Chapter 2 Chapter two

Chapter two We are going forever, that's for sure.The bygone years are still close at hand.Events that we have tried to forget and put forever behind us may, perhaps, revive our memories.And that fear, that unearthly uneasiness--thanks to God's mercy, it is subsiding now--which once turned into unreasonable blind panic, may return in some unforeseen form. , just like in the past, we are always with us, and we live together day and night. His patience is truly astonishing.He never complained, and never resented even when he recalled the past...and I believe he thought of it often, though he didn't want me to know it.

How could he hide it from my eyes?Sometimes, he looked dazed and lost, all expression disappeared from his lovely face, as if wiped away by an invisible hand, and a mask appeared in its place. A sculpture, cold and prim, lifeless if handsome; and sometimes he would puff on a cigarette, one after another, without even bothering to extinguish the butt, so that the sparkling butt They scattered all around him like flower petals; sometimes, he would randomly find some topic, and he would talk eloquently and happily, but in fact it had no content, and he just wanted to use it to relieve the sadness in his heart.I have heard a saying: no matter which couple, as long as they go through hardships and trials, they will become nobler and stronger. Therefore, in this life or the next life, they should endure the test of the fire.This sounds a bit specious, but we both fully appreciate the taste of it.We have both experienced fear, loneliness and great misfortune.I feel that everyone faces trials sooner or later in their life, and that we all have our own particular demons, oppressors, torturers, and struggles against them in the end.We've finally overcome this demon, or we believe we have.

Now, that catastrophe will no longer oppress us.The difficulty was finally overcome, and naturally we were not spared some trauma. His premonitions of disaster were right from the start, and I might as well, like the actresses in a bad play, shout with air and declare that we have paid the price for our liberty.To be honest, I've had enough of dramatic twists and turns in my life, and I'd rather sacrifice all my senses if I could let us live in peace and stability like we do now. Happiness is not a treasured possession, but a state of mind, a state of mind.Sure, we get down and down sometimes, but at other times, time is no longer measured by a pendulum, but stretches out into eternity; and all I need to do is see his smile and know that we are together, hand in hand, No differences of thought or opinion put a barrier between the two of us.

Now, we no longer have any privacy to hide from each other, we really share weal and woe, and are closely connected.Although this small inn is dull and boring, the food is bad, and it repeats the same old routine day after day.We don't want our lives to be any different.If he lived in a big hotel, he would definitely meet many of his acquaintances.We both appreciate the value of simplicity, so what if it gets boring sometimes?Isn't boredom an antidote to fear?We arrange our daily life according to a fixed pattern, and from it I gradually develop the ability to read aloud.As far as I know, the only time he looked irritable was when the postman missed his shift, because it meant we had to wait another day for mail from England.We tried the radio, but the noise was annoying, so we preferred to keep our nostalgic passions in our hearts.The result of a cricket match that was played several days ago has such an important meaning in our lives.

what!All kinds of ball finals and boxing matches, and even pocket scoring records in the billiard room, can save us from boredom.The finals of the School Games, the dog running, and the queer little races in the backcountry--all this news, is grain in the empty mill, and quenches both our hunger and thirst, and sometimes I get a few expired copies. "Field", I can't help but yearn for it after reading it, as if I have returned to the real life of England in spring from this foreign island.I read about the white brooks, the flying cockroaches, the stags in the green meadows, and the rooks that hovered over the woods, a sight that used to be so common at Manderley.In these torn pages that have been flipped through, I smell the fragrance of moist earth, smell the sour smell of peat in the swamp, and even touch the moist mossy land dotted with white spots, which It is the legacy of the heron.At one point I read an article about wild pigeons, and as I read it, I felt as if I was back in the depths of Manderley’s garden. The wild pigeons flapped their wings above my head, and I heard their soft and contented whining, This sound is comforting and cooling on a hot summer afternoon.As long as Jasper didn't come running, their tranquility would not be disturbed.But Jasper came to me, galloping through the bushes, calling the ground with his wet nose, and the wild pigeons, frightened by the dogs, flew out of their hiding places in an unnecessary commotion, like It was as if a group of old ladies had been bumped into in the shower.The wild pigeon flapped its wings, swiftly passed over the top of the tree, gradually went away, and finally flew away without a trace.At this time, the surroundings returned to silence, but I felt inexplicably uneasy, noticing that the sunlight no longer wove patterns on the rustling leaves, the branches became dark and dark, the shadows lengthened, and over there in the house there were already Fresh berries are coming out, ready for refreshment.So I got up from the fern bushes, shook the dust off my skirts from the old leaves, whistled to Jasper, and started back to the house.As I walked, I asked myself contemptuously: Why are my steps so hurried, and why do I have to glance behind me quickly?

