51(y)(7)
用你喜欢的方式阅读你喜欢的小说
双城记英文版 - Part 3 Chapter XLV. THE FOOTSTEPS DIE OUT FOR EVER
繁体
恢复默认
返回目录【键盘操作】左右光标键:上下章节;回车键:目录;双击鼠标:停止/启动自动滚动;滚动时上下光标键调节滚动速度。
  A long the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow and harsh. Six tumbrils carry the day’s wine to La Guillotine. All the devouring and insatiate Monsters imagined since imagination could record itself, are fused in the one realisation, Guillotine. And yet there is not in France, with its rich variety of soil and climate, a blade, a leaf, a root, a sprig, a peppercorn, which will grow to maturity under conditions more certain than those that have produced this horror. Crush humanity out of shape once more, under similar hammers, and it will twist itself into the same tortured forms. Sow the same seed of rapacious license and oppression over again, and it will surely yield the same fruit according to its kind.Six tumbrils roll along the streets. Change these back again to what they were, thou powerful enchanter, Time, and they shall be seen to be the carriages of absolute monarchs, the equipages of feudal nobles, the toilettes of flaring Jezebels, the churches that are not my Father’s house but dens of thieves, the huts of millions of starving peasants! No; the great magician who majestically works out the appointed order of the Creator, never reverses his transformations. “If thou be changed into this shape by the will of God,” say the seers to the enchanted, in the wise Arabian stories, “then remain so! But, if thou wear this form through mere passing conjuration, then resume thy former aspect!” Changeless and hopeless, the tumbrils roll along.As the sombre wheels of the six carts go round, they seem to plough up a long crooked furrow among the populace in the streets. Ridges of faces are thrown to this side and to that, the ploughs go steadily onward. So used are the regular inhabitants of the houses to the spectacle, that in many windows there are no people, and in some occupation of the hands is not so much as suspended, while the eyes survey the faces in the tumbrils. Here and there, the inmate has visitors to see the sight; then he points his finger, with something of the complacency of a curator or authorised exponent, to this cart and to this, and seems to tell who sat here yesterday, and who there the day before.Of the riders in the tumbrils, some observe these things, and all things on their last roadside, with an impassive stare; others, with a lingering interest in the ways of life and men. Some, seated with drooping heads, are sunk in silent despair; again, there are some so heedful of their looks that they cast upon the multitude such glances as they have seen in theatres, and in pictures. Several close their eyes, and think, or try to get their straying thoughts together. Only one, and he a miserable creature, of a crazed aspect, is so shattered and made drunk by horror, that he sings, and tries to dance. Not one of the whole number appeals by look or gesture, to the pity of the people.There is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of the tumbrils, and faces are often turned up to some of them, and they are asked some question. It would seem to be always the same question, for it is always followed by a press of people towards the third cart. The horsemen abreast of that cart, frequently point out one man in it with their swords. The leading curiosity is, to know which is he; he stands at the back of the tumbril with his head bent down, to