Chapter 4 Chapter Four

The day after the bridge meeting, Mrs. Van Hopper awoke with a sore throat and a temperature of one hundred and two degrees.I hung up on her doctor, who came right away and diagnosed it as common influenza. "You must lie down and rest until I give you permission to get up," the doctor ordered. "It sounds like your heart is beating a little strangely. It's hard to get better without absolute bed rest. My opinion is—" He turned to me, "Get a special nurse for Mrs. Van Hopper. You I don’t even have the strength to help her sit up. It will take about two weeks of nursing.”

I thought it was absurd to hire another nurse, so I objected.However, to my surprise, Mrs. Van Hopper agreed with the doctor's suggestion.I think she is eager to make a fuss over a molehill.That way, people would come to visit, or write letters of condolence, and someone would send flowers.She had grown tired of Monte Carlo, and a slight ailment would be a relief. Nurses will give her injections and give her light massages; she will also have to follow a prescribed diet.When the nurse came, I walked away.At that time, her body temperature had begun to drop, and she was sitting on the bed with her back leaning on the folded pillows, wearing her most expensive pajamas, and her boudoir hat with ribbons covering her forehead, showing a contented look.Relieved, yet guilty about it, I went to call her friend to cancel a small party that had been scheduled for that night, and arrived upstairs a full hour earlier than usual. Go down to the restaurant for lunch.I thought the restaurant must be empty, since customers don't usually have lunch until one o'clock.Sure enough, the restaurant was empty, except that the table next to us was already occupied.What a surprise!I was totally unprepared for this.Didn't he go to Sospel?No doubt he ate lunch early in fear of seeing us again at one o'clock.At this time, I had passed half of the restaurant, and I couldn't turn my head and go back.

I haven't seen him since we broke up at the elevator the day before.Because he was so obedient, he didn't eat dinner in the restaurant.It's the same reason I want to have an early lunch at this moment. How to deal with this situation, I have no experience.If only I were a few years older and had another education!Our country walked towards our table without squinting.Nemesis when I knocked over a bottle of stiff anemones while unfolding my napkin!Who told me to be clumsy!Water seeped through the tablecloth and trickled down my skirt.The waiter was far away at the other end of the restaurant, and besides, he didn't see anyone getting into trouble here.But the neighbor sitting next to me suddenly appeared with a dry napkin in his hand.

"You can't eat with a wet tablecloth," he said curtly. "It'll turn your stomach. Go away." He went to wipe the tablecloth.At this time, the waiter saw it and hurried over to help. "I don't care," I said. "It doesn't matter at all. It's just me anyway." He didn't say a word, the waiter came over and quickly cleaned up the vase and the flowers scattered on the table. "Let it go," he said abruptly to the waiter. "Go and add a pair of knives and forks to my table. Mademoiselle will have lunch with me." I looked up in exasperation and said, "Oh! No, this is absolutely not possible!"

"Why?" he asked. I searched for an excuse.I knew he didn't want to have lunch with me, it was just a polite gesture. I will ruin his meal.I made up my mind to speak straight. "No," I begged. "You're welcome. You're welcome, but I'd be fine eating here if the waiter wiped the tablecloth." "But I'm not being polite to you," he didn't budge. "I would very much like you to have lunch with me. I would have invited you even if you hadn't knocked over the vase." He probably saw the suspicious look on my face, so he continued with a smile: "It's all right if you don't believe me. Come and sit down. We don't have to talk if you don't want to."

We sat down.He handed me the menu and asked me to order, but he continued to eat the appetizer before the meal as if nothing had happened. Loneliness is the unique personality of this person.I believe that the two of us could just sit down and finish a meal without saying a word.It doesn't matter, it doesn't feel any unnatural.He will not come to test my knowledge of history! "What's the matter with your friend?" he asked.I said she had the flu.He said, "That's terrible." After a moment, he went on: "I think you got the note. I'm ashamed, I behaved so inappropriately. I can only find one excuse for this: single life makes me feel bad." I've turned into a rude redneck. So, I appreciate you having lunch with me today."

