stories by english authors in france(旅法英国作家的故事)-第20节
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night in suffering all conceivable varieties of nervous terror。
I raised myself on my elbow； and looked about the roomwhich was
brightened by a lovely moonlight pouring straight through the window to
see if it contained any pictures or ornaments that I could at all clearly
distinguish。 While my eyes wandered from wall to wall； a remembrance of
Le Maistre's delightful little book； 〃Voyage autour de ma Chambre；〃
occurred to me。 I resolved to imitate the French author； and find
occupation and amusement enough to relieve the tedium of my
wakefulness； by making a mental inventory of every article of furniture I
could see； and by following up to their sources the multitude of
associations which even a chair； a table； or a wash…hand stand may be
made to call forth。
In the nervous unsettled state of my mind at that moment； I found it
much easier to make my inventory than to make my reflections； and
thereupon soon gave up all hope of thinking in Le Maistre's fanciful track…
…or； indeed； of thinking at all。 I looked about the room at the different
articles of furniture； and did nothing more。
There was； first； the bed I was lying in； a four…post bed； of all things in
the world to meet with in Parisyes； a thoroughly clumsy British four…
poster； with the regular top lined with chintzthe regular fringed valance
all roundthe regular stifling； unwholesome curtains； which I remembered
having mechanically drawn back against the posts without particularly
noticing the bed when I first got into the room。 Then there was the marble…
topped wash…hand stand； from which the water I had spilled； in my hurry
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to pour it out； was still dripping； slowly and more slowly； on to the brick
floor。 Then two small chairs； with my coat； waistcoat； and trousers flung
on them。 Then a large elbow…chair covered with dirty…white dimity； with
my cravat and shirt collar thrown over the back。 Then a chest of drawers
with two of the brass handles off； and a tawdry； broken china inkstand
placed on it by way of ornament for the top。 Then the dressing…table；
adorned by a very small looking…glass； and a very large pincushion。 Then
the windowan unusually large window。 Then a dark old picture； which
the feeble candle dimly showed me。 It was a picture of a fellow in a high
Spanish hat； crowned with a plume of towering feathers。 A swarthy；
sinister ruffian； looking upward； shading his eyes with his hand； and
looking intently upwardit might be at some tall gallows at which he was
going to be hanged。 At any rate； he had the appearance of thoroughly
deserving it。
This picture put a kind of constraint upon me to look upward tooat
the top of the bed。 It was a gloomy and not an interesting object； and I
looked back at the picture。 I counted the feathers in the man's hat they
stood out in reliefthree white； two green。 I observed the crown of his hat；
which was of conical shape； according to the fashion supposed to have
been favoured by Guido Fawkes。 I wondered what he was looking up at。 It
couldn't be at the stars； such a desperado was neither astrologer nor
astronomer。 It must be at the high gallows； and he was going to be hanged
presently。 Would the executioner come into possession of his conical
crowned hat and plume of feathers？ I counted the feathers againthree
white； two green。
While I still lingered over this very improving and intellectual
employment； my thoughts insensibly began to wander。 The moonlight
shining into the room reminded me of a certain moonlight night in
Englandthe night after a picnic party in a Welsh valley。 Every incident of
the drive homeward； through lovely scenery； which the moonlight made
lovelier than ever； came back to my remembrance； though I had never
given the picnic a thought for years； though； if I had /tried/ to recollect it； I
could certainly have recalled little or nothing of that scene long past。 Of all
the wonderful faculties that help to tell us we are immortal； which speaks
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the sublime truth more eloquently than memory？ Here was I； in a strange
house of the most suspicious character； in a situation of uncertainty； and
even of peril； which might seem to make the cool exercise of my
recollection almost out of the question； nevertheless； remembering； quite
involuntarily； places； people； conversations； minute circumstances of
every kind； which I had thought forgotten for ever； which I could not
possibly have recalled at will； even under the most favourable auspices。
And what cause had produced in a moment the whole of this strange；
complicated； mysterious effect？ Nothing but some rays of moonlight
shining in at my bedroom window。
I was still thinking of the picnicof our merriment on the drive home
of the sentimental young lady who /would quote/ 〃Childe Harold〃 because
it was moonlight。 I was absorbed by these past scenes and past
amusements； when； in an instant； the thread on which my memories hung
snapped asunder； my attention immediately came back to present things
more vividly than ever； and I found myself； I neither knew why nor
wherefore； looking hard at the picture again。
Looking for what？
Good God！ the man had pulled his hat down on his brows！ No！ the hat
itself was gone！ Where was the conical crown？ Where the feathersthree
white； two green？ Not there！ In place of the hat and feathers； what dusky
object was it that now hid his forehead； his eyes； his shading hand？
Was the bed moving？
I turned on my back and looked up。 Was I mad？ drunk？ dreaming？
giddy again？ or was the top of the bed really moving downsinking
slowly； regularly； silently； horribly； right down throughout the whole of its
length and breadthright down upon me； as I lay underneath？
My blood seemed to stand still。 A deadly paralysing coldness stole all
over me as I turned my head round on the pillow and determined to test
whether the bedtop was really moving or not； by keeping my eye on the
man in the picture。
The next look in that direction was enough。 The dull； black； frowzy
outline of the valance above me was within an inch of being parallel with
his waist。 I still looked breathlessly。 And steadily and slowly very
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slowlyI saw the figure； and the line of frame below the figure； vanish； as
the valance moved down before it。
I am； constitutionally； anything but timid。 I have been on more than
one occasion in peril of my life； and have not lost my self…possession for
an instant； but when the conviction first settled on my mind that the bed…
top was really moving； was steadily and continuously sinking down upon
me； I looked up shuddering； helpless； panic…stricken； beneath the hideous
machinery for murder； which was advancing closer and closer to suffocate
me where I lay。
I looked up； motionless； speechless； breathless。 The candle； fully spent；
went out； but the moonlight still brightened the room。 Down and down；
without pausing and without sounding； came the bedtop； and still my
panic terror seemed to bind me faster and faster to the mattress on which I
laydown and down it sank； till the dusty odour from the lining of the
canopy came stealing into my nostrils。
At that final moment the instinct of self…preservation startled me out of
my trance； and I moved at last。 There was just room for me to roll myself
sideways off the bed。 As I dropped noiselessly to the floor； the edge of the
murderous canopy touched me on the shoulder。
Without stopping to draw my breath； without wiping the cold swe
