|
CHAPTER III While leading the way upstairs, she recommended that I should hide the candle, and not make a noise; for her master had an odd notion about the chamber she would put me in, and never let anybody lodge there willingly. I asked the reason. She did not know, she answered: she had only lived there a year or two; and they had so many queer goings on, she could not begin to be curious. Too stupefied to be curious myself, I fastened my door and glanced round for the bed. The whole furniture consisted of a chair, a clothes-press, and a large oak case, with squares cut out near the top resembling coach windows. Having approached this structure, I looked inside, and perceived it to be a singular sort of old-fashioned couch, very conveniently designed to obviate the necessity for every member of the family having a room to himself. In fact, it formed a little closet, and the ledge of a window, which it enclosed, served as a table. I slid back the panelled sides, got in with my light, pulled them together again, and felt secure against the vigilance of Heathcliff, and every one else. The ledge, where I placed my candle, had a few mildewed books piled up in one corner; and it was covered with writing scratched on the paint. This writing, however, was nothing but a name repeated in all kinds of characters, large and small—Catherine Earnshaw, here and there varied to Catherine Heathcliff, and then again to Catherine Linton. In vapid listlessness I leant my head against the window, and continued spelling over Catherine Earnshaw—Heathcliff—Linton, till my eyes closed; but they had not rested five minutes when a glare of white letters started from the dark, as vivid as spectres—the air swarmed with Catherines; and rousing myself to dispel the obtrusive name, I discovered my candle-wick reclining on one of the antique volumes, and perfuming the place with an odour of roasted calf-skin. I snuffed it off, and, very ill at ease under the influence of cold and lingering nausea, sat up and spread open the injured tome on my knee. It was a Testament, in lean type, and smelling dreadfully musty: a fly-leaf bore the inscription—“Catherine Earnshaw, her book,” and a date some quarter of a century back. I shut it, and took up another and another, till I had examined all. Catherine’s library was select, and its state of dilapidation proved it to have been well used, though not altogether for a legitimate purpose: scarcely one chapter had escaped a pen-and-ink commentary—at least the appearance of one—covering every morsel of blank that the printer had left. Some were detached sentences; other parts took the form of a regular diary, scrawled in an unformed, childish hand. At the top of an extra page (quite a treasure, probably, when first lighted on) I was greatly amused to behold an excellent caricature of my friend Joseph,—rudely, yet powerfully sketched. An immediate interest kindled within me for the unknown Catherine, and I began forthwith to decipher her faded hieroglyphics. “An awful Sunday,” commenced the paragraph beneath. “I wish my father were back again. Hindley is a detestable substitute—his conduct to Heathcliff is atrocious—H. and I are going to rebel—we took our initiatory step this