Chapter 15 little john thirteen

The clear and warm sunlight of the first spring morning filled the metropolis.A clear light came into the little room where John lived; on the low ceiling was a great bar of light, a reflection of the water of the rippling canal, trembling and flickering. John sat at the window in the sunlight, looking out at the metropolis, and now it was an entirely different scene.Gray fog, replaced by bright blue sunlight, enveloped the end of the long street and the tower in the distance.The light of the stone-flaked roofs shone silvery; all the houses pierced the daylight with clear lines and bright sides—a warm rendering in the pale blue sky.The water also seemed to be alive.The brown shoots of the elm were fat and shiny, and the noisy sparrows fluttered among the branches.

John was in a strange mood as he watched.The daylight put him in a sweet stupor.Among them are forgotten and unspeakable joys.In his dream, he stared at the sparkling waves, the plump elm buds, and listened to the chirping of sparrows.In this stereo is great joy. He hasn't been so gentle for a long time; he hasn't felt so happy for a long time. This is the sunshine of the past that he recognized again.It was the free sun that used to call him to the garden, so he sat in the shade of an old wall on the warm ground—for a long time, enjoying the warmth and radiance, while gazing at the green grass stalks in front of him.

It was good for him in the silence, the silence gave him a definite sense of home,—as he remembered, in his mother's wrist, all those years ago.He does not weep or dream, but must think about all the past.He sat still, dreaming, wishing for nothing but the presence of the sun. "Why are you sitting like this, John?" cried Piercing. "I don't allow dreams, you know." John raised his ecstatic eyes imploringly. "Give me a while longer to stay like this," he begged, "the sun is so good." "What will you find in the sun, hello?" Chuan Chiu said. "It's nothing but a big candle, and it makes the same difference whether you sit by the candlelight or the sun. Behold! That shadow and light in the street,--that is, a candle that burns quietly without flickering. And that light is but a tiny little flame shining on a tiny point in the world. There! Over there! Beside the blue, above and below us, is Dark, cold and dark! There is night, now and forever!"

But his words had no effect on John.The still warm light of day penetrated him, and filled his whole soul,--peace and clarity in him. Chuanzhuo took him to Dr. Number's cold residence.While the image of the sun was still floating in his mind, it gradually dimmed, and at noon, it was utterly gloomy for him. But at night, when he walked the streets of the city again, the air was stuffy and filled with damp spring air.All the scents were ten times stronger, and in this narrow street, he was embarrassed.But in the open space he sprouts new shoots of grass and woods.In the city, he saw spring, in the calm little clouds in the tender red of the western sky.

Dusk spreads a tender, soft silver-gray veil over the city.The street is silent, only in the distance there is a hand organ playing a mournful rhythm--the houses all throw up the same black shadows towards the red evening sky, like countless arms, stretching out on high Their tips and puffs come out. It was to John, like the benign smile of the last sun on a metropolis—as benign as a smile that forgives a folly.The slight warmth came to caress John's cheeks. Then sorrow crept into John's heart, so heavy that he could no longer walk, and had to stretch his face to the far sky and take a deep breath.Spring was calling him, and he heard it too.He wants to answer, he wants to go.All this in him is regret, love, forgiveness.

He gazed upward with great fascination.Tears welled up from his fuzzy eyes. "Go ahead, John! Don't be in a daze, people are watching you," Chuan Chiu said. Long, monotonous rows of houses stretched out dimly and dimly to either side.It is a distress in the mild air, a cry in the sound of spring. People sit on the steps inside the door to enjoy the spring.It seemed like a mockery to John.The filthy door is wide open, and the muddy space awaits those people.In the distance there was still the mournful tune of the accordion. "Heh, I can fly away from here, far away, on the hill, on the sea!"

Yet he still had to be with the tall hut, and he lay awake all night. He always missed his father, and the long walks with him--if he came ten paces behind him, his father would write him letters in the sand.He always missed the place where the peanuts were among the bushes, and the day he went to search with his father.All night long he saw his father's face as before, looked at him in the quiet light of night, and listened to the sound of his pen as he wrote. So he asked for a drill every morning, and returned him to his hometown, to his home and his father, to see the sand hill and the garden again.Now he felt that he loved his father more than Presto and his little house before, because now he only prayed for him.

