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I began to nod drowsily over the dim page: my eye wandered from manuscript to print. I saw a red ornamented title—“Seventy Times Seven, and the First of the Seventy-First. A Pious Discourse delivered by the Reverend Jabez Branderham, in the Chapel of Gimmerden Sough.” And while I was, half-consciously, worrying my brain to guess what Jabez Branderham would make of his subject, I sank back in bed, and fell asleep. Alas, for the effects of bad tea and bad temper! What else could it be that made me pass such a terrible night? I don’t remember another that I can at all compare with it since I was capable of suffering. I began to dream, almost before I ceased to be sensible of my locality. I thought it was morning; and I had set out on my way home, with Joseph for a guide. The snow lay yards deep in our road; and, as we floundered on, my companion wearied me with constant reproaches that I had not brought a pilgrim’s staff: telling me that I could never get into the house without one, and boastfully flourishing a heavy-headed cudgel, which I understood to be so denominated. For a moment I considered it absurd that I should need such a weapon to gain admittance into my own residence. Then a new idea flashed across me. I was not going there: we were journeying to hear the famous Jabez Branderham preach, from the text—“Seventy Times Seven;” and either Joseph, the preacher, or I had committed the “First of the Seventy-First,” and were to be publicly exposed and excommunicated. We came to the chapel. I have passed it really in my walks, twice or thrice; it lies in a hollow, between two hills: an elevated hollow, near a swamp, whose peaty moisture is said to answer all the purposes of embalming on the few corpses deposited there. The roof has been kept whole hitherto; but as the clergyman’s stipend is only twenty pounds per annum, and a house with two rooms, threatening speedily to determine into one, no clergyman will undertake the duties of pastor: especially as it is currently reported that his flock would rather let him starve than increase the living by one penny from their own pockets. However, in my dream, Jabez had a full and attentive congregation; and he preached—good God! what a sermon; divided into four hundred and ninety parts, each fully equal to an ordinary address from the pulpit, and each discussing a separate sin! Where he searched for them, I cannot tell. He had his private manner of interpreting the phrase, and it seemed necessary the brother should sin different sins on every occasion. They were of the most curious character: odd transgressions that I never imagined previously. Oh, how weary I grew. How I writhed, and yawned, and nodded, and revived! How I pinched and pricked myself, and rubbed my eyes, and stood up, and sat down again, and nudged Joseph to inform me if he would ever have done. I was condemned to hear all out: finally, he reached the “First of the Seventy-First.” At that crisis, a sudden inspiration descended on me; I was moved to rise and denounce Jabez Branderham as the sinner of the sin that no Christian need pardon. “Sir,” I exclaimed, “sitting here within these four walls, at one stretch, I have endured and forgiven the four hundred and ninety heads of your discourse. Seventy times seven times have I plucked up my hat and been about to depart—Seventy times seven times have you preposterously forced me to resume my seat. The