evening. “All day had been flooding with rain; we could not go to church, so Joseph must needs get up a congregation in the garret; and, while Hindley and his wife basked downstairs before a comfortable fire—doing anything but reading their Bibles, I’ll answer for it—Heathcliff, myself, and the unhappy ploughboy were commanded to take our prayer-books, and mount: we were ranged in a row, on a sack of corn, groaning and shivering, and hoping that Joseph would shiver too, so that he might give us a short homily for his own sake. A vain idea! The service lasted precisely three hours; and yet my brother had the face to exclaim, when he saw us descending, ‘What, done already?’ On Sunday evenings we used to be permitted to play, if we did not make much noise; now a mere titter is sufficient to send us into corners. “‘You forget you have a master here,’ says the tyrant. ‘I’ll demolish the first who puts me out of temper! I insist on perfect sobriety and silence. Oh, boy! was that you? Frances darling, pull his hair as you go by: I heard him snap his fingers.’ Frances pulled his hair heartily, and then went and seated herself on her husband’s knee, and there they were, like two babies, kissing and talking nonsense by the hour—foolish palaver that we should be ashamed of. We made ourselves as snug as our means allowed in the arch of the dresser. I had just fastened our pinafores together, and hung them up for a curtain, when in comes Joseph, on an errand from the stables. He tears down my handiwork, boxes my ears, and croaks: “‘T’ maister nobbut just buried, and Sabbath not o’ered, und t’ sound o’ t’ gospel still i’ yer lugs, and ye darr be laiking! Shame on ye! sit ye down, ill childer! there’s good books eneugh if ye’ll read ’em: sit ye down, and think o’ yer sowls!’ “Saying this, he compelled us so to square our positions that we might receive from the far-off fire a dull ray to show us the text of the lumber he thrust upon us. I could not bear the employment. I took my dingy volume by the scroop, and hurled it into the dog-kennel, vowing I hated a good book. Heathcliff kicked his to the same place. Then there was a hubbub! “‘Maister Hindley!’ shouted our chaplain. ‘Maister, coom hither! Miss Cathy’s riven th’ back off “Th’ Helmet o’ Salvation,” un’ Heathcliff’s pawsed his fit into t’ first part o’ “T’ Brooad Way to Destruction!” It’s fair flaysome that ye let ’em go on this gait. Ech! th’ owd man wad ha’ laced ’em properly—but he’s goan!’ “Hindley hurried up from his paradise on the hearth, and seizing one of us by the collar, and the other by the arm, hurled both into the back-kitchen; where, Joseph asseverated, ‘owd Nick’ would fetch us as sure as we were living: and, so comforted, we each sought a separate nook to await his advent. I reached this book, and a pot of ink from a shelf, and pushed the house-door ajar to give me light, and I have got the time on with writing for twenty minutes; but my companion is impatient, and proposes that we should appropriate the dairywoman’s cloak, and have a scamper on the moors, under its shelter. A pleasant suggestion—and then, if the surly old man come in, he may believe his prophecy verified—we cannot be damper, or colder, in the rain than we are