converse with a mere girI who sits on the side of the cart, and holds his hand. He has no curiosity or care for the scene about him, and always speaks to the girl. Here and there in the long street of St. Honore, cries are raised against him. If they move him at all, it is only to a quiet smile, as he shakes his hair a little more loosely about his face. He cannot easily touch his face, his arms being bound.On the steps of a church, awaiting the coming-up of the tumbrils, stands the Spy and prison-sheep. He looks into the first of them: not there. He looks into the second: not there. He already asks himself, “Has he sacrificed me?” when his face clears, as he looks into the third.“Which is Evremonde?” says a man behind him.“That. At the back there.”“With his hand in the girl’s?”“Yes.”The man cries, “Down, Evremonde! To the Guillotine all aristocrats! Down, Evremonde!”“Hush, hush!” the Spy entreats him, timidly.“And why not, citizen?”“He is going to pay the forfeit: it will be paid in five minutes more. Let him be at peace.”But the man continuing to exclaim, “Down, Evremonde!” the face of Evremonde is for a moment turned towards him. Evremonde then sees the Spy, and looks attentively at him, and goes his way.The clocks are on the stroke of three, and the furrow ploughed among the populace is turning round, to come on into the place of execution, and end. The ridges thrown to this side and to that, now crumble in and close behind the last plough as it passes on, for all are following to the Guillotine. In front of it, seated in chairs, as in a garden of public diversion, are a number of women, busily knitting. On one of the foremost chairs, stands The Vengeance, looking about for her friend.“Therese!” she cries, in her shrill tones. “Who has seen her? Therese Defarge!”“She never missed before,” says a knitting-woman of the sisterhood.“No; nor will she miss now,” cries The Vengeance petulantly. “Therese.”“Louder,” the woman recommends.Ay! Louder, Vengeance, much louder, and still she will scarcely hear thee. Louder yet, Vengeance, with a little oath or so added, and yet it will hardly bring her. Send other women up and down to seek her, lingering somewhere; and yet, although the messengers have done dread deeds, it is questionable whether of their own wills they will go far enough to find her!“Bad Fortune!” cries The Vengeance, stamping her foot in the chair, “and here are the tumbrils! And Evremonde will be dispatched in a wink, and she not here! See her knitting in my hand, and her empty chair ready for her. I cry with vexation and disappointment!”As The Vengeance descends from her elevation to do it, the tumbrils begin to discharge their loads. The ministers of Sainte Guillotine are robed and ready. Crash!—a head is held up, and the knitting-women, who scarcely lifted their eyes to look at it a moment ago when it could think and speak, count One.The second tumbril empties and moves on; the third comes up.Crash!—And the knitting-women, never faltering or pausing in their work, count Two.The supposed Evremonde descends, and the seamstress is lifted out next after him. He has not relinquished her patient hand in getting out, but still holds it as he promised. He gently places her with her back to the crashing engine that constantly whirrs up and falls, and she looks into his face and thanks him.“But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so composed, for I am naturally a poor little thing, faint of heart; nor should I have been able to raise my thoughts to Him who was put to death, that we might have hope and comfort here today. I think you were sent to me by Heaven.”