It is strange that an article about wild pigeons should evoke such memories, and make me stutter when I read aloud.It was his gloomy face that made me stop reading abruptly and scroll back several pages until I found a short note about a cricket match.It was a matter-of-fact, tedious passage, about the Middlesex team batting mediocrely at Overl Field, batting the ball, winning one after another, and adding up tediously.Thanks to the nerdy jersey-clad characters, for after a while his countenance returned to its former calm and blood, and he laughed at Serres' pitching with normal exasperation.

In this way, I finally avoided a memory, and I also learned a lesson: British news can be read, British sports, political conditions, British arrogance, etc., are all fine; but in the future, anything that easily arouses sadness , I can only let me chew the aftertaste quietly alone.Colors, scents, sounds, rain, the beating of waves, and even the thick fog and salty taste of the tide in autumn are all memories left by Manderley, which can never be erased.Some people have a penchant for reading railroad guides, and they entertain by imagining countless journeys criss-crossing and connecting unconnected regions.

My hobby, as grotesque as reading railway guides, but more interesting, is to accumulate material on the English countryside.I know the names of every landowner in every swamp in England, and their farmhands.I know how many partridges have been killed, how many partridges, how many deer;I noticed every hunt and fish, even the names of the hunters who trained their beagles to run, and I was familiar with the growth of the crops, the price of meat, and the strange diseases of the pigs, all of which I relished. . Perhaps, this is a low-level pastime to pass the time, and it does not require the use of brains, but in this way, I can read the newspapers and breathe the air of England at the same time; Exotic dazzling sky.

The broken stones of the messy vineyard are thus rendered insignificant, for I can, if I choose, let my imagination gallop left and right, and pluck a few fingernails and ashen Qiu Luo. There is something genial and desirable about such whims of flower-picking under the hedge, though insignificant, not only incompatible with bitterness and regret, but also sweetening the self-imposed exile that we are now. Thanks to these whims, I was able to pass a pleasant afternoon and return home with a smile on my face and a light tea.The content of afternoon tea remains the same, always two slices of bread with butter and a cup of Chinese tea per person.To outsiders, we must have looked like a rigid couple, clinging to old habits we had acquired in England.The little balcony was clean, white and featureless after centuries of sunlight.Standing here, I recalled the scene at 4:30 in the afternoon in Manderley again; first the table in front of the fireplace in the library was pulled out, the door opened on time, and then there was the same set of procedures for placing tea sets: silver trays, teapots , snow-white tablecloth.Jesper's big ears drooped, and he seemed indifferent to the incoming pastries.There is always a lot of food put in front of us every day, but we eat very little.

Now I see pancakes dripping with cream, small pieces of crispy toast with sharp corners, thin slices of freshly baked bread; Delightful; that very special kind of gingerbread; that melt-in-your-mouth cake; and its pairing, a richer fruitcake topped with peels and raisins.This food is enough for a starving family for a week.I never knew how this table was handled.Rare treasures sometimes make me uneasy. But I dare not ask Mrs. Danvers what she does with the table.If I had asked, she would have looked at me with disdain, with that condescending, chilling smile on her lips.I think she'd say, "Mrs. de Winter never complained when she was alive." What's this Mrs. Danvers doing now?And that Favere.I remember that it was the look on Mrs. Danvers's face that made me feel uneasy for the first time.My intuition told me: "She's comparing me to Rebecca." Then a phantom came between us like a sharp sword...

