狄更斯双语小说:《董贝父子》第41章Part7

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'And what he said - what's-his-name
I never could remember names - Major - that dreadful word
when we came away - it's not true? Edith!' with a shriek and a stare
'it's not that that is the matter with me.'
Night after night
the lights burn in the window
and the figure lies upon the bed
and Edith sits beside it
and the restless waves are calling to them both the whole night long. Night after night
the waves are hoarse with repetition of their mystery; the dust lies piled upon the shore; the sea-birds soar and hover; the winds and clouds are on their trackless flight; the white arms beckon
in the moonlight
to the invisible country far away.
And still the sick old woman looks into the corner
where the stone arm - part of a figure of some tomb
she says - is raised to strike her. At last it falls; and then a dumb old woman lies upon the the bed
and she is crooked and shrunk up
and half of her is dead.
Such is the figure
painted and patched for the sun to mock
that is drawn slowly through the crowd from day to day; looking
as it goes
for the good old creature who was such a mother
and making mouths as it peers among the crowd in vain. Such is the figure that is often wheeled down to the margin of the sea
and stationed there; but on which no wind can blow freshness
and for which the murmur of the ocean has no soothing word. She lies and listens to it by the hour; but its speech is dark and gloomy to her
and a dread is on her face
and when her eyes wander over the expanse
they see but a broad stretch of desolation beeen earth and heaven.
Florence she seldom sees
and when she does
is angry with and mows at. Edith is beside her always
and keeps Florence away; and Florence
in her bed at night
trembles at the thought of death in such a shape
and often wakes and listens
thinking it has e. No one attends on her but Edith. It is better that few eyes should see her; and her daughter watches alone by the bedside.
A shadow even on that shadowed face
a sharpening even of the sharpened features
and a thickening of the veil before the eyes into a pall that shuts out the dim world
is e. Her wandering hands upon the coverlet join feebly palm to palm
and move towards her daughter; and a voice not like hers
not like any voice that speaks our mortal language - says
'For I nursed you!'
Edith
without a tear
kneels down to bring her voice closer to the sinking head
and answers:
'Mother
can you hear me?'