stories by english authors in france(旅法英国作家的故事)-第15节
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〃Quick！ quick！ or you will be burned alive！〃
Reine Allix looked up with a smile。 〃Be quiet！ Do you not see！ He
sleeps。〃
The old man shook her； implored her； strove to drag her away； in
desperation pointed to the roof above； which was already in flames。
Reine Allix looked。 At that sight her mind cleared； and regained
consciousness； she remembered all； she understood all； she knew that he
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was dead。 〃Go in peace and save yourself；〃 she said； in the old； sweet；
strong tone of an earlier day。 〃As for me； I am very old。 I and my dead will
stay together at home。〃
The man fled； and left her to her choice。
The great curled flames and the livid vapours closed around her； she
never moved。 The death was fierce； but swift； and even in death she and
the one whom she had loved and reared were not divided。 The end soon
came。 From hill to hill the Berceau de Dieu broke into flames。 The village
was a lake of fire； into which the statue of the Christ； burning and reeling；
fell。 Some few peasants； with their wives and children； fled to the woods；
and there escaped one torture to perish more slowly of cold and famine。
All other things perished。 The rapid stream of the flame licked up all there
was in its path。 The bare trees raised their leafless branches； on fire at a
thousand points。 The stores of corn and fruit were lapped by millions of
crimson tongues。 The pigeons flew screaming from their roosts； and sank
into the smoke。 The dogs were suffocated on the thresholds they had
guarded all their lives。 The sheep ran bleating with the wool burning on
their living bodies。 The little caged birds fluttered helpless； and then
dropped； scorched to cinders。 The aged and the sick were stifled in their
beds。 All things perished。
The Berceau de Dieu was as one vast furnace； in which every living
creature was caught and consumed and changed to ashes。 The tide of war
has rolled on； and left it a blackened waste； a smoking ruin； wherein not so
much as a mouse may creep or a bird may nestle。 It is gone； and its place
can know it nevermore。
Nevermore。 But who is there to care？ It was but as a leaf which the
great storm swept away as it passed。
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STORIES
A TERRIBLY STRANGE BED
BY WILKIE COLLINS
PROLOGUE TO THE FIRST STORY
Before I begin； by the aid of my wife's patient attention and ready pen；
to relate any of the stories which I have heard at various times from
persons whose likenesses I have been employed to take； it will not be
amiss if I try to secure the reader's interest in the following pages by
briefly explaining how I became possessed of the narrative matter which
they contain。
Of myself I have nothing to say； but that I have followed the
profession of a travelling portrait…painter for the last fifteen years。 The
pursuit of my calling has not only led me all through England； but has
taken me twice to Scotland and once to Ireland。 In moving from district to
district； I am never guided beforehand by any settled plan。 Sometimes the
letters of recommendation which I get from persons who are satisfied with
the work I have done for them determine the direction in which I travel。
Sometimes I hear of a new neighbourhood in which there is no resident
artist of ability； and remove thither on speculation。 Sometimes my friends
among the picture…dealers say a good word on my behalf to their rich
customers； and so pave the way for me in the large towns。 Sometimes my
prosperous and famous brother artists； hearing of small commissions
which it is not worth their while to accept； mention my name； and procure
me introductions to pleasant country houses。 Thus I get on； now in one
way and now in another； not winning a reputation or making a fortune； but
happier； perhaps； on the whole； than many men who have got both the one
and the other。 So； at least； I try to think now； though I started in my youth
with as high an ambition as the best of them。 Thank God； it is not my
business here to speak of past times and their disappointments。 A twinge
of the old hopeless heartache comes over me sometimes still； when I think
of my student days。
One peculiarity of my present way of life is； that it brings me into
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STORIES
contact with all sorts of characters。 I almost feel； by this time； as if I had
painted every civilised variety of the human race。 Upon the whole； my
experience of the world； rough as it has been； has not taught me to think
unkindly of my fellow…creatures。 I have certainly received such treatment
at the hands of some of my sitters as I could not describe without
saddening and shocking any kind…hearted reader； but； taking one year and
one place with another； I have cause to remember with gratitude and
respect； sometimes even with friendship and affection； a very large
proportion of the numerous persons who have employed me。
Some of the results of my experience are curious in a moral point of
view。 For example； I have found women almost uniformly less delicate in
asking me about my terms； and less generous in remunerating me for my
services； than men。 On the other hand； men； within my knowledge； are
decidedly vainer of their personal attractions； and more vexatiously
anxious to have them done full justice to on canvas； than women。 Taking
both sexes together； I have found young people； for the most part； more
gentle； more reasonable； and more considerate than old。 And； summing up；
in a general way； my experience of different ranks （which extends； let me
premise； all the way down from peers to publicans）； I have met with most
of my formal and ungracious receptions among rich people of uncertain
social standing； the highest classes and the lowest among my employers
almost always contrivein widely different ways； of course to make me
feel at home as soon as I enter their houses。
The one great obstacle that I have to contend against in the practice of
my profession is not； as some persons may imagine； the difficulty of
making my sitters keep their heads still while I paint them； but the
difficulty of getting them to preserve the natural look and the every… day
peculiarities of dress and manner。 People will assume an expression； will
brush up their hair； will correct any little characteristic carelessness in
their apparelwill； in short； when they want to have their likenesses taken；
look as if they were sitting for their pictures。 If I paint them under these
artificial circumstances； I fail； of course； to present them in their habitual
aspect； and my portrait； as a necessary consequence； disappoints
everybody； the sitter always included。 When we wish to judge of a man's
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character by his handwriting； we want his customary scrawl dashed off
with his common workaday pen； not his best small text traced laboriously
with the finest procurable crow…quill point。 So it is with portrait…painting；
which is； after all； nothing but a right reading of the externals of character
recognisably presented to the view of others。
Experience； after repeated trials； has proved to me that the only way of
getting sitters who persist in assuming a set look to resume their habitual
expression is to lead them into talking about some subject in which they
are greatly interested。 If I can only beguile them into speaking earnestly；
no matter on what topic； I am sure of recovering their natural expression；
sure of seeing all the little precious every… day peculiarities of the man or
woman peep out； one after another； quite unawares。 The long maundering
stories about nothing； the wearisome recitals of petty grievances； the local
anecdotes unrelieved by the faintest suspici