"Then just tell me, what's the matter with him, I've been away for so long, is he still annoying me?" Chuan Chiu shrugged. ——"Even if you knew, what good would it do you?" Spring passed, calling him louder and louder.Every night he dreamed of the dark green moss on the hillside, the sun shining through the tender new leaves. "God can't go on like this for long," thought John, "I'm going to give up." Whenever he couldn't fall asleep, he would get up gently, go to the window, and stare into the dark night.He saw how the small steaming fuzzy clouds slowly slipped past the moon and floated peacefully in the soft sea of ​​light.He thought, in that distance, how Gangfu was sleeping in the sultry night!In the deep grove, there will be no sound of new leaves, and the moist berry moss and fresh birch branches will smell fragrant. How proud it must be.He seemed to hear in the distance the melodious chorus of the toad, floating over the field full of secrets, and the song of the only bird, enough to accompany the solemn silence, which sang so lowly and plaintively begins, and breaks off so abruptly that the silence seems even stiller.Birds are calling to him, everything is calling to him.He leaned his head against the window sill and sobbed into his arm.

"I can't!—I can't bear it. If I can't go, I must die." When Chuan Chuan woke him up the next day, he was still sitting in front of the window, where he had fallen asleep, with his head resting on his arm. —— The days passed, long and hot,—and without change.Yet John is not dead, and he should still bear his pain. One morning Dr. Number said to him: "I'm going to see a patient, John, would you like to come with me?" Dr. Numbers had a reputation for learning, and many people came to ask for his help regarding sickness and death.John had been with him many times.

Chu Chuan was unusually happy this morning.He was always doing handstands, dancing, somersaults, and all kinds of crazy jokes.He couldn't stop snickering very secretly, like a man ready to startle. But Doctor Number was just as serious as usual. They walked a long way that day.By rail, but also on foot.John has never been outside together. This is a warm, happy day.John looked out from the car, and the vast green pasture, with its ready-to-fly grass and grazing livestock, ran past him.He saw white butterflies fluttering over the flower-filled fields, and the air shivered with the heat of the sun.

