〃Young Scorrie; I'll do your sums for you〃; and in answer to his

dubious; 〃Is that all right?〃 had replied; 〃Of courseI don't want

you to get behind that beast Blake; he's not a Cornishman〃 (the beast

Blake was an Irishman not yet twelve)。  He remembered; too; an

occasion when 〃King〃 Pippin with two other boys fought six louts and

got a licking; and how Pippin sat for half an hour afterwards; all

bloody; his head in his hands; rocking to and fro; and weeping tears

of mortification; and how the next day he had sneaked off by himself;

and; attacking the same gang; got frightfully mauled a second time。



Thinking of these things he answered curtly: 〃When shall I start?〃



〃Down…by…the…starn〃 Hemmings replied with a sort of fearful

sprightliness: 〃There's a good fellow!  I will send instructions; so

glad to see you well。〃  Conferring on Scorrier a lookfine to the

verge of vulgarityhe withdrew。  Scorrier remained; seated; heavy

with insignificance and vague oppression; as if he had drunk a

tumbler of sweet port。



A week later; in company with Pippin; he was on board a liner。



The 〃King〃 Pippin of his school…days was now a man of forty…four。  He

awakened in Scorrier the uncertain wonder with which men look

backward at their uncomplicated teens; and staggering up and down the

decks in the long Atlantic roll; he would steal glances at his

companion; as if he expected to find out from them something about

himself。  Pippin had still 〃King〃 Pippin's bright; fine hair; and

dazzling streaks in his short beard; he had still a bright colour and

suave voice; and what there were of wrinkles suggested only

subtleties of humour and ironic sympathy。  From the first; and

apparently without negotiation; he had his seat at the captain's

table; to which on the second day Scorrier too found himself

translated; and had to sit; as he expressed it ruefully; 〃among the

big…wigs。〃



During the voyage only one incident impressed itself on Scorrier's

memory; and that for a disconcerting reason。  In the forecastle were

the usual complement of emigrants。  One evening; leaning across the

rail to watch them; he felt a touch on his arm; and; looking round;

saw Pippin's face and beard quivering in the lamplight。  〃Poor

people!〃 he said。  The idea flashed on Scorrier that he was like some

fine wire sound…recording instrument。



'Suppose he were to snap!' he thought。  Impelled to justify this

fancy;

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