the professor(教授)-第17章
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well： I’ll not stay a day longer in X— than I’m obliged。”
“Very good—but it will be decent to make due acknowledgment
for the assistance you have received； be quick！ It is just going to
strike seven： I’m waiting to be thanked。”
“Just stand out of the way； will you； Mr。 Hunsden： I want a key
there is on the corner of the mantelpiece。 I’ll pack my
portmanteau before I go to bed “
The house clock struck seven。
“The lad is a heathen；” said Hunsden； and taking his hat from a
sideboard； he left the room； laughing to himself。 I had half an
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inclination to follow him： I really intended to leave X— the next
morning； and should certainly not have another opportunity of
bidding him good…bye。 The front door banged to。
“Let him go；” said I； “we shall meet again some day。”
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Chapter VII
eader； perhaps you were never in Belgium？ Haply you
Rdon’t know the physiognomy of the country？ You have
not its lineaments defined upon your memory； as I have
them on mine？
Three—nay four—pictures line the four…walled cell where are
stored for me the records of the past。 First； Eton。 All in that
picture is in far perspective； receding； diminutive； but freshly
coloured； green； dewy； with a spring sky； piled with glittering yet
showery clouds； for my childhood was not all sunshine—it had its
overcast； its cold； its stormy hours。 Second； X—； huge； dingy； the
canvas cracked and smoked； a yellow sky； sooty clouds； no sun； no
azure； the verdure of the suburbs blighted and sullied—a very
dreary scene。
Third； Belgium； and I will pause before this landscape。 As to
the fourth； a curtain covers it； which I may hereafter withdraw； or
may not； as suits my convenience and capacity。 At any rate； for the
present it must hang undisturbed。 Belgium！ name unromantic and
unpoetic； yet name that whenever uttered has in my ear a sound；
in my heart an echo； such as no other assemblage of syllables；
however sweet or classic； can produce。 Belgium！ I repeat the
word； now as I sit alone near midnight。 It stirs my world of the
past like a summons to resurrection； the graves unclose； the dead
are raised； thoughts； feelings； memories that slept； are seen by me
ascending from the clods—haloed most of them—but while I gaze
on their vapoury forms； and strive to ascertain definitely their
outline； the sound which wakened them dies； and they sink； each
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and all； like a light wreath of mist； absorbed in the mould； recalled
to urns； resealed in monuments。 Farewell； luminous phantoms！
This is Belgium； reader。 Look！ don’t call the picture a flat or a
dull one—it was neither flat nor dull to me when I first beheld it。
When I left Ostend on a mild February morning； and found myself
on the road to Brussels； nothing could look vapid to me。 My sense
of enjoyment possessed an edge whetted to the finest； untouched；
keen； exquisite。 I was young； I had good health； pleasure and I had
never met； no indulgence of hers had enervated or sated one
faculty of my nature。 Liberty I clasped in my arms for the first
time； and the influence of her smile and embrace revived my life
like the sun and the west wind。 Yes； at that epoch I felt like a
morning traveller who doubts not that from the hill he is
ascending he shall behold a glorious sunrise； what if the track be
strait； steep； and stony？ he sees it not； his eyes are fixed on that
summit； flushed already； flushed and gilded； and having gained it
he is certain of the scene beyond。 He knows that the sun will face
him； that his chariot is even now coming over the eastern horizon；
and that the herald breeze he feels on his cheek is opening for the
god’s career a clear； vast path of azure； amidst clouds soft as pearl
and warm as flame。 Difficulty and toil were to be my lot； but
sustained by energy； drawn on by hopes as bright as vague； I
deemed such a lot no hardship。 I mounted now the hill in shade；
there were pebbles； inequalities； briars in my path； but my eyes
were fixed on the crimson peak above； my imagination was with
the refulgent firmament beyond； and I thought nothing of the
stones turning under my feet； or of the thorns scratching my face
and hands。
I gazed often； and always with delight； from the window of the
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diligence （these； be it remembered； were not the days of trains and
railroads）。 Well！ and what did I see？ I will tell you faithfully。
Green； reedy swamps； fields fertile but flat； cultivated in patches
that made them look like magnified kitchen…gardens； belts of cut
trees； formal as pollard willows； skirting the horizon； narrow
canals； gliding slow by the road…side； painted Flemish farmhouses；
some very dirty hovels； a grey； dead sky； wet road； wet fields； wet
house…tops： not a beautiful； scarcely a picturesque object met my
eye along the whole route； yet to me； all was beautiful； all was
more than picturesque。 It continued fair so long as daylight lasted；
though the moisture of many preceding damp days had sodden
the whole country； as it grew dark； however； the rain
recommenced； and it was through streaming and starless
darkness my eye caught the first gleam of the lights of Brussels。 I
saw little of the city but its lights that night。 Having alighted from
the diligence； a fiacre conveyed me to the Hotel de —； where I had
been advised by a fellow…traveller to put up； having eaten a
traveller’s supper； I retired to bed； and slept a traveller’s sleep。
Next morning I awoke from prolonged and sound repose with
the impression that I was yet in X—； and perceiving it to be broad
daylight I started up； imagining that I had overslept myself and
should be behind time at the counting…house。 The momentary and
painful sense of restraint vanished before the revived and reviving
consciousness of freedom； as； throwing back the white curtains of
my bed； I looked forth into a wide； lofty foreign chamber； how
different from the small and dingy； though not uncomfortable；
apartment I had occupied for a night or two at a respectable inn in
London while waiting for the sailing of the packet！ Yet far be it
from me to profane the memory of that little dingy room！ It； too； is
Charlotte Bronte
