Chapter 7 confession

The fog surged heavily, slowly swirling around him, driven by its own motion, since there was no wind.A thick, noxious fog hung in rings and rings; it rose and fell; no street lamps or car lights penetrated directly through it, though here and there there was some big shop window in the ever-moving fog Flickering spots of light cast across the curtain. O'Reilly's eyes were stinging from the constant effort to see the ground on the other side of his face.The optic nerve gradually fatigues, and vision becomes less precise as a result.He shuffled cautiously forward through the suffocating darkness, coughing.Only the muffled rumble of slow-moving vehicles convinced him that he was in a crowded city—and vague shadows groping in the dark as they hesitantly moved inch by inch toward an uncertain goal. , was magnified into a behemoth, appeared suddenly, and disappeared suddenly.

However, these shadows are people, and they are real.He is well aware of this.He heard their muffled voices, now near, now far away, always strangely muffled.He also heard the tapping of innumerable walking sticks, groping for iron railings or curbstones.These phantom silhouettes represent living beings.He is not alone. It was the horror of finding himself alone that haunted him, as he still couldn't move across an open space without help.He had this physical strength, it was his mind that let him down.Panic would overwhelm him halfway, and he'd shake and break, and he'd scream for help and run wildly—maybe into passing traffic—or, like "Having a tantrum," as he calls it in his Northern Ontario hometown, in front of the wheels rolling down the street.He was not quite cured, though in general he was safe enough, as Dr. Henry had assured him.

When he left Regent Park on the Tube an hour ago, the air was clear and clear, the November sun was shining brightly, the pale blue sky was cloudless, and it was conceivable that he could make the journey across the City alone. Itinerary, for a reason.He will leave for Brighton the next day for his final week of recovery: it was good to have such a small preliminary test of his abilities on a bright November afternoon.Dr Henry gave him detailed instructions: "You change trains at Piccatilly Circus - without leaving the tube station, mind - and get off at South Kensington station. You know the address of your friend from the Volunteer Ambulance Squadron .Have a cup of tea with her, and come back to Regent Park the same way. Come back before dark - six o'clock at the latest. It's better." He described exactly how and which turns after leaving the subway. Right, which bends left; it's kind of confusing, but it's a short distance. "You can always ask for directions. You can't go wrong."

But this unforeseen fog now obscured these instructions into a disorganized mess in his mind.The blindness of the eyes affects the memory.Besides, the Volunteer Ambulance Detachment friend had warned him that her address "wasn't easy to find the first time. The house was in the middle of nowhere. But use your 'backcountry' instincts and you might be better off than Any Londoner can find the place more accurately." Nor had she expected the fog. As O'Reilly walked up the stairs at South Kensington Tube Station, he entered darkness and thought he was still underground.A dark world surrounds him.Just a chilly thrill of damp air told him he was out in the open.For a little while he stood, staring - a Canadian soldier, from a clear, bright country home, now for the first time in his life face to face with what he used to read - a terrible London fog .He "appreciated" the novelty with great interest and amazement, and for about ten minutes he watched people come and go, wondering why the lights at the station died the moment they set foot on the street The light seemed to stop, out of their light—and then, with a sense of adventure—which required a little effort—he left the roofed building and plunged into the dark sea outside.

He repeated to himself the directions he heard—first right, then left, then left again, and that's it—and he checked every turn, assuring himself that it was impossible to go wrong.Slowly, he was on the right track, until someone bumped into him and suddenly asked him a startling question: "You know, is that the right way to go to South Kensington Station?" It was the suddenness that startled him; one moment there was no one there, and then they were face to face, and the next moment the stranger gave a polite word of thanks and disappeared into the darkness.However, this small startling interruption knocked out the memory.Has he made two right turns, or not?O'Reilly suddenly realized that he had forgotten the instructions he had memorized.He stood motionless, trying desperately to recover his memory, but each effort left him more uncertain than before.Five minutes later, he was as hopelessly lost as any city dweller who leaves his tent in the wild woods without marking his way in the bark to ensure he will find his way back again.Even the sense of direction, so strong when he was in his native forest, was completely gone.No stars, no wind, no smell, no sound of running water.There was nothing to guide him here and there, nothing but an occasional vague outline, groping, shuffling, appearing and disappearing in the swirling mist, but seldom coming to a point where it could actually speak. Within distance, let alone touch.He was completely lost, and besides, he was alone.

