Chapter 5 Chapter 3 Dark Shadows at Night

Every human being is an innate mystery and wonder to every other--and there is something esoteric about it when you think about it.In the big cities at night, I always have to meditate solemnly, those crowded black houses, each one contains its own secret, and each room of each building contains its own secret; What every beating heart in those hundreds of thousands of chests imagines is a secret even to the hearts closest to it!From this we can learn something awe-inspiring, even death itself.No longer can I open this precious book I love and dream of ever having time to finish it.I can no longer pry into the mysteries of these unfathomable waters.I've caught glimpses of buried treasure and other things in the fleeting glimpses of light cast on the water.But I have only read a page of this book, and it is destined to close with a click for eons.The waters are doomed to freeze with eternal frost while the light only skims its surface and I stand on the shore and know nothing of it.My friend is dead, my neighbor is dead, the man I love, the darling of my soul is dead; and there is ever in that man an irresistible desire to record this mystery, to pass it upon World.Now I have taken over this last wish, and I want to fulfill it in my lifetime.In the cemeteries of the city I passed, where was the inner world of a sleeper more inscrutable to me than the bustling inhabitants?Or, more esoteric than I am to them?

In this matter, in this natural and inalienable heredity, the messenger on horseback was no different from the king, the prime minister, or the richest merchant in the city of London.So the three passengers shut up in the narrow world of the bumpy old mail-coach were each other's mystery, as each other sat in his six-horse or sixty-horse cart, always near and far from each other, Unpredictable. The messenger walked back with a leisurely gait, and often stopped at the Mai Inn on the roadside to have a drink.He always tried to maintain a sober demeanor, keeping the brim of his hat up so that he could not obscure his vision.His eyes matched the hat, black in surface, lacking depth in color and shape.His eyes were too close together, as if they would go their separate ways if they were too far apart.There was a sinister look in his eyes, peeking out from under the upturned spittoon-like brim of his hat.Under the eyes was a large scarf, which covered the chin and throat, and fell almost to the knees.When he stopped his horse to drink, he only opened the scarf with his left hand, poured it into his mouth with his right hand, and wrapped it up again after drinking.

"No, Jerry, no!" said the messenger.He was thinking about a problem while riding. "It's not good for you, Jerry. Jerry, you're an honest businessman, and it's not good for your business! Dead man--if he's not drunk you'll beat me!" The information he brought back made him very confused, and he wanted to take off his hat and scratch his scalp several times.The top of his head was bald, leaving only a few tangled hairs.The hair around the bald, disheveled crown was black and bristly, parted in all directions, and fell down the forehead almost to the broad flattened nose.It's not so much hair, it's more like a blacksmith's masterpiece, more like the top of a wall covered with barbed wire, even a frog jumper can only see it as the most dangerous obstacle in the world, thank you for your kindness .

The man trotted back on his horse.He was to take the news to the watchman in the guard shed at the gate of Tellson's Bank, by the gates of the London Law School, and the watchman was to relay the message to a higher authority in the bank.Shadows in the night appeared before him as visions born of the news, and before the beast as visions that disturbed the mare.Visions seemed to be frequent, for she recoiled in fright at every shadow in the path. At the same time, the mail van is carrying three unfathomable mysteries, rumbling, bumping and clanging on the desolate and boring road.Dark shadows outside the windows flashed before the passengers' eyes with all the fantasies that sleepy eyes and wandering thoughts can arouse.

On the mail coach Tellson's Bank was busy.The bank clerk was dozing off with half-closed eyes.He slipped one arm through the belt loop and used its strength to keep himself from bumping into the passenger next to him or being thrown into a corner if the carriage jolted too hard.The windows and headlights of the carriage came into his eyes dimly, and the large parcels of the passengers opposite him turned into a bank, which was very busy.The clank of harness became the clang of coins, and in five minutes more checks were signed than it took Tellson's Bank to sign in three times the total amount of time it took in international and domestic business.Then the vault in the basement of Tellson's Bank opened before his eyes, with the precious hoards and secrets with which he was familiar (he knew a great deal about such things).Holding a huge keychain in his hand, he walked through the storage by the faint candlelight, and found that everything there was safe, solid, stable, and peaceful, exactly the same as the last time he saw it.

But while the bank was nearly always with him, the mail van was always with him.The feeling was blurred, like pain subdued by opiates.There was also a chain of images that continued to flash through the night--he was going to dig a dead man out of his grave. But the shadow of the night did not indicate which of the multitude of faces that flashed before him belonged to the buried one.But these were all the faces of a man of forty-five, and they differed chiefly in the emotion they expressed and in their ghastly gaunt appearance.Expressions of self-respect, contempt, challenge, tenacity, submission, and mourning flashed one by one, sunken cheeks, pale faces, bony hands and figures.But there is only one main face, and the hair on each head is prematurely gray.A hundred times the sleepy traveler asked the ghost:

"How many years has it been buried?" The answer is always the same. "Almost eighteen years." "Have you completely given up hope of being dug out?" "Give up early." "Did you know you're resurrected?" "That's what they told me." "I hope you enjoy living?" "Hard to say." "Do you want me to bring her to see you? Would you like to see her?" The answers to this question have been inconsistent and contradictory.Sometimes the scrappy answer is, "Don't worry! If I see her too soon, I'll die." Sometimes it's a tearful, affectionate answer, "Take me to see her." Sometimes it's He stared wide-eyed, and said with a face full of confusion, "I don't know her, and I don't understand what you mean."

After this imaginary conversation, the passenger dug, dug, and dug in his imagination—sometimes with a shovel, sometimes with a large key, sometimes with his hands—to dig the poor man up. come out.It was finally dug out, with dirt still on its face and hair.He may suddenly disappear and turn to dust.That's when the passenger jerked awake, lowered the window, and came back to reality, letting fog and rain fall on his face. But even with his eyes open to the fog and rain, to the flickering lights, to the receding hedges swaying by the side of the road, the dark shadows of the night outside the car would merge with a succession of dark shadows inside the car.The real bank building by the gates of the London School of Law, the real business yesterday, the real safehouse, the real hasty courier who came after him, and the real answer he gave were all in that shadow.That ghostly face still looms out of the fog of it all.He'll talk to it again.

"How long has it been buried?" "Almost eighteen years." "I hope you want to live." "Hard to say." Dig-dig-dig-dig until an impatient movement of a passenger caused him to draw the curtains, slip his hands firmly into his belts, and look at the two sleepy figures until the two Man slipped out of his consciousness again, merged with the bank and the grave. "How long has it been buried?" "Almost eighteen years." "Have you given up hope of being dug out?" "Give up early." The words were still ringing in his ears as loudly as when they were first spoken, as clear in his ears as any he had ever heard in his life—when the weary passenger began to realize that it was day Now, the shadow of night has vanished.

He lowered the window, hoping for the rising sun outside the window.Outside the window was a plowed field with a plow left after the horse's yoke was removed last night.In the distance was a silent grove of groves with many red and golden leaves.Although the ground is cold and wet, the sky is clear.The sun rises, He Yu, calm and beautiful. "Eighteen years!" said the passenger, looking at the sun. "Gentle Creator of the day! Buried alive for eighteen years!"