"Not rude," I said. "At least she didn't feel it. Her kind of curiosity—she didn't mean to be offensive; she did it to everybody, I mean, to people of position." "In that case, I should feel very flattered," he said. "Why does she regard me as a person of status?" I hesitated for a moment before answering: "I think it's because of Manderley." He was silent.I felt uncomfortable all over again, as if I had broken into someone's restricted area.I don't understand, when his family is mentioned, that family known by everyone, even a little man like me has heard of it. Build something that can be called a barrier between them.

For a while, the two of them didn't speak, just buried their heads in eating.I remember a trip to the western countryside in my childhood, and I bought a picture postcard in a small shop in a certain village.The picture shows a big house.Of course, the drawing was poor and the colors were tacky.But even with these shortcomings, the mansion in the picture still has its well-proportioned beauty: the wide stone steps before the terrace; the green lawn stretching towards the waterfront.This postcard cost me twopence--half my weekly allowance. Later, I asked the wrinkled old woman who opened the shop what was painted on the picture.The old woman was really taken aback at my ignorance. "That's Manderley!" she said.I still remember how I walked out of the shop in despair, her advice did not enlighten me.

I didn't know which book to put this postcard in later, but I couldn't find it long ago.But perhaps it was precisely because I remembered the postcard that I sympathized with his tight-lipped, wary attitude.He hated being interrupted by Mrs. Van Hopper and his like.Perhaps, there is something sacred about Mandali, which makes it special, and no one can discuss it.I can imagine Mrs Van Hopper trudging through Manderley's room, tearing the silence with her shrill, staccato laughter; she might have paid sixpence for the ticket , to be able to visit inside. He and I must have thought of getting together, because he started talking about Mrs. Van Hopper: "That friend of yours is much older than you. A relation? Have you known each other for a long time?" The relationship remains a mystery to him.

"Not friends, exactly," I told him. "It's the employer. She's training me for what people call a 'companion.' She pays me ninety pounds a year." "I didn't know a partner could still pay for it," he said. "It sounds really barbaric, very similar to the transactions in the Eastern slave market." "I looked up the word 'partner' in the dictionary," I told him honestly. "Interpretation said:" A partner is a close friend. '" "You don't have much in common with her," he said. he laughed.When he laughs, he looks younger, less detached, like a different person. "Why do you do this?" he asked.

"Ninety pounds is a lot of money to me," I said. "Don't you have any relatives?" "No—all dead." "Your name is cute and unique." "My dad was a lovely and extraordinary person in his lifetime." "Tell me about your father," he said. I held a glass of citron water in my hand, and looked over the glass to look at him.It's not easy to talk about my dad, and usually I never talk about his old man.Dad is the treasure in my heart, which is only for me, just like Manyuan is only for my neighbor.I didn't want to introduce my dad to a stranger at a restaurant table in Monte Carlo. ①A big lemon. There was always a strange, dreamlike air about that lunch, which, in retrospect, is still full of uncanny fascination.I was still the schoolgirl that day; just the day before, I had sat beside Mrs. Van Hopper, prim, dumb, and timid.But twenty-four hours later, my family history was no longer mine alone, and I actually told a man I had never met before.Somehow I felt compelled to speak because he, like the anonymous gentleman, kept his eyes on me. My shyness vanished without a trace, and at the same time my reluctance to speak was freed.As a result, the past rushed out: the trivial and boring privacy of childhood, all kinds of ups and downs.It seemed to me that, from my very clumsy account, he seemed to know something of my father's exuberant character and my mother's love for him.My mother turned love into a kind of vitality of life, giving love a divine brilliance, so that in that heartbreaking winter, after her father died of pneumonia, she only stayed in the human world for five short weeks, and she Also passed away forever.I remember pausing for a moment out of breath and feeling dizzy when I said this.At this time, the restaurant was full of guests, accompanied by the orchestra's piano, drums and trumpets, the laughter of people, and the crisp sound of plates colliding.Looking at the clock above the door, I saw that