Not quite alone, though—that was his worst fear.There was a figure near him.They appear, disappear, appear again, and disappear again.No, he's not entirely alone.He saw these thickening processes, and he heard their voices, the cautious tap of their sticks, and the shuffling of their feet.They are real.They seemed to move around him, never getting very close. "But they're real," he said aloud to himself, exposing the weakness beneath his protective armor. "They're really human. I'm sure of that." He never argued with Dr. Henry—he wanted to get well; he was absolutely obedient and believed everything the doctor told him.But for these figures, he has always had his own opinion, because these shadows often include his own soldiers from the Somme River (the Somme River is located in northern France, 150 miles long, flows into the English Channel, and the tank was first used in fierce battles in 1916. used at the Battle of the Somme.), Gallipoli companions, and companions at the Maesport Horror.Of course he should recognize his partner when he sees him!At the same time he was well aware that he was stunned, in a state of disarray, and seemed to be half out of control, that his whole system of mind and body had been pushed into some kind of imbalance, which meant that the memory was inaccurate.real.He fully understands this.But, in that dazed and confused state, was it not possible for him to acquire another function?Wouldn't there be no gaps, broken edges, and pieces that couldn't be mortised and snapped together as usual?In a word, is there no crack?Yes, that's the word - crack.Also, is there no gap between his perception of the external world and his internal understanding of this perception?Is there no gap between memory and cognition?Are there no gaps between states of consciousness?These states of consciousness often fit together so delicately that the joints are normally imperceptible.

His state, he knew very well, was abnormal, but were the symptoms of his state unreal?These "cracks" cannot be exploited - exploited by others?When he used to see his "shadows," he used to ask himself, "Can't these be real, while the others—the shadows of people—are not real?" The question now revived again and again with great force in his mind.Are these figures in the fog real or fake?Was the person who had asked him the way to the station just a shadow? By his cane and feet, and as far as he could see, he knew he was on an island.Beside him stood a lamppost standing solid and straight, emitting a faint, flickering spot of light.Still, there was the railing, which baffled him, for his cane made distinct and continuous encounters with the metal pole.There should be no railings around an island.But he was evidently certain that he had crossed a frightful opening to where he was now.His confusion and confusion grew at a dangerous pace.Not far from panic.

He is no longer on the bus line.Occasionally, a taxi creeps past, and a small white patch on the window shows that it is an anxious face; from time to time, a covered wagon or wagon comes by, and the driver holds a lantern to guide the horses hesitantly. go forward.These cars comforted him, though they were few and far between.But it was the figure that caught his attention the most.He was pretty sure they were all real.They were as human as himself. Still, he decided he might as well be sure of it.So he tried one—a large man who seemed to pop out of nowhere and appeared before him. "Can you tell me the way to Morley Street?" he asked.

But the man asked at the same time, much louder than himself, and his questions were drowned out. "Hey, do you know the right way to go to the tube station? I'm completely confused. I want to go to South Kensington station." O'Reilly pointed him in the direction he had just come from, and the man was gone again, obliterated, swallowed up, not even the sound of his footsteps could be heard, it was almost as if—again, it seemed—the man had never Never been here. This made him extremely unpleasant and left him feeling even more bewildered than before.He waited five minutes, not daring to move a step, and then asked another figure, this time a woman, who, luckily, knew a place nearby.She gave him detailed instructions in the kindest manner possible, before disappearing with incredible speed and agility into the dark ocean beyond.The way she disappeared was frustrating, distressing: it was so impossibly hasty and sudden.Yet she reassured him.Morley Street, she said, was no more than two hundred yards from where he stood.He groped forward, step by step, leaning on his cane, across a dizzying open space, alternately kicking the curb with his boots, coughing as he did so , feel suffocated.

"Anyway, they're real, I guess," he said aloud, "they're both real enough. The fog might clear a little before long!" He was making a desperate effort to control himself.He was fighting, that is to say, and he was well aware of it.The only question is - the reality of those shadows. "The fog could clear any minute now," he repeated aloud.Despite the cold, his skin was sweating profusely. But, of course, the fog did not dissipate.There are fewer and fewer people.Not a sound of any wagons could be heard.He followed the woman's directions carefully, but now found himself on some back road apparently sparsely traveled even in the best of weather.There was a dull silence all around him.His feet could not find the curb, and his cane slashed through the empty air without touching anything hard, gripping him shiveringly and icily.He was alone, he knew he was alone, and what was worse—he was in another clearing.