But suddenly he was startled: there were long, undulating hills spread out in that place. "Oh, John," Chuan Chuan snickered, "then it's going to suit you, just see!" John stared at Shagang dubiously.The sand hills were getting closer.It seems that the long ditches on both sides are revolving around their axes, and several houses are rushing past them. Then came the trees: the dense chestnuts, in full bloom, with thousands of great flower-houses, red and white, the dark blue-green firs, the tall and majestic lindens. This is the sand hill where he must see him again.The train stopped—and the three of them walked under the shady branches. This is the dark green berry moss, this is the sun's dots on the woodland, this is the fragrance of birch and pine needles. "Is this real?—Is this reality?" thought John. "Happiness is coming?" His eyes lit up and his heart beat loudly.He was close to believing in his happiness.These trees, this ground, he is very familiar with - he has been in and out of this forest road many times. Only they are on the road, no one else.Yet John will look back as if someone had followed them.He also seemed to see a dark figure from among the oak branches, and he couldn't see clearly at every corner at the end of the road. She stared at him ambiguously and menacingly.Dr. Numbers strode forward, looking at the current ground. The road is more familiar to him, and he believes it more. He knows every clump of grass and every stone.John was suddenly and violently startled, for he was standing in front of his own dwelling. The chestnut tree in front of the house spread its leaves as large as hands.Up to the top of the tallest branches above, among the dense round clumps of leaves, there are gorgeous white flowers. He heard the familiar sound of the door opening—and he felt the smell of his own dwelling again.Then he recognized every approach, every gate, every point—with a painful feeling of leaving home.Everything that was there was part of his life, his lonely and memorable life as a child.For all these things, he used to talk to them, live with them in his ideal life, and here he would never let anyone else in.But now he felt detached from all these old houses, pushed away, connected to their rooms, their entrances and corners.He felt that the separation was extremely irretrievable, and his mood was as desolate and mournful as when he was visiting a cemetery. If only Presto had jumped to meet him, it might have made it a little less unholy, but Presto must have run away, or died. But where is the father? Looking back at the open door and the garden outside in daylight, he saw that the man, who seemed to have followed them along the road, was now approaching the house.He was getting closer and closer, and the approach seemed to only increase.As he approached the door, a large, cold shadow filled the doorway.John then recognized the man. There was dead silence in the room, and they went up the stairs in silence.There's a step that's always going to rattle,--John knows that.Now he also heard how three echoes were heard—the echoes were like groans of pain.But at the fourth step, it was like a faint hiccup. And John heard a panting from above, low and uniform, like the movement of a slow clock, a painful and terrible sound. The door of his little room stood wide open.John cast a timid glance quickly.The strange pattern on the carpet stared at him in amazement and relentlessly, and the clock stood silently. They went into the room from which the sound came.This is my father's bedroom.The sun shone cheerfully on the lowered green curtains of the bed.Simon, the cat, sat in the sunlight on the windowsill.The whole room was filled with the melancholy smell of wine and camphor.A low sob came from nearby now. John heard the murmur of soft voices and the whisper of careful footsteps.So the green curtain was fiddled with. He saw his father's face, which he had seen often before his eyes these days.But it's completely different.Gone is my darling's stern look, but staring terribly.Pale, with shades of grey.See the whites of the eyes under the half-closed lids, and the teeth in the half-open mouth.His head was sunk in the pillow, and he raised it with every groan, and then fell to the side wearily again. John stood erect in front of the bed, staring at the familiar face with his wide and stiff eyes.What he was thinking, he did not know—he dared not touch with his fingers, he dared not shake those old, withered hands that lay wearily on the white linen. Everything around him was darkened, the sun, the bright house, the green outside, and the sky, ever so blue,—everything, that was behind him, was dark, dark, dimly, and impenetrably.That night, too, he saw nothing but a pale head ahead.He should go on thinking of the poor head, which looked so weary, and which must always be raised again with the sound of pain. The regular movement changed in an instant.The moans stopped, the eyelids slowly opened, the eyes stared around in an exploratory manner, and the lips wanted to express something. "Good day, Father!" John whispered, and trembling with terror, looked into those searching eyes.Then the sleepy eyes looked at him for a moment, and a tired smile appeared on the sunken cheeks.The thin shriveled hand was raised from the sackcloth, made an indistinct movement towards John, and fell powerlessly again. "Oh, what!" Zhuan Qiao said, "It's just a scene of sorrow and lamentation!" "Get out of the way, John," said Dr. Numbers, "we should see what we have to do." The doctor started to check, but John left the bed and stood at the window.He gazed at the sunny grass and the clear sky, and the broad chestnut leaves on which sat the fat blueflies, glistening in the daylight.The moaning broke out again with that regularity. A black bald bird hopped among the tall grasses in the garden--big, red-and-black butterflies circled the flower-beds, and out of the branches of the tall trees, out of the tender hooks of wild pigeons, came to John in the ears. It was still the moaning inside, always, always.He must listen,--and it comes uniformly, without change, like a falling drop that drives a man mad.He waited tensely for each interval, and it always happened again--the approaching footsteps as terrible as death. And outside it was a warm, pleasant day and night.Everything is in love and enjoyment.With sweet joy the grass quivered and the leaves rustled,--high on the treetops, deep in the writhing blue, floated a heron, placidly beating. John didn't understand this, and all of this was a mystery to him.His soul is so confused and dark. — "How come it all comes to me at the same time?" he asked himself. "Am I really him? Is this my father, my own father?—mine, my John's?" To him, it seemed that he was talking about someone else.Everything was the story he had heard.He heard a man speak of John, of the house in which he lived, of his father whom he had left and was dying.He himself is not that him, he has heard the talk.It's a sad story in general, very sad.But he has nothing to do with it. yes! --yes!It is!He himself is that he, he!John! — "I don't understand the thing," said Dr. Numbers, as he rose, "it's a symptom of a problem." Zhuo Chuan stood next to John. "Won't you come and see, John? It's an interesting thing. The doctor doesn't understand it." —"Put me down," said John, without looking back, "I can't think." But Chuanzhuo stood behind John, whispering to him, and as usual pierced into his ears. "Don't want to?