it was two o'clock.We were in the restaurant for an hour and a half, and I was the only one talking. I snapped back to reality, my palms were hot and suddenly unnatural.I blushed and apologized politely.He doesn't listen to that. "I told you at the beginning of lunch that your name was cute and chic," he said. "If you're not surprised, I'll add that the name suits your father well, and you deserve it. This hour with you has been a pleasure I haven't had in a long time. Yes. You got me out of my little circle, out of the despair and introspection that have been doing me so much for a year!" I looked at him and believed he was telling the truth.The previous shackles no longer imprison him like that, so that he is more like a modern person, a living person.He stepped out of the shadows that surrounded him. "You know," he said, "there's something in common that binds us, you and me. We're both alone in the world. I have a sister, by the way, but we don't see each other very often. and an old granny whom I visit three times a year out of my grandchildren's obligations. But neither relative is a companion. I have to congratulate Mrs. Van Hopper, you're cheap enough at ninety pounds a year." "You forget," I said, "that you have a home. I have no home." As soon as I said this, I regretted it.His eyes became unfathomable again, and I once again felt as if I was sitting on pins and needles. If a person accidentally slipped his words, he would always have this kind of bossy feeling of unease.He lowered his head to light a cigarette and didn't answer right away. "An empty house is probably no better than a bustling hotel for loneliness," he said at last. "The problem is that the house still has a bit of personality." He groaned for a while, and I thought he was finally going to talk about Manderley, but something restrained him, and some morbid fear struggled. Came to his mind and prevailed. So he blew out the match, and at the same time, the little self-confidence that had just been fleeting disappeared. "So 'confidante' can take a day off?" He spoke to me again in the flat tone that created a sense of unrestrained intimacy between us. "What does our friend intend to do with the holiday?" Immediately I thought of the cobbled squares of Monaco, the houses with the narrow windows.I can be there by three with a sketchpad and pencil.I actually told him all this, maybe a little shyly, as people who have no talent but like something trivial talk like that. "I'll drive you there," he couldn't help my objection. I remembered Mrs. Van Hopper's warning against presumptuousness the night before.Would he think I was talking about Monaco on purpose, just to get a ride?Thinking of this, I am extremely embarrassed.Mrs. Van Hopper was capable of such disgrace.I don't want him to think of us as a fellow.After having lunch with him, my value has greatly increased. So, when we got up to leave the table, the short head waiter rushed over in two steps at a time, and dragged the chair for me. Compared with Gu's indifferent demeanor, he was a completely different person.The head waiter picked up the handkerchief that had fallen on the floor for me, and said he hoped "Miss has a good lunch."Even the young waiter standing by the revolving door cast respectful glances at me.My companion was naturally used to all this; he didn't know about yesterday's badly cut ham.Seeing the waiter's attitude change drastically, I felt very uncomfortable and looked down on myself.I thought back to my father, who was extremely contemptuous of the snobbery and ugliness of judging others by appearance. "What were you thinking?" We walked down the corridor to the lounge.Looking up, I realized he was staring at me curiously. "What upset you?" he asked. The attentions of the head waiter in the restaurant set off a chain of memories.Over coffee I told him about the seamstress named Blaise.That time, Mrs. Van Hopper ordered three coats, and the seamstress Coke.Later, on the way to take the tailor to the elevator, I imagined how she would rush to make these clothes in the small living room behind the small and stuffy workshop; her son with lung disease might be lying on the sofa next to her. Go up, look down day by day.I even imagined how the seamstress squinted her dry eyes as she threaded a needle; the shreds of fabric were torn all over the room. "Really?" he said with a smile. "Does the picture in your head match the reality?" "I don't know," I said. "I've never been able to see it myself." Then I described to him how I rang the bell for the elevator.And just as I rang the bell, the seamstress fumbled in the bag, took out a hundred-franc note, and slipped it in. "(Kounu)," she whispered in my ear in a terribly friendly tone. "I ask you to