It took him fifteen minutes to cross the open space, mostly on his hands and knees, forgetting that the cold mud stained his trousers and froze his fingers, he focused only on feeling The back and spine have a solid support again.It's an endless process.The moment of collapse was approaching, the scream had risen to his throat, and he was shaking uncontrollably, when—his outstretched fingers touched a friendly curb, and he saw the scattered light overhead Casts a flickering spot of light.He made a huge effort to straighten himself, and the next moment his cane was rattling along the railing.He leaned against the railing, panting and suffocating, his heart beating painfully, while the street lamp comforted him from a distance with its faint light, but the actual light was invisible.He looked this way and that way; the sidewalk was empty.He was engulfed in the fog-dark silence. But, he knew, Morley Street must be very near by now.He thought of the friendly, diminutive volunteer Ambulance Squadron he had met in France, and he thought of a warm, bright fire, a cup of tea, and a cigar.One more effort, he thought, and all this would be his.He boldly explored the way forward again, moving slowly along the railing.If things did go wrong again, he'd call for help, no matter how much he tried to avoid the thought.If he didn't have to walk across the clearing any more, if he didn't see figures appearing and disappearing, like animals that were born and lived in the fog, like animals in nature—he was more afraid of those shadows now than he was about him. Anything else was worse than even the fear of being alone—if that sense of terror—and a patch of fog darkened faintly under the next street lamp caught his attention and gave him a bite to eat. shock.He stopped.This time it wasn't a human figure, it was the strangely enlarged shadow of a pillar.No, it's moving.It's moving towards him.His body was hot for a while, and then cold for a while.It was a figure - next to his face.This is a woman. He suddenly remembered the doctor's advice, which had freed him from many phantoms: "Don't ignore them. Take them for real. Talk to them, walk with them. Then you'll soon prove they're fake. They'll leave you..." He made a brave, colossal effort.He is shaking.One hand clutched the wet, cold railing. "Lost as I was, ma'am?" he said tremulously. "You know where we are? I'm looking for Morley Street—" He stopped suddenly.The woman moved closer, and for the first time he saw her face clearly. It was deathly pale, and the bright, frightened eyes stared into his with a sort of bewildered bewilderment. First of all, it was her beauty that made him pause in the middle of his speech.The woman was young, tall and wrapped in a black fur coat. "Can I help?" he asked involuntarily, momentarily forgetting his fear.He was more than surprised.Her sad and distressed appearance excited a peculiar distress in his heart.She didn't answer right away, she leaned her pale face closer, as if to examine him, so close, really, it was hard for him to control the instinct to shrink back a little. "Where am I?" she asked finally, searching his eyes intently. "I'm lost—I'm lost. I can't find my way back." Her voice was low, and there was a strange pathos in it that strangely touched his sympathy.He felt his grief melt into a deeper sadness. "Me too," he replied, a little more confidently, "I'm also afraid of being alone. You know, I'm shell-shocked. Let's go together. We'll find a way together—" "Who are you?" the woman murmured, still staring at him with her big bright eyes, but the sadness in them didn't diminish in the slightest.She stared at him, as if suddenly aware of his presence. He told her briefly. "I'm going to have tea with a friend of the Volunteer Ambulance Squadron in Morley Street. Where's your address? Do you know the name of the street?" She didn't seem to hear him, or to understand him accurately; it seemed she wasn't listening. "I came out so suddenly, so unexpectedly," he heard her low voice, pain in every syllable; "I can't find my way home again. While I was waiting for him again— —" She looked around with a frantic expression that made O'Reilly long to wrap her in his arms immediately and keep her safe. "He might be there now—waiting for me right now—but I can't go back." Her voice was so mournful that it was only with an effort that O'Reilly kept himself from reaching out to touch her.He longed to help her, and in this longing he forgot himself more and more.Her beauty, the doubtful expression in her surprisingly bright eyes on her pale face, formed a great attraction.He became calmer.This woman is real enough.He asked her address, street name and house number, and how far she thought it was. "Do you have an idea of ​​direction, ma'am, an idea? We can walk together, and—" She interrupted him suddenly.She turned her head as if to listen, so for a moment he saw her profile, the outline of her slender neck, and glimpsed the jewels just beneath the fur. "Listen! I heard him calling! I remember..." She passed him into the swirling fog. Without a second's hesitation, O'Reilly followed her, not only because he wanted to help, but also because he dared not be left alone.The presence of this strange, lost woman comforted him; he must not lose track of her, no matter what happened.He had to run, she went so fast, right ahead, walking confidently and surely, turning right or left, crossing the street, but never stopping, never hesitating, her partner kept panting close behind Behind her, there is a growing