“Or you to me,” says Sydney Carton. “Keep your eyes upon me, dear child, and mind no other object.”“I mind nothing while I hold your hand. I shall mind nothing when I let it go, if they are rapid.”“They will be rapid. Fear not!”The two stand in the fast-thinning throng of victims, but they speak as if they were alone. Eye to eye, voice to voice, hand to hand, heart to heart, these two children of the Universal Mother, else so wide apart and differing, have come together on the dark highway, to repair home together, and to rest in her bosom.“Brave and generous friend, will you let me ask you one last question? I am very ignorant, and it troubles me—just a little.”“Tell me what it is.”“I have a cousin, an only relative and an orphan, like myself, whom I love very dearly. She is five years younger than I, and she lives in a farmer’s house in the south country. Poverty parted us, and she knows nothing of my fate—for I cannot write—and if I could, how should I tell her! It is better as it is.”“Yes, yes, better as it is.”“What I have been thinking as we came along, and what I am still thinking now, as I look into your kind strong face which gives me so much support, is this:—If the Republic really does good to the poor, and they come to be less hungry, and in all ways to suffer less, she may live a long time: she may even live to be old.”“What then, my gentle sister?”“Do you think”; the uncomplaining eyes in which there is so much endurance, fill with tears, and the lips part a little more and tremble: “that it will seem long to me, while I wait for her in the better land where I trust both you and I will be mercifully sheltered?”“It cannot be, my child; there is no Time there, and no trouble there.”“You comfort me so much! I am so ignorant. Am I to kiss you now? Is the moment come?”“Yes.”She kisses his lips; he kisses hers; they solemnly bless each other. The spare hand does not tremble as he releases it; nothing worse than a sweet, bright constancy is in the patient face. She goes next before him—is gone; the knitting-women count Twenty- Two.“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die!”The murmuring of many voices, the upturning of many faces, the pressing on of many footsteps in the outskirts of the crowd, so that it swells forward in a mass, like one great heave of water, all flashes away. Twenty-Three.They said of him, about the city that night, that it was the peacefullest man’s face ever beheld there. Many added that he looked sublime and prophetic.One of the most remarkable sufferers by the same axe—a woman—had asked at the foot of the same scaffold, not long before, to be allowed to write down the thoughts that were inspiring her. If he had given any utterance to his, and they were prophetic, they would have been these:“I see Barsad, and Cly, Defarge, The Vengeance, the Jurymen, the Judge, long ranks of the new oppressors who have risen on the destruction of the old, perishing by this retributive instrument, before it shall cease out of its present use. I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people rising from this abyss, and, in their struggles to be truly free, in their triumphs and defeats, through long, long years to come, I see the evil of this time and of the previous time of which this is the natural birth, gradually making expiation for itself and wearing out.