accept this small commission, and please bring your master to visit our shop more often." I blushed, showing my embarrassment, and refused to accept any money. The seamstress shrugged dully. "As you please," she said. "However, I assure you, such things are common. Perhaps you'd rather have a coat. Then find a time, avoid the lady, and come to the shop by yourself. I'll make sure you look good." I don’t want you to spend a penny.” For some reason, I suddenly experienced the disgusting unhealthy feeling of peeking at a banned book in my early childhood.Gone is the image of the consumptive son, replaced by another: If I had been another type, I would have responded with a knowing smile, pocketed the greasy bill, Or take advantage of this idle afternoon, sneak to Blaize's tailor shop, and come out with a coat that the other party gave away for free. I waited for him to laugh at me, it was all so boring.I don't know why I said this to him.He looked at me thoughtfully as he stirred the coffee. "In my opinion, you've made a big mistake," he said after a while. "You didn't take the hundred francs?" I asked in disgust. "No! God, what do you think of me? I mean it's a big mistake for you to come here and hang out with Mrs. Van Hopper. You're not cut out for this business. First, you're too young, too Weakness. Blaze and her commission are nothing but a beginning, and there will be more of this kind of thing in the future. Either you give in, or you become a Blaze figure yourself; You're going to be cornered if you're going to live like this. Who was the first to think you'd do it?" It seemed natural for him to ask the question, and I didn't mind it at all.We are like friends who have known each other for a long time, reunited here after a long absence. "Have you thought about what to do in the future?" he asked me. "Also, if things go on like this, what will happen? One day, Mrs. Van Hopper will get tired of 'confidantes', what will happen in the future?" I told him with a smile on my face that I couldn't take care of that much.There will be other Mrs. Van Hopper and others, and I'm young, confident, and strong.But at the time he asked me, I couldn't help but think of those pleading advertisements that often appear in high society magazines, saying that a certain charity can't just sit by and let young women go from bad to worse, so they ask good men and women to help them; Advertised boarding houses for people to live temporarily; then I seem to see myself standing in front of a stern-faced recruitment agent, stammering answers to various questions, holding a useless sketch in my hand Ben, and no other qualifications can be mentioned.Maybe, I should have taken Blaze's ten percent commission. "How old are you?" he asked.After listening to my age report, he smiled and stood up. "I know people your age, people are very stubborn at this age. A thousand ghosts and ghosts can't make you afraid of the future. It's a pity we can't change. Go upstairs and put on your hat, and I will drive the car." come over." He watched me step into the elevator.And then I thought again of the day before, of Mrs. Van Hopper's gossip and his cold manners.I didn't see him right: he was neither cold nor arrogant; he had been my best friend for many years, my brother, even though I never had a brother.That afternoon, I was completely immersed in happiness, and the state of mind at that time is still fresh in my memory.I seem to still be able to see the sky covered with fluffy clouds and the sea with white waves that afternoon; I seem to feel the breeze blowing on my face again, and hear my own and his echoing laughter.Monte Carlo was no longer the gambling city I knew, perhaps because the place finally brought me some pleasure, a certain hitherto allure.Before that, I must have looked at the city with glazed eyes.At the port, the colorful paper strips on the ship fluttered and danced in the wind, showing a myriad of phenomena; on the pier, the cheerful sailors were full of smiles, as lively and mischievous as the sea breeze.We drove past the yacht, which Mrs. Van Hopper admired because it belonged to the Duke.We snapped our fingers derisively at the shiny bronze nameplate on the yacht, looked at each other, and laughed again.I still remember that flannel dress that was crooked and ill-fitting, as if I would be embarrassed to wear it today.The skirt, much thinner than the bodice, as it had been worn longer; and the shabby bonnet, which slipped too broadly, and the low-leather shoes, which had only a strap as a fastening; and my servants, His hand was still clutching a long arm-length glove.At that time, I had never looked so naive and ridiculous, but I felt more mature than ever in my heart.Mrs. Van Hopper and her influenza