fear of losing her at any moment.Her knack for finding her way through the thick fog was marvelous, but O'Reilly's only thought was to keep an eye on her, lest his own terror, which must return in the dark and lonely street, must break him.It was a wild and breathless chase, and he had difficulty keeping her in view, a vague, sprinting silhouette always yards ahead of him.Not once did she turn her head, did not make a sound, did not cry out; she hurried forward with firm instinct.It never once occurred to him how strange this chase was; she was his safety, and that was all he was aware of. But there was one thing he later remembered, though at the time he only memorized the details and didn't pay attention to it—a distinct scent of perfume she left in the air, and a perfume he knew, although he ran Can't remember its name when I read it.To him the scent was vaguely associated with something unpleasant, something nasty.He associates it with misery and pain.It gave him an uneasy feeling.More than that, he hadn't noticed it at the time, and couldn't remember—he certainly hadn't tried it—where he'd known about this particular scent before. Then the woman stopped suddenly, opened a gate and entered a small private garden - so suddenly that O'Reilly, who was following, almost ran into her. "You found it?" he called. "Can I come in with you for a while? Maybe you can let me call the doctor?" She turned around immediately.Her face, next to his, was pale. "Doctor!" she repeated in a terrible whisper.The word meant terror to her.O'Reilly stopped in surprise.For a second or two neither of them moved.The woman seemed petrified. "You know, Doctor Henry," he stammered, before he could speak again, "I'm under his care. He's in Harley Street." Her face suddenly brightened just as it had suddenly darkened just now, although at first the expression of bewilderment and pain still appeared in her large eyes.But there was no fear in it, as if she had suddenly forgotten what revived that fear. "My home," she whispered, "my home is here somewhere. I am near it now. I must go back—in time—for him. I must. He has come to me." Said At these particular words, she turned, walked up the narrow passage, and stood in the porch of a two-story house, while her partner, still recovering from his astonishment, was unable to move, or Come up with a word as the answer.He saw that the front door was ajar.It was opened earlier. For five seconds, or ten seconds, he hesitated, and it was the fear that the door would close and lock him out that made his will and his body decide.He ran up the steps and followed the woman into the dark hall where she had stood before he arrived, and in the darkness of the hall she had now finally disappeared.He closed the door, not knowing exactly why he did it, and knowing immediately with an instinctive feeling that the house he was now with the unknown woman was empty and unoccupied.In a house, though, he felt safe.The empty streets were his danger.He stood waiting, listening for a little while before speaking; he heard the woman go from door to door along the passage, repeating to herself in her low voice the sad words that can not understand. "Where is it? Oh, where is it? I must go back..." Then O'Reilly found himself speechless suddenly, and it seemed that with the strange words a lingering terror came up and blew on him in the dark. "Is she just a shadow after all?" the thought flashed across his numb mind. "Is she real—or fake?" Seeking relief in some kind of action, he mechanically reached out and fumbled along the wall for the light switch, and though by some miraculous luck he found it, no light came on when he pressed it. And a woman's voice came from the darkness: "Ah! Ah! I've found it at last. I'm home again—at last! . . . " He heard a door upstairs open and close.He's on the first floor now—alone.Then there was complete silence. In the conflict of emotions—fear for himself, lest his terror should return, fear for the woman who had brought him into this empty house, and now abandoned him on some mysterious matter of her own, The thing about her made him think of madness—the conflict that fascinated him for a moment, but he couldn't find an explanation for it.Is this woman real or fake?Is she alone or a "shadow"?The fear of doubt haunted him, deeply unsettling, revealing that unwelcome inner fear had returned, and he knew it was dangerous. What seemed to save him from the crisis, which would have had the most dangerous consequences for his brain and nervous system, was the obvious fact that he thought about the woman more than himself.His sympathy and compassion were deeply moved; her voice, her beauty, her anguish and bewilderment, unusual, inexplicable, enigmatic, all together formed a claim that drove the ego to the position of the background.And there was the fact that she left his details, went upstairs without a word, and now, in a closed room upstairs, found herself at last face to face with what she so desperately sought—and " It's together, whatever "it" might be.True or false, shadow or human being, the overriding impulse of his being was that he must go to her. It was this clear impulse that gave him the determination and strength to do what he was about to do.He struck a match, found a stump of candle, and by the flickering light he made his way down the passage and up the uncarpeted stairs.He moved carefully, stealthily, though he didn't know why.The house, he saw now, was indeed unoccupied; the dust-screens covered the piled-up furniture; and he