to be read at dusk-第1节

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To　be　Read　at　Dusk



by　Charles　Dickens












One；　two；　three；　four；　five。　　There　were　five　of　them。



Five　couriers；　sitting　on　a　bench　outside　the　convent　on　the　summit

of　the　Great　St。　Bernard　in　Switzerland；　looking　at　the　remote

heights；　stained　by　the　setting　sun　as　if　a　mighty　quantity　of　red

wine　had　been　broached　upon　the　mountain　top；　and　had　not　yet　had

time　to　sink　into　the　snow。



This　is　not　my　simile。　　It　was　made　for　the　occasion　by　the

stoutest　courier；　who　was　a　German。　　None　of　the　others　took　any

more　notice　of　it　than　they　took　of　me；　sitting　on　another　bench　on

the　other　side　of　the　convent　door；　smoking　my　cigar；　like　them；

and　…　also　like　them　…　looking　at　the　reddened　snow；　and　at　the

lonely　shed　hard　by；　where　the　bodies　of　belated　travellers；　dug

out　of　it；　slowly　wither　away；　knowing　no　corruption　in　that　cold

region。



The　wine　upon　the　mountain　top　soaked　in　as　we　looked；　the　mountain

became　white；　the　sky；　a　very　dark　blue；　the　wind　rose；　and　the　air

turned　piercing　cold。　　The　five　couriers　buttoned　their　rough

coats。　　There　being　no　safer　man　to　imitate　in　all　such　proceedings

than　a　courier；　I　buttoned　mine。



The　mountain　in　the　sunset　had　stopped　the　five　couriers　in　a

conversation。　　It　is　a　sublime　sight；　likely　to　stop　conversation。

The　mountain　being　now　out　of　the　sunset；　they　resumed。　　Not　that　I

had　heard　any　part　of　their　previous　discourse；　for　indeed；　I　had

not　then　broken　away　from　the　American　gentleman；　in　the

travellers'　parlour　of　the　convent；　who；　sitting　with　his　face　to

the　fire；　had　undertaken　to　realise　to　me　the　whole　progress　of

events　which　had　led　to　the　accumulation　by　the　Honourable　Ananias

Dodger　of　one　of　the　largest　acquisitions　of　dollars　ever　made　in

our　country。



'My　God！'　said　the　Swiss　courier；　speaking　in　French；　which　I　do

not　hold　（as　some　authors　appear　to　do）　to　be　such　an　all…

sufficient　excuse　for　a　naughty　word；　that　I　have　only　to　write　it

in　that　language　to　make　it　innocent；　'if　you　talk　of　ghosts　…　'



'But　I　DON'T　talk　of　ghosts；'　said　the　German。



'Of　what　then？'　asked　the　Swiss。



'If　I　knew　of　what　then；'　said　the　German；　'I　should　probably　know

a　great　deal　more。'



It　was　a　good　answer；　I　thought；　and　it　made　me　curious。　　So；　I

moved　my　position　to　that　corner　of　my　bench　which　was　nearest　to

them；　and　leaning　my　back　against　the　convent　wall；　heard

perfectly；　without　appearing　to　attend。



'Thunder　and　lightning！'　said　the　German；　warming；　'when　a　certain

man　is　coming　to　see　you；　unexpectedly；　and；　without　his　own

knowledge；　sends　some　invisible　messenger；　to　put　the　idea　of　him

into　your　head　all　day；　what　do　you　call　that？　　When　you　walk　along

a　crowded　street　…　at　Frankfort；　Milan；　London；　Paris　…　and　think

that　a　passing　stranger　is　like　your　friend　Heinrich；　and　then　that

another　passing　stranger　is　like　your　friend　Heinrich；　and　so　begin

to　have　a　strange　foreknowledge　that　presently　you'll　meet　your

friend　Heinrich　…　which　you　do；　though　you　believed　him　at　Trieste

…　what　do　you　call　THAT？'



'It's　not　uncommon；　either；'　murmured　the　Swiss　and　the　other

three。



'Uncommon！'　said　the　German。　　'It's　as　common　as　cherries　in　the

Black　Forest。　　It's　as　common　as　maccaroni　at　Naples。　　And　Naples

reminds　me！　　When　the　old　Marchesa　Senzanima　shrieks　at　a　card…

party　on　the　Chiaja　…　as　I　heard　and　saw　her；　for　it　happened　in　a

Bavarian　family　of　mine；　and　I　was　overlooking　the　service　that

evening　…　I　say；　when　the　old　Marchesa　starts　up　at　the　card…table；

white　through　her　rouge；　and　cries；　〃My　sister　in　Spain　is　dead！　　I

felt　her　cold　touch　on　my　back！〃　…　and　when　that　sister　IS　dead　at

the　moment　…　what　do　you　call　that？'



'Or　when　the　blood　of　San　Gennaro　liquefies　at　the　request　of　the

clergy　…　as　all　the　world　knows　that　it　does　regularly　once　a…year；

in　my　native　city；'　said　the　Neapolitan　courier　after　a　pause；　with

a　comical　look；　'what　do　you　call　that？'



'THAT！'　cried　the　German。　　'Well；　I　think　I　know　a　name　for　that。'



'Miracle？'　said　the　Neapolitan；　with　the　same　sly　face。



The　German　merely　smoked　and　laughed；　and　they　all　smoked　and

laughed。



'Bah！'　said　the　German；　presently。　　'I　speak　of　things　that　really

do　happen。　　When　I　want　to　see　the　conjurer；　I　pay　to　see　a

professed　one；　and　have　my　money's　worth。　　Very　strange　things　do

happen　without　ghosts。　　Ghosts！　　Giovanni　Baptista；　tell　your　story

of　the　English　bride。　　There's　no　ghost　in　that；　but　something　full

as　strange。　　Will　any　man　tell　me　what？'