—You believe it, can't you think? That's your mistake. You should think. Even if you look at the green and blue sky, it's useless to you. Xuan'er always doesn't come. And the sick people over there are going to die no matter what. You can see that very clearly, just like us. Can you think about his troubles?" "I don't know that, I don't want to know that." John was silent, and listened to the groan, which sounded like a low, scathing whine.Dr. Numbers wrote a little sketch in a little book.At the head of the bed sat the dark image that had followed them. ——He lowered his head, stretched out his long arms to the patient, and fixed the clock with his sunken eyes. The sharp whispers broke out in his ears again. "Why do you look so forlornly, John? You do have your will. There's sand hills across, there's sunlight on the green bushes, there's birds singing and butterflies fluttering. What more do you wish for?" Well, wait for Xuan'er? If he is somewhere, then he must be there, and why doesn't he come?—Is he too afraid of the dark friend who is around the head? But he is always there over there." "Can you see that everything is imagination, John?" "Can you hear that groan? It's a little fainter than before, and you can hear it going to stop soon. So, what to do? When you were running around among the roses outside, you used to There have been so many groans. Why do you stand here, mourning, instead of going to the sand hills as you were before? Behold! There is all blooming, fragrant, and singing, like nothing As if by accident. Why don't you take part in all interests and all life?" "You were whining and yearning,—then I will lead you where you are going, and I will no longer tour with you, but I will let you go free, through the tall grass, in the shade , and let the flies swarm around you and absorb the fragrance of the tender grass, I will set you free, so go! Go for another spin!" "If you don't want to, then you still believe in me alone. Is everything I tell you true? Is it Xuan'er who is lying, or me?" "Listen to that moan!--so short, so weak. It's almost calm." "Don't you look around so terribly, John. The sooner it's calm, the better. Then there'll be no more marches, and you'll never go hunting with him again. For you go Now, with whom has he marched these two years?—Yes, you can't ask him now. You'll never know. You'll be content with me. If you'd known me a little earlier, you Don't stare so distressed now. You never do, like now. From your point of view, do you think Dr. Number is hypocritical? It will make him depressed, just like the one who snores in the sun Like a cat. And it is just. What is the use of such despair? Is this what the flowers teach you? If a flower is broken, they are not sad. Isn't this happiness? They don't know, So they are. You have begun and know a little, and then, for the sake of happiness, you should also know everything. I alone can teach you. Everything, or nothing at all." "Listen to me. It doesn't matter to you whether he's your father or not? He's a dying man—it's a common thing." "Do you still hear that moan?—very faintly, isn't it?—and this is coming to an end." John, in horrific embarrassment, checked into bed.Simon, the cat, jumped down from the window sill, stretched his limbs,—and lay down on the bed beside the dying man, whimpering. The poor, weary head had stopped moving--lying still, huddled in the pillow--but there were regular, short weary sounds coming out of the half-opened mouth.This, too, went down and was hard to hear. Then Death turned his dark eyes from the clock to the sunken head, and raised his hand.Then there was silence.A green shadow was cast over the stiff features.Silence, the silence of the vague emptiness! —— John waited, waited. —— But the regular sound never came back.End in silence, -- the big, whistling silence. At the last moment, too, the tension of listening ceased, and it seemed to John that the soul had been released and plunged into a black, bottomless emptiness.He fell deeper and deeper.Silence and darkness surrounded him. Then there was a piercing sound, as if it came from afar. "Oh, that's the end of this story." "Okay," said Dr. Numbers, "then you can take a look at what this is. I give it to you. I should go." Still half in a dream, John saw the gleaming knife. The cat made a hunched back, and as it grew cold beside its body, it sought the sun again. John saw that Chuanzhuo picked up a small knife, examined it carefully, and walked towards the bed. So John came out of the coma, and when Chuan Chiu walked to the bedside, he stood in front of him. "What do you want?" he asked.He opened his eyes wide because of the shock. "We're going to see what's going on," Chuanzhuo said. "No," John said, and his voice was as deep as a man's. "What's this for?" Chuan Zhuo asked with intense flashing eyes. "Can you ban me? Don't you know how strong I am?" "I don't want it," John said.He gritted his teeth and took a deep breath.He was sure of it, and stretched out his hand to him. But piercing came closer.So John grabbed his wrist and wrestled with him. He knows how penetrating and strong, and he has never resisted him.But he doesn't back down, he doesn't get discouraged. The knife flickered before his eyes, and he glimpsed red flames and sparks, but he did not relax, and continued to fight. He knew what would happen if he failed.He knew that, he had, had seen it before.But what was lying behind him, his father, and he didn't want to see that. 1 As they wrestled and wheezed, behind them lay dead bodies stretched out and motionless, as if lying down.In a moment of calm, the whites of the eyes are as clear as a line, and the corners of the mouth are raised, revealing a stiff toothy smile.Only when the two of them bumped into the bed during their struggle, their heads shook slightly back and forth. John was still holding on,—out of breath, he couldn't see.A blood-red veil was stretched before his eyes.But he's still standing. So the resistance of the two wrists in his grasp slowly declined.The tension in his hands lessened, the arms dropped languidly, and the clenched hands were empty. When he looked up, the piercing disappeared.Only Si Si sat on the bed and nodded. "That's right on your side, John," he said. "Will he come again?" John whispered.Death shook his head. "Never, whoever dares to treat him will never see him again." "Where is Xuan'er? Then, where will I see Xuan'er again?" The dark man looked at John for a long time.His glance was no longer terrifying--it was gentle and earnest: he attracted John like a great soul. "Only I can lead you to Xuan'er. Only I can find that book." "Then take me with you--there are no one here anymore--take me with you, like the others! I don't want to go down anymore--" Death shook his head again. "You love men, John. You don't know it yourself, but you love them forever. It's better to be a good man." "I don't want to—you just take me..." "No, no. You would—you couldn't be otherwise..." Then the long, dark figure became like a mist before John's eyes.It spread out into vague shapes, and a thin gray mist passed through the inner room and rose into the daylight. John leaned his head on the edge of the bed and wept for the dead. -------------------------------------------------- ------------------------------ 1. The matter of using a knife refers to medical autopsy.