no longer existed for me; bridge and cocktail parties were all forgotten; I've become a lady of status, and at last I've grown up.That little girl—a flustered little girl standing outside the door of the living room, twisting her handkerchief, listening to the buzzing voices inside, shy away from being disturbed by entering the door—was also killed that afternoon. The wind blows away without a trace.Poor little girl, I'd despise her if the image of that girl ever came into my mind. Due to the strong wind, the sketch could not be done.The wind blew vigorously, blowing merrily across the corner of the cobblestone square.The two of us walked back to the car and drove off without knowing where.The long road winds up, and we climb along it, turning left and right above the mountains, like birds soaring high in the sky.How different his car was from the old square Daimler that Mrs. Van Hopper had rented during her tour!How many windless afternoons this Daimler has driven us to Mantoni.I always sit with my back against the driver, in a seat where I can't move my hands and feet. To see the scenery outside the car, I have to stretch my neck.It seemed to me that his car had the wings of Mercury, and it was flying upwards at a breathtaking speed.Thrills bring me pleasure.Because I have never tasted this taste.Besides, I'm still young. ①The messenger of the gods in Roman mythology. I remember laughing out loud, and the laughter was carried away by the mountain wind.But when I turned my gaze over, I found that he had restrained his smile.He retracted into the mysterious self shell like yesterday, silently lost in thought. I also noticed that the car couldn't go any further, since we had reached the top of the hill.The road we walked on when we came here was very steep and deep in the valley.We parked the car.At this time, I saw that the edge of the road was facing a dangerous slope. The steep slope sloped down to the abyss of about two thousand feet.We get out of the car.Looking down, I can see it fully now.It turned out that there was only half a car body distance between us and the abyss.The sea is like a large wrinkled blueprint, spreading towards the horizon, and the waves beat against the uneven coastline.The houses are like white shells in circular caves, and the huge sun casts a mottled orange in many places.The mountain where we are is also shining with a ray of sunlight, which looks cold and gloomy in the dead silence.The atmosphere of the afternoon outing changed, it was no longer as relaxed and lively as before.The wind died down.The weather suddenly turned cold. My voice sounded too casual, one of those unnatural tones that people try to calm down when they're extremely upset: "You recognize this place?" I asked. "Been here before?" He looked down at me, but couldn't recognize who I was.I was in a hurry, and felt a faint tingling pain, it seemed that he must have completely forgotten me, maybe he had been in such a trance for a long time.He was so caught up in the maze of his own frightful thoughts that I no longer existed for him. His face was like that of a sleepwalker.When he got nervous, he even thought that maybe he was indeed not a normal person, because his nerves were not sound enough.Certainly I have heard of people who go into trances at times; such people act according to perverse laws beyond our comprehension, obeying the chaotic orders of the subconscious.Maybe he is that kind of person.And we are now six feet from death. "It's getting late. Will you go home?" I said.The casual tone of voice and the faked smile couldn't fool even a child. Of course, I was wrong about him after all.There was nothing abnormal about him after all.As soon as he heard me speak for the second time, he snapped out of the dream and started apologizing.I must have turned pale, he could tell. "Damn me," he said, taking my arm and pushing me back to the car.Once in the car, he slammed the door shut. "Don't be afraid. The turns here look like a lot of trouble, but they're not at all difficult," he said.Dizzy and nauseous, I clutched the seat with both hands.But he had already turned the car around and faced the downhill road again, his movements were so skillful and light that I didn't feel it at all. "So you've been here before?" I asked him.At this time, the tension gradually disappeared, and the car was slowly driving down the hill along the winding and narrow road. "Yes," he said.After a pause, he went on to tell me, "But that was years ago. I want to see if the place has changed." "Has it changed?" I asked. "No," he said. "No, it hasn't changed." I can't figure out what force drove him to revisit the old place, recall the past, and bring a stranger like me to witness his emotions.How many