As　there　was　a　silence　among　them；　I　glanced　around。　　He　whom　I

took　to　be　Baptista　was　lighting　a　fresh　cigar。　　He　presently　went

on　to　speak。　　He　was　a　Genoese；　as　I　judged。



'The　story　of　the　English　bride？'　said　he。　　'Basta！　one　ought　not

to　call　so　slight　a　thing　a　story。　　Well；　it's　all　one。　　But　it's

true。　　Observe　me　well；　gentlemen；　it's　true。　　That　which　glitters

is　not　always　gold；　but　what　I　am　going　to　tell；　is　true。'



He　repeated　this　more　than　once。





Ten　years　ago；　I　took　my　credentials　to　an　English　gentleman　at

Long's　Hotel；　in　Bond　Street；　London；　who　was　about　to　travel　…　it

might　be　for　one　year；　it　might　be　for　two。　　He　approved　of　them；

likewise　of　me。　　He　was　pleased　to　make　inquiry。　　The　testimony

that　he　received　was　favourable。　　He　engaged　me　by　the　six　months；

and　my　entertainment　was　generous。



He　was　young；　handsome；　very　happy。　　He　was　enamoured　of　a　fair

young　English　lady；　with　a　sufficient　fortune；　and　they　were　going

to　be　married。　　It　was　the　wedding…trip；　in　short；　that　we　were

going　to　take。　　For　three　months'　rest　in　the　hot　weather　（it　was

early　summer　then）　he　had　hired　an　old　place　on　the　Riviera；　at　an

easy　distance　from　my　city；　Genoa；　on　the　road　to　Nice。　　Did　I　know

that　place？　　Yes；　I　told　him　I　knew　it　well。　　It　was　an　old　palace

with　great　gardens。　　It　was　a　little　bare；　and　it　was　a　little　dark

and　gloomy；　being　close　surrounded　by　trees；　but　it　was　spacious；

ancient；　grand；　and　on　the　seashore。　　He　said　it　had　been　so

described　to　him　exactly；　and　he　was　well　pleased　that　I　knew　it。

For　its　being　a　little　bare　of　furniture；　all　such　places　were。

For　its　being　a　little　gloomy；　he　had　hired　it　principally　for　the

gardens；　and　he　and　my　mistress　would　pass　the　summer　weather　in

their　shade。



'So　all　goes　well；　Baptista？'　said　he。



'Indubitably；　signore；　very　well。'



We　had　a　travelling　chariot　for　our　journey；　newly　built　for　us；

and　in　all　respects　complete。　　All　we　had　was　complete；　we　wanted

for　nothing。　　The　marriage　took　place。　　They　were　happy。　　I　was

happy；　seeing　all　so　bright；　being　so　well　situated；　going　to　my

own　city；　teaching　my　language　in　the　rumble　to　the　maid；　la　bella

Carolina；　whose　heart　was　gay　with　laughter：　　who　was　young　and

rosy。



The　time　flew。　　But　I　observed　…　listen　to　this；　I　pray！　（and　here

the　courier　dropped　his　voice）　…　I　observed　my　mistress　sometimes

brooding　in　a　manner　very　strange；　in　a　frightened　manner；　in　an

unhappy　manner；　with　a　cloudy；　uncertain　alarm　upon　her。　　I　think

that　I　began　to　notice　this　when　I　was　walking　up　hills　by　the

carriage　side；　and　master　had　gone　on　in　front。　　At　any　rate；　I

remember　that　it　impressed　itself　upon　my　mind　one　evening　in　the

South　of　France；　when　she　called　to　me　to　call　master　back；　and

when　he　came　back；　and　walked　for　a　long　way；　talking　encouragingly

and　affectionately　to　her；　with　his　hand　upon　the　open　window；　and

hers　in　it。　　Now　and　then；　he　laughed　in　a　merry　way；　as　if　he　were

bantering　her　out　of　something。　　By…and…by；　she　laughed；　and　then

all　went　well　again。



It　was　curious。　　I　asked　la　bella　Carolina；　the　pretty　little　one；

Was　mistress　unwell？　…　No。　…　Out　of　spirits？　…　No。　…　Fearful　of　bad

roads；　or　brigands？　…　No。　　And　what　made　it　more　mysterious　was；

the　pretty　little　one　would　not　look　at　me　in　giving　answer；　but

WOULD　look　at　the　view。



But；　one　day　she　told　me　the　secret。



'If　you　must　know；'　said　Carolina；　'I　find；　from　what　I　have

overheard；　that　mistress　is　haunted。'



'How　haunted？'



'By　a　dream。'



'What　dream？'



'By　a　dream　of　a　face。　　For　three　nights　before　her　marriage；　she

saw　a　face　in　a　dream　…　always　the　same　face；　and　only　One。'



'A　terrible　face？'



'No。　　The　face　of　a　dark；　remarkable…looking　man；　in　black；　with

black　hair　and　a　grey　moustache　…　a　handsome　man　except　for　a

reserved　and　secret　air。　　Not　a　face　she　ever　saw；　or　at　all　like　a

face　she　ever　saw。　　Doing　nothing　in　the　dream　but　looking　at　her

fixedly；　out　of　darkness。'



'Does　the　dream　come　back？'



'Never。　　The　recollection　of　it　is　all　her　trouble。'



'And　why　does　it　trouble　her？'



Carolina　shook　her　head。



'That's　master's　question；'　said　la　bella。　　'She　don't　know。　　She

wonders　why；　herself。　　But　I　heard　her　tell　him；　only　la