four hundred and ninety-first is too much. Fellow-martyrs, have at him! Drag him down, and crush him to atoms, that the place which knows him may know him no more!” “Thou art the Man!” cried Jabez, after a solemn pause, leaning over his cushion. “Seventy times seven times didst thou gapingly contort thy visage—seventy times seven did I take counsel with my soul—Lo, this is human weakness: this also may be absolved! The First of the Seventy-First is come. Brethren, execute upon him the judgment written. Such honour have all His saints!” With that concluding word, the whole assembly, exalting their pilgrim’s staves, rushed round me in a body; and I, having no weapon to raise in self-defence, commenced grappling with Joseph, my nearest and most ferocious assailant, for his. In the confluence of the multitude, several clubs crossed; blows, aimed at me, fell on other sconces. Presently the whole chapel resounded with rappings and counter rappings: every man’s hand was against his neighbour; and Branderham, unwilling to remain idle, poured forth his zeal in a shower of loud taps on the boards of the pulpit, which responded so smartly that, at last, to my unspeakable relief, they woke me. And what was it that had suggested the tremendous tumult? What had played Jabez’s part in the row? Merely the branch of a fir-tree that touched my lattice as the blast wailed by, and rattled its dry cones against the panes! I listened doubtingly an instant; detected the disturber, then turned and dozed, and dreamt again: if possible, still more disagreeably than before. This time, I remembered I was lying in the oak closet, and I heard distinctly the gusty wind, and the driving of the snow; I heard, also, the fir bough repeat its teasing sound, and ascribed it to the right cause: but it annoyed me so much, that I resolved to silence it, if possible; and, I thought, I rose and endeavoured to unhasp the casement. The hook was soldered into the staple: a circumstance observed by me when awake, but forgotten. “I must stop it, nevertheless!” I muttered, knocking my knuckles through the glass, and stretching an arm out to seize the importunate branch; instead of which, my fingers closed on the fingers of a little, ice-cold hand! The intense horror of nightmare came over me: I tried to draw back my arm, but the hand clung to it, and a most melancholy voice sobbed, “Let me in—let me in!” “Who are you?” I asked, struggling, meanwhile, to disengage myself. “Catherine Linton,” it replied, shiveringly (why did I think of Linton? I had read Earnshaw twenty times for Linton)—“I’m come home: I’d lost my way on the moor!” As it spoke, I discerned, obscurely, a child’s face looking through the window. Terror made me cruel; and, finding it useless to attempt shaking the creature off, I pulled its wrist on to the broken pane, and rubbed it to and fro till the blood ran down and soaked the bedclothes: still it wailed, “Let me in!” and maintained its tenacious gripe, almost maddening me with fear. “How can I!” I said at length. “Let me go, if you want me to let you in!” The fingers relaxed, I snatched mine through the hole, hurriedly piled the books up in a pyramid against it, and stopped my ears to exclude the lamentable prayer. I seemed to keep them closed above a quarter of an hour; yet, the instant I listened again, there was the doleful cry moaning on! “Begone!” I shouted. “I’ll never let you in, not if you beg for twenty years.” “It is twenty