long years had passed since his last mountain tour?During this period, what was the difference between his heart and his deeds?What about the change in temperament?I don't want to know what's going on; I regret coming here. We detoured down the mountain along the road, without talking all the way, and did not stop when we encountered obstacles.A mass of towering dark clouds hung over the setting sun, and the air became extremely cold.Suddenly he brought up Manderley.He said nothing about his life at the estate; he said nothing about himself.He only pictured to me the setting sun on a spring evening at Manderley.The setting sun left a flaming afterglow on the headland, and the sea suddenly turned dark green, because the sea was still freezing cold after a long winter.From the deck in front of the house, you can hear the sound of the rising tide in the small bay.This is the season when the narcissus is in full bloom. The slender flower stems hold the golden spikes and sway slightly in the evening wind.The shoulder-to-shoulder narcissus is like an army, no matter how many you pick, there will be no sparse gaps at all.On the shore at the end of the lawn, there is a large field of saffron, which varies in color from orange to pink and purple.However, this is no longer the heyday season of saffron, so each flower hangs its head, its color fades and fades, like pale snowflakes.Primroses are cruder and meaner, like weeds, which grow wherever there is a crack, and are pleasant to the eye even though they are plain.The hyacinth has not yet reached the flowering time, and the flower spikes are still hiding their faces in the leaves of last year. But as soon as the hyacinths are in full bloom, the less delicate violets are dwarfed, and the ferns of the woods are swallowed up.The beauty of hyacinth can be compared with the sky. He said that he was never allowed to display Fengxinyu indoors.Once inserted into the vase, the hyacinths appear damp and down and out.To see the beauty of hyacinths, you have to go for a walk in the woods when the sun is at around twelve o'clock at noon.The scent of the flower is pungent and smoky, as if some pungent and full-bodied wild sap flowed from the anvil.Those who pick hyacinths in the forest are simply barbarians who destroy cultural relics. For this reason, he once issued a ban in Manderley.Sometimes, driving through the fields, he saw guys passing on bicycles with huge bunches of hyacinths tied to the handlebars, the flowers faded because the heads were withered, and the broken stalks hung loose and naked, It became a mess. Fern doesn't really care about how she is treated.This is a wild plant, but it just likes to touch the elegance of human civilization.They lean out of the jam jars behind the farmhouse windows, scratch their heads, feel nothing wronged, and may live for a full week as long as there is water in the jars.In Manderley, wildflowers are not allowed in the house.In his walled garden he cultivated several types of flowers that were intended only for indoor display.He told me that there are few kinds of flowers that look better after picking them off, and Roseton is one of them.Put a pot of roses in the living room, with bright colors and strong fragrance, but natural roses do not have these two advantages.The roses in full bloom give people a kind of unkempt feeling, like a woman with disheveled hair, which looks frivolous and vulgar.But once put into the house, the rose becomes mysterious and deep.For eight months of the year he had roses displayed in the Manderley.Do I like cloves?he asks.There is a lilac tree at the end of the lawn, and the fragrance of lilac can be smelled from his bedroom window.His sister, a cold and practical person, often complained that Manderley was intoxicated by the scent of flowers everywhere.Maybe she's right.Then he doesn't care.Only the fragrance of flowers suits his appetite and makes him intoxicated.Looking back on his early days, he always thinks of the huge bouquet of lilacs in the white vase and the dreamy fragrance that permeated the house. The quiet path leading from the valley to the bay is also a family of flowers. On the left side of the path, there are large clumps of rhododendrons of various colors. If you walk along the path at dusk on a May day, you will find the bushes sweating in the wind.You bent over to pick up a fallen petal, crushed it with your fingers, and suddenly, a strange fragrance emanated from your palm, which was refreshing. And all this is just a petal that has been kneaded and broken.You wander out of the valley to the beach, where the hard white pebbles and calm water lie beneath your feet.What a wonderful contrast!maybe too obtrusive... While he was speaking, our car had returned to