here.” * * * * * * I suppose Catherine fulfilled her project, for the next sentence took up another subject: she waxed lachrymose. “How little did I dream that Hindley would ever make me cry so!” she wrote. “My head aches, till I cannot keep it on the pillow; and still I can’t give over. Poor Heathcliff! Hindley calls him a vagabond, and won’t let him sit with us, nor eat with us any more; and, he says, he and I must not play together, and threatens to turn him out of the house if we break his orders. He has been blaming our father (how dared he?) for treating H. too liberally; and swears he will reduce him to his right place—” * * * * * * |
第3章 她带我上楼，嘱咐我睡觉时把蜡烛藏起来，不要发出响声；因为对即将把我安排住的那个房间，她的主人有个奇怪的想法，他从不乐意让任何人住在那里。我问及原因，她回答说不知道——她只在那儿住过一两年；后来发生了许多奇奇怪怪的事情，慢慢地她也就觉得不足为奇了。 我头晕脑胀得厉害，也就不好继续刨根究底追问下去了。我上好门闩，环顾四周看看床在什么地方。这里的全部家具包括一把椅子、一个衣橱和一只大橡木箱子，靠近箱盖的侧面挖了一些方孔，像是马车上的窗户。我走近这件家具往里面看，发现原来是一张样子奇特的老式睡床，设计得相当巧妙，可以省去家里每个人占一间房的必要。事实上，这个箱子构成了一个小套间，围在这个套间里面的窗台正好可以当桌子用。我朝后推开隔板，手举蜡烛走进去，再把隔板拉上，觉得这样可以防止黑思克里夫和其他人的监视，而且安全妥当。 我把蜡烛放在窗台上，窗台的一个角落堆着几本书，书已经发霉；窗台上有一些字迹刻在油漆之上。这些字迹只是以各种各样、大大小小的字母重复写着——Catherine Earnshaw（阚思睿•俄韶）一会儿变成Catherine Heathcliff（阚思睿•黑思克里夫），接着又变成Catherine Linton（阚思睿•林腾）。 我感觉索然无味、无精打采，头斜靠在窗台上，嘴里继续念叨着阚思睿•俄韶—黑思克里夫—林腾，直到合上双眼；但是眼睛合上刚休息不到五分钟，一道耀眼的白色字母从黑暗中出现，如同幽灵，栩栩如生——空气中充满了Catherine（阚思睿）；我起身想要赶走这个不知道从何处冒出来的名字，却发现烛芯已经倒下，烧到其中一本旧书，整个屋子里开始弥散着一股小牛皮烧焦的味道。我把烛火扑灭，寒冷和挥之不去的恶心向我袭来，我感觉浑身局促不安，于是我坐起身来，把那本烧坏的大部头书摊在我的双膝上。这是本《圣经》，白体活字印刷，闻起来实在是令人作呕——扉页上写的：“Catherine Earnshaw, her book”（阚思睿•俄韶之书）和一个大约二十五年前的日期。我合上书，抓起另一本，接着又抓起一本，直到把所有的书都抓了一遍。阚思睿的藏书精挑细选，书的破损程度可以证明这些书都已经看过好多遍，尽管这些书不一定完全都用到了正经地方——几乎每一章都难逃墨水笔书写的批语——至少看上去像是批语——布满了书页上印刷字留下的每一个空白处。有些只是互不关联的句子；有些可以算是一篇正式的日记，字迹潦草，字体尚未成型，看上去像是出自小孩子之手。书的空余页面（很可能第一眼看到会把它当作一件宝贝）上画着我的朋友周思福的绝妙漫画像，我大为高兴——画虽不精致，可是勾勒有力。对于这位素未谋面的阚思睿，我顿时来了兴致，于是我便开始辨认她那些已模糊不清的潦草文字。 “这个礼拜天真是糟糕，”底下的一段开头这样写道。“但愿爸爸还能再回来。亨得利真是个可恶的接班人——他对黑思克里夫的所作所为太残忍了——黑思克里夫和我准备反抗了——就在今晚我们要开始实施行动的第一步。 “一整天大雨滂沱；我们无法去教堂，周思福非要把大家聚集到阁楼中；亨得利夫妇在楼下舒舒服服烤着火——我可以打保票，他俩打死也不会去读《圣经》——而黑思克里夫、我和那个可怜的庄稼汉却被吆喝着手持祈祷书爬上楼——我们一字排开，坐在一袋麦子上，嘴里呻吟，浑身哆嗦。希望周思福也和我们一样打哆嗦，这样为了他自己也许他会给我们少讲点道。这真是个异想天开的念头！做礼拜持续了整整三个钟头。可是我哥哥看见我们下楼时，居然还有脸喊叫，‘什么，已经结束啦？’从前一到礼拜日晚上，只要我们不怎么吵闹，还可以获准玩一玩，现在哪怕我们只是偷偷一笑，就够得上罚我们站墙角啦！ “‘你们都忘了屋里还有我这么个当家人，’这个暴君说，‘哪耶先把我逗谯了，看我不把他废了！屋里要绝对保持肃静，不得有任何响动。啊，孩子！是你么？芙然希思，亲爱的，你走过来时揪揪他的头发，我听见他捏手指头响呢。’芙然希思痛快地揪揪孩子的头发，然后走过来坐在她丈夫膝盖上。他们就在那儿，像两个小孩似的，整整一个钟头又是亲嘴又是谝闲——那种无聊可笑的情话连我们听了都替他们感到害臊。我们尽可能舒服地呆在橱柜下面圆拱里面。我刚把我们的围嘴绑在一起，挂起来当作幕布，忽然周思福有差事从马号走进屋里来。他把我的杰作扯下来，给了我几记耳光，嗓子嘶哑着叫道：“‘老爷刚埋了没几天，安息日都还没过完，福音的声响还在你们耳朵里，你们竟然还在嬉耍胡闹！我真替你们害臊！坐下，你们这伙坏怂！善书有的是，只要你们肯看。坐下，好好想想你们的灵魂吧！’ “说完这番话，他强迫我们坐端正，这样我们或许能从远处炉火那边获得一束微弱的光线，好给我们看他硬甩给我们的那破烂玩意的文字。我受不了这份罪。我抓起我那本肮里肮脏的书嘎嘎作响，使劲把它扔到狗窝里，赌咒说我恨善书。黑思克里夫把他那本也扔到同一个地方，接下来是一场大闹。 “‘亨得利少爷！’我们这位牧师大叫道，‘少爷，你快过来啊！阚思瑞小姐把《救世盔》书皮撕下来啦，黑思克里夫用脚使劲踩《通向毁灭的大道》的第一部！你让他们这样闹下去可不得了。唉！要是老爷在世的话可要好好收拾他们一顿——可老爷现在已经不在啦！’ “亨得利从他的炉火乐园赶过来，抓住我俩，一个薅住脖领子，另一个揪住胳臂，把我俩丢到了后厨。周思福断言在那儿‘尼克老鬼’定会活捉我们。我们受到如此安抚后，便各自找个角落静等‘尼克老鬼’的降临。我伸手从书架上摸到了这本书和一瓶墨水，便把门推开一点，漏进点光亮，我写了二十分钟的字。可是我的同伴不耐烦了，他提议我们披上牛奶女工的外套，到旷野上奔跑。真是个不错的提议——那么，要是那个脾气乖戾的老家伙进来，他也会相信他的预言验证啦——我们的身体在雨里也不会比在这儿感到更湿更冷了。” * * * * * * 我猜想阚思睿实现了她的计划，因为下一句说的是另一件事，她伤心起来了。 “我做梦也很难想象亨得利会让我哭成这样！”她写道，“我头疼得都无法沾枕头，可是我还是止不住地哭。可怜的黑思克里夫！亨得利骂他是流浪汉，再也不许他跟我们坐在一起，吃在一起啦。而且他说，不许他和我一起玩，又吓唬说要是我们违反他的命令，就把黑思克里夫撵出去。还埋怨我们的父亲（他怎么敢埋怨呀？）待黑思克里夫太宽厚了，还发誓说要把黑思克里夫贬到他应有的地位去。” * * * * * * |