“I see the lives for which I lay down my life, peaceful, useful, prosperous and happy, in that England which I shall see no more. I see Her with a child upon her bosom, who bears my name. I see her father, aged and bent, but otherwise restored, and faithful to all men in his healing office, and at peace; I see the good old man, so long their friend, in ten years’ time enriching them with all he has, and passing tranquilly to his reward.“I see that I hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of their descendants, generations hence. I see her, an old woman, weeping for me on the anniversary of this day. I see her and her husband, their course done, lying side by side in their last earthly bed, and I know that each was not more honoured and held sacred in the other’s soul, than I was in the souls of both.“I see that child who lay upon her bosom and who bore my name, a man winning his way up in that path of life which once was mine. I see him winning it so well, that my name is made illustrious there by the light of his. I see the blots I threw upon it, faded away. I see him, foremost of just judges and honoured men, bringing a boy of my name, with a forehead that I know and golden hair, to this place—then fair to look upon, with not a trace of this day’s disfigurement—and I hear him tell the child my story, with a tender and a faltering voice.“It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known.”The End
或许您还会喜欢:
红龙
作者:佚名
章节:54 人气:0
摘要:1威尔·格雷厄姆让克劳福德坐在房子与海之间的野餐桌旁,然后递给他一杯冰茶。杰克·克劳福德看着这幢外表漂亮的老式房子。银白色的木料衬着明媚的阳光。“我真应该当你卸职的时候在玛若森就找到你,”杰克说,“你肯定不愿意在这儿谈这件事。”“这事我在哪儿都不愿意谈,杰克。既然你坚持要说,好,我们就来谈谈。 [点击阅读]
纯真年代
作者:佚名
章节:36 人气:0
摘要:作者:蒲隆美国文学批评家菲利普·拉赫夫把美国文学中典雅和粗犷这两种不同的流派形象地称为“苍白脸和红皮肤”。这两种流派不仅写作风格相异,而且题材也不同:“苍白脸”多写上流社会,“红皮肤”则多写下层民众。当然两派作家的家庭出身和社会经历也大相径庭。 [点击阅读]
纸牌屋
作者:佚名
章节:12 人气:0
摘要:世上没有永恒不变的事物。欢笑不长久,欲望不长久,生命本身,也总会走到尽头。这真是至理名言。所以,人生在世,最要紧的就是及时行乐,活在当下,把手中的东西紧紧抓住。为什么要虚度一生去换取入土之后碑头的空文呢?“永存我心”,什么样的蠢蛋才会希望自己的坟头铭刻这样一句空话?这不过是无病呻吟的多愁和伤感,毫无意义。我们还是面对现实吧,人生就是一场零和博弈,输赢高下都在政坛见分晓。 [点击阅读]
纽约老大
作者:佚名
章节:19 人气:0
摘要:1991年6月13日,好莱坞。凌晨,加利福尼亚美联社分部一派兵荒马乱。五分钟之前,路透社抢先向全球公布了齐亚托联通公司的最新消息。这一次,英国人灵敏的鼻子终于甚至比美国人更早嗅到了大西洋的腥味。齐亚托联通公司正在制做本世纪耗资最大的色情片,主要外景地选择在沙漠中,也就是拍摄《宾虚传》和《阿拉伯的劳伦斯》用过的场景,其中一处搭设了1000余人在上面翻滚的大台子。 [点击阅读]
绞刑架下的报告
作者:佚名
章节:14 人气:0
摘要:一代英雄,惨遭杀害,但他们是一座座高大雄伟的雕像,矗立在大地上,鲜花环绕,阳光沐浴,人们把最崇敬的感情献上。一伙魑魅魍魉,蝇营狗苟,虽生犹死,都是些朽木雕成的木偶,人们投之以冷眼、蔑视与嘲笑。捷克民族英雄伏契克在他举世闻名的《绞刑架下的报告》(以下简称《报告》)这部不朽的作品里,深刻地揭示了人的伟大与渺歇—雕像与木偶的根本区别。 [点击阅读]
绿里奇迹
作者:佚名
章节:59 人气:0
摘要:这件事发生在1932年,当时的州立监狱还在冷山。当然了,还有电椅。狱中囚犯常拿电椅开玩笑,对令人恐惧却又摆脱不掉的东西,大家总喜欢如此地取笑一番。他们管它叫“电伙计”,或者叫“大榨汁机”。大伙谈论电费单,谈论那年秋天监狱长穆尔斯不得不自己做感恩节晚餐,因为他妻子梅琳达病得没法做饭了。不过,对于那些真得要坐到电椅上的人,这些玩笑很快就不合时宜了。 [点击阅读]
罗亭
作者:佚名
章节:13 人气:0
摘要:那是个静谧的夏天早晨。太阳已经高悬在明净的天空,可是田野里还闪烁着露珠。苏醒不久的山谷散发出阵阵清新的幽香。那片依然弥漫着潮气,尚未喧闹起来的树林里,只有赶早的小鸟在欢快地歌唱。缓缓倾斜的山坡上,自上到下长满了刚扬花的黑麦。山顶上,远远可以望见一座小小的村落。一位身穿白色薄纱连衣裙,头戴圆形草帽,手拿阳伞的少妇,正沿着狭窄的乡间小道向那座村庄走去。一名小厮远远跟在她后面。 [点击阅读]
罗杰·艾克罗伊德谋杀案
作者:佚名
章节:27 人气:0
摘要:谢泼德医生在早餐桌上弗拉尔斯太太于16日晚(星期四)离世而去。17日(星期五)早晨八点就有人来请我去。我也帮不了什么忙,因为她已死了好几个小时了。九点过几分我就回到了家。我取出钥匙打开了前门,故意在大厅里磨蹭了一会,不慌不忙地把帽子和风衣挂好,这些都是我用来抵御初秋晨寒的东西。说老实话,我当时的心情非常沮丧忧愁。我并不想装模作样地认为,我能够预料今后几周将要发生的事。 [点击阅读]
罗杰疑案
作者:佚名
章节:27 人气:0
摘要:弗拉尔斯太太于16日晚(星期四)离世而去。17日(星期五)早晨八点就有人来请我去。我也帮不了什么忙,因为她已死了好几个小时了。九点过几分我就回到了家。我取出钥匙打开了前门,故意在大厅里磨蹭了一会,不慌不忙地把帽子和风衣挂好,这些都是我用来抵御初秋晨寒的东西。说老实话,我当时的心情非常沮丧忧愁。我并不想装模作样地认为,我能够预料今后几周将要发生的事。 [点击阅读]
罪与罚
作者:佚名
章节:50 人气:0
摘要:在彼得堡贫民区一家公寓的五层楼斗室里,住着一个穷大学生拉斯柯尔尼科夫。他正在经历着一场痛苦而激烈的思想斗争——他要确定自己是属于可以为所欲为的不平凡的人,还是只配做不平凡的人的工具的普通人。他原在法律系就学,因交不起学费而被迫辍学,现在靠母亲和妹妹从拮据的生活费中节省下来的钱维持生活。他已经很久没有交房租了。近来,房东太太不仅停止供给他伙食,而且催租甚紧。这时他遇见了小公务员马尔美拉陀夫。 [点击阅读]