the downtown traffic center.Before we knew it, twilight had fallen, and we were in the midst of lights and noise in Monte Carlo.The noise of the street stimulated my nerves; the bright yellow lights were dazzling.Time flies by so fast, and the pleasant outing ends in such a boring way, I'm really not reconciled. We'll be back at the hotel shortly.I fumbled in the compartment drawers for my gloves.While finding the glove, my fingers touched a book. The delicate cover said it was a collection of poetry.When the car slowed down in front of the hotel, I was squinting to read the title of the book. "Read it if you like," he said.When the drive was over and we returned to the hotel, Manderley had been left hundreds of miles away, and his tone became casual and indifferent again. I am grateful to myself, gripping the book tightly while clutching the gloved hand.This is the end of the day, and I'm trying to get one of his things. "Get out of the car," he said. "I've got to drive over there and park it. I'm going out to dinner tonight and I won't see you in the restaurant again. But I want to thank you for being with me today." I walked up the hotel steps alone, looking pathetic like a child whose fun has come to an end.The afternoon excursion was such a indulgence to me that I did not know how to spend the remaining hours of the day.I thought of how long it would be before bedtime, and how boring it would be to go to dinner alone.Do not know why.I felt unable to answer the cunning inquiry of the nurse upstairs, let alone face the questioning that Mrs. Van Hopper's hoarse voice might ask me.So I just sat down in a corner of the lounge, behind a pillar, and asked the waiter to bring me some refreshments. The waiter looked very impatient.Seeing me drinking tea alone, he naturally didn't have to use all his strength.Besides, it was just after five-thirty, the most lethargic hour of the day.Most people have already had refreshments, but it's still too early to order food and drink. I don't just feel lost, I just feel lonely.I leaned back in my chair and picked up the poetry book.The book has been handled by fingers for a long time, and it looks quite old, so it turns to a page of its own accord, which must be read frequently. "Day and night, I run; year after year, I run; run, run, through the inner maze, through the tear glands, I run from the dog. Flying like flying, running away; a series of wild laughter came from behind, and the slopes and mountains were in front of my eyes. I plunge into the gaping abyss, and let fear bite my heart. Run, run, don't let the strong footsteps behind me knock me down. "①①A passage from The Tengu written by the British poet Francis Thompson (1859-1907). I felt as if someone was peeping through the keyhole of a locked door, so I slid the book aside.Which "tengu" drove him up the mountain this afternoon?I thought of his car, parked only half a car from the two-thousand-foot abyss; I thought of the bewildered look on his face.What footsteps echoed in the depths of his mind?What kind of soft-spoken?What past events aroused his memories?Also, out of all the poetry collections, why did he bring this one in the car?I wish he wasn't so lonely; as for myself, I'd better not be a poorly dressed little girl in a sombrero school cap. The waiter brought tea with a stern face.As I chewed the buttered bread, dry as sawdust, I thought again of the path he had described to me that afternoon through the valley, with the scent of rhododendrons and the white pebbles of the bay, if he had been deep So much in love with all this, why come to Monte Carlo to seek this flashy momentary pleasure?He had told Mrs. Van Hopper that he had left home in a hurry without any plans.Before my eyes, I saw him running wildly on the valley path, and the "tengu" who tormented him was chasing after him. I picked up the poetry book again.This time, the book was on the title page, and I saw a commemorative inscription on it: "To Max-Rebecca, May 17th."The words are written in a rather remarkable italic hand.A small drop of ink was stained on the opposite blank page. It seemed that the writer, out of impatience, had flicked the pen to make the ink flow more smoothly.And when the ink dripped from the nib with small bubbles, it was slightly excessive, so Rebecca's name in thick ink stood out, and the strength of the pen was strong; the letter R that slanted to one side was particularly tall, compared with other letters.显得矮小。 我啪的一声合上诗集，把书塞到手套底下，伸手从近处的一张椅子里拿起一本过期的《插图》杂志，信手翻着。杂志里有几幅挺不错的洛埃河上古城堡的照片，并附有说明文字。我专心阅读这篇文章，不时参看照片。但是待我把这篇文章读完，却意识到自己一个字也没读进去。从印刷物中赫然盯着我的不是布卢瓦地方细长的城堡角楼和锥形尖塔，而是前一天范?霍珀夫人在餐厅里的那副尊容：猪一样的小眼睛向着邻桌扫去，五香碎肉卷串满了餐叉，停在半空不往哈里送。 “骇人的大悲剧，”她说。“当然，报纸上全是关于这出悲剧的报道。大家都说他从不谈论这件事，从不提她的名字。你知道，她是在曼陀丽附近的一个海湾里淹死的……”