years,” mourned the voice: “twenty years. I’ve been a waif for twenty years!” Thereat began a feeble scratching outside, and the pile of books moved as if thrust forward. I tried to jump up; but could not stir a limb; and so yelled aloud, in a frenzy of fright. To my confusion, I discovered the yell was not ideal: hasty footsteps approached my chamber door; somebody pushed it open, with a vigorous hand, and a light glimmered through the squares at the top of the bed. I sat shuddering, yet, and wiping the perspiration from my forehead: the intruder appeared to hesitate, and muttered to himself. At last, he said, in a half-whisper, plainly not expecting an answer, “Is any one here?” I considered it best to confess my presence; for I knew Heathcliff’s accents, and feared he might search further, if I kept quiet. |
看着这字迹模糊的书页，我开始打起盹来，眼睛从手稿游走到了印刷文字上。我看见一个红色花字标题——“七十乘七，与第七十一的第一条。詹伯兹•布然德罕牧师在真默登艘教堂宣讲的一篇虔诚文章。”正在我神志不清、绞尽脑汁猜想詹伯兹•布然德罕牧师将如何书写他这篇文章的时候，我身子往后一仰，倒在床上睡着了。嗨，这都是劣等茶和坏脾气的后果啊！还能有什么可以让我度过这可怕的夜晚呢？自从我学会吃苦以来，我实在想不起哪一次能和这一夜相比。 我开始做梦了，几乎在我还没忘记自己目前所处的位置时梦就开始了。我觉得天亮了，我已经走在回家的路上，前面有周思福带路。路上的雪有好几米厚。我们在雪地里扑腾着向前走，我的同伴嘴里骂骂咧咧个不停，惹得我心烦意乱。他骂我为啥不带一根朝圣者拐杖，告诉我不带拐杖就永远也进不了家，还得意地舞动着一根大头棍棒，我这才明白这就是他所说的朝圣者拐杖。当时我觉得回个家还需要这么个武器，未免有些荒唐。接着我的头脑中闪过一个新念头。我并不是回家，我们是在长途跋涉去听那个有名的詹伯兹•布然德罕布道——从“七十乘七”的经文讲起，而周思福、牧师和我其中有一位如果犯了这“第七十一章的第一条”，就要被当众揭发，并且被教会开除。 我们来到了教堂。我平时散步时，还真地到那儿走过两三回。教堂位于两山之间的峡谷中——峡谷高出地面，靠近一片沼泽，据说沼泽泥炭的湿气对存放在那儿的几具死尸足可以起到防腐作用。房顶至今保存完好，但是当地教师的收入每年只有二十英镑，外带一座有两间房的屋子，而且眼看恐怕就要决定只给一间了，所以没有一个教士愿意担当“牧羊人”的责任，特别是当前据说他的“羊群”宁可把“牧羊人”饿死，也不愿从他们自己腰包里多掏出一个子儿来养活他。但是在我的梦里，詹伯兹的听众不仅坐满会堂，而且专心致志地在听他讲经说道。他开始布道了——好我的那个天啊！这是一篇什么样的布道啊，共分为四百九十节，每一节完全等同一篇普通的布道，每一节分别讨论一种罪过！我都不知道他是从哪儿搜罗出来那些罪过。他讲解辞句有其独到的秘密方式，仿佛教友时刻都会犯种种不同的罪过。这些罪过的性质极其古怪——我以前从没想象过这些古怪离奇的罪过。 啊，我心里太烦啦！我翻动身子、打呵欠、点着头、又醒过来！我连掐带扎自己、揉眼睛、站起来、又坐下，而且用胳膊肘怼周思福，要他告诉我有没有讲完的时候。我是注定要听完的了。最后，他讲到“第七十一章的第一条”。正在这个危机当口，好像有神灵降临到我身上，我不由自主地站起身来，痛责詹伯兹•布然德罕是个罪人，任何基督徒都无法饶恕他所犯的罪。 “先生，”我叫道，“我坐在这四堵墙中间，对你这篇说教的四百九十个题目，我已经一口气儿忍受而且表示谅解。有七十个七次我拿起我的帽子，打算离开。——有七十个七次你硬逼着我又坐下。这第四百九十一可真叫人够受的。信教的难友们，揍他呀！把他拉下来，把他捣成碎蛋，在知道有他这么个人的这个地方，从此让人再也看不到他！” “你就是个罪人！”一阵庄严的静默之后，詹伯兹从他的座垫上欠身大叫。“七十个七次你张大嘴作怪相——七十个七次我和我的灵魂商量着——看啊，这就是人类的弱点，这也可以赦免！第七十一章的第一条来啦。弟兄们，请在他身上执行写好的审判词吧。祂所有的圣徒有这种光荣的权力！” 话音刚落，全体会众举起他们的朝圣者拐杖，一起向我冲来。我没有武器自卫反抗，便开始扭住周思福，他是离我最近也是最凶猛的行凶者，我抢他的手杖。在人潮汇集之中，好多根棍子交叉起来，朝着我而来的打击却落在别人的脑袋上。整个教堂立刻乒乒乓乓响成一片。每个人都对他旁边的人动起手来。而布然德罕也不甘袖手旁观，对着讲坛板壁一阵子使劲猛敲，好发泄他内心的狂热，声音很响亮，最后竟把我从梦中惊醒，我有说不出来的轻松。到底是什么令人联想到那剧烈的骚乱？在这场吵闹中是谁扮演了詹伯兹的角色？只不过是狂风呜咽经过时，一棵冷杉树枝打到我住的房间窗格，冷杉树的干果球在窗面玻璃上碰得嘎嘎作响而已！我满腹狐疑地倾听了一会儿——弄清搅得我无法睡安稳觉的就是那个干果球，然后翻身又睡了，我又开始做梦了——如果我有可能做梦的话，这梦应该比先前的那个更令人不愉快。 这回我记得躺在了那个橡木套间里，清清楚楚地听见狂风搅着雪花；同时我也听见那冷杉树枝重复着它挑逗的声音，而且我也知道这声音的根由。可是那声音听起来实在令我心烦，于是我决定止住那声音，如果有可能止住的话。我感觉我的身体起来了，并且努力想弄开那扇窗户。窗钩焊在钩环里——我清醒时注意到这种情况，但是又忘记了。“不管怎样，我非得把这声音止住！”我喃喃地说着，用拳头指关节打穿了窗玻璃，伸出一只胳臂去抓那根纠缠不休的树枝。我的手指没抓到那根树枝，却抓到了一只冰凉小手的手指头！噩梦般的强烈恐怖把我压倒，我极力把胳臂往回抽去，可是那只手却缠着不放，一个极忧郁的声音抽泣着：“让我进去——让我进去！”“你是谁？”我问道，同时拼命想把手挣脱。“阚思睿•林腾，”那声音颤抖着答道（我为什么会想到林腾？我每念到林腾时都会念成俄韶，有二十遍之多）。——“我回家来啦，我在旷野上迷路啦！”这个声音说着，我模模糊糊地辨认出一张小孩的脸向窗里张望。恐怖使我狠下了心，发现要想甩掉这个小家伙无济于事，我就把她的手腕拽到那个破窗玻璃上，前后来回摩擦，直到鲜血滴下来，浸透了床单。可她还是哀哭着，“让我进去！”而且还是紧抓住我不放，简直要把我吓疯了。“我怎样才能做到呢？”我终于说。“如果你想要我让你进来，请先放开我！”手指松开了。我把自己的手从窗洞中抽回，赶忙把书堆得向金字塔一样抵住窗洞，捂住耳朵不听那伤心的哀求，我觉得捂了有一刻钟以上。可是等到我再听，那凄惨的哀号声继续叫着！“走开！”我喊着，“就是你求我二十年，我也绝不让你进来。”“已经二十年啦，”这声音呜咽着说，“二十年啦。我已经流浪二十年啦！” 接着窗外传出一阵微弱的刮擦声，那堆书也挪动了，仿佛有人推开似的。我想跳起来，可是四肢动弹不得，于是惊恐地大声喊叫。令我感到困惑的是我发现这声喊叫并非虚幻——一阵急促的脚步声走近我的卧房门口。有人用一只强有力的手使劲把门推开，一道光从床顶的方洞外微微照进来。我坐着浑身哆嗦，用手擦着额上的汗——闯进来的人好像迟疑了一下，自言自语咕噜着。最后他压低声音小声说：“这儿有人吗？”显然并不期望有人答话。我想最好还是承认我在这儿吧，因为我听出是黑思克里夫的口音，唯恐如果我保持沉默，他还会进一步搜查。 |