Ah, now it's all over, at last it's all over!I am no longer tormented, and we are both free at last.Even loyal Jasper is in happy heaven, and Manderley is no more!It was an empty husk buried deep in the clutter of the forest, as I had seen it in my dreams, a desolation, a habitat for wild birds. Sometimes a homeless man might walk by, looking for shelter in a sudden gust of rain.If the visitor is a bold fellow, he may walk there with poise; but if he is a coward, and a furtive and stealthy visitor, Manderley's woods are not the place for him to linger.He might come across that hut on the promontory, and he would never feel at ease under the sloping altar roof, listening to the drizzle.There might still be a certain eerie air about it...the corner of the driveway where the trees intrude into the gravel isn't a good place to linger, especially after the sun goes down.The leaves are rustling, much like a woman in gown goggles walking around; when the leaves suddenly tremble and fall to the ground, the sound of patter may be her hurried footsteps, And the dimples in the gravel might be the marks left by her satin heels. Whenever I recall these past events, I always stand on the balcony to see the scenery and breathe a sigh of relief.Here the sun is blindingly bright, and not a shadow sneaks up to hide it.The stone vineyards gleamed in the sun, and the mirabilis was white with dust.Perhaps one day I will look upon all this with affection, and for the moment it gives me confidence, if not love.Confidence is a quality I value very much, and of course it came a little too late in my life.I think that the factor that finally made my timidity go away was that he was relying on me after all. Anyway, I finally got rid of my low self-esteem, timidity, and shyness. Compared with the first time I drove to Manderley, I was a different person: At that time, I was full of eager hope, and I was full of hope everywhere. Handicapped by extreme clumsiness and desperate to please.The reason why I should give Mrs. Danvers and Co. such a bad impression is, of course, that I have behaved badly.What was my image in people's minds after Rebecca?Memory is like a bridge, connecting the years. I can recall my own image at that time: a straight short hair, an immature face without makeup, clothes and skirts that don’t fit well, and wearing a short jacket that I made myself, like a The shy little girl followed Mrs. Van Hopper.She always took me to lunch, her short figure struggling to keep her balance on the dangling high heels; A new hat, with an extremely large feather inserted on it, slanted over the head, revealing a large forehead, as bare as the knees of a schoolboy's trousers.In one hand she carried a large bag, the kind one keeps passports, appointments, and bridge score books; with the other she was always toying with her ever-present pair of long-stemmed spectacles, the great enemy of other people's private lives.She always went to a table in the corner of the restaurant by the window, which she usually always occupied.She held the pince-nez up to her little pig-like eyes, looked around, let them fall, hung on the black ribbon, and exclaimed in disgust: "Not a single famous person! I'm going to tell the manager, they've got to cut my hotel bill. They don't want to think about what I'm doing here, is it just to see the waiters?" Then she called the waiter to her side, speaking in a high-pitched voice. And go on, tearing the air like a saw. The small restaurant where we dined today is very different from the magnificent and luxurious dining room of the "Côte d'Azur" Hotel in Monte Carlo; compared with Mrs. Van Hopper, my present partner is even more different: he is so beautiful. She was peeling a tangerine quietly and methodically with her steady, beautiful hands, and occasionally raised her head and smiled at me; while Mrs. Van Hopper was wearing jeweled The chubby fingers of the ring kept rummaging through his plate full of spiced minced meat rolls, and glanced suspiciously at the membrane of my plate from time to time, fearing that my taste would be better than hers. In fact, she didn't need to worry about it at all, because the waiter, with his incredible sensitivity in this line of work, had already sensed that I was her servant and my status was low, so he brought me a plate of ham and pork tongue. The tea was probably returned to the freezer half an hour ago by a customer who thought it was badly cut.There was something strange about the distasteful attitude of the servants, and the obvious impatience.I remember once living in the country with Mrs. Van Hopper, and the inn maid never heeded my timid bell, never brought my shoes, and the cold morning tea was piled like rubbish in the Outside my bedroom door. It's the same on the Côte d'Azur, only not so much.But sometimes the deliberate indifference gave way to annoyingly irreverent giggles, so that buying a stamp from the hotel receptionist was a pain in the ass and wished I could get out of it.I must have looked young and ignorant then, and I felt it deeply at the time.A man who is too sensitive and unsophisticated to listen to words that are actually commonplace will detect many insinuations and sarcasms in them. The plate of ham and pork tongue is still vivid in my memory. They were cut into wedges, and there was no marinade in Baba's, which was not appetizing at all.But I didn't have the guts to say no to this platter.We ate without saying a word, for Mrs. Van Hopper liked to give her all her attention to her food.From the Worcestershire sauce dripping down her chin, I could tell that the plate of mincemeat was to her liking. Seeing her eating so happily did not arouse my interest in the cold dish I ordered, so I took my eyes off her.At this time, I saw that the table next to ours had been vacant for three days, and now someone had come to occupy it.The head waiter was ushering new guests to their seats with his customary bow. Mrs. Van Hopper put down her fork and touched her pince-nez.She's staring straight at my neighbor, and I'm ashamed of her.But the newcomer didn't notice her interest in him, so he just glanced at the menu.Then Mrs. Van Hopper snapped back her lorgnette and leaned across the table towards me, her small eyes sparkling with excitement, and she spoke a little louder. "This is Max De Winter," she said. "The owner of Mandali Manor. Of course you have heard of this manor. He looks sick, doesn't he?I heard people say that his wife's death was a huge blow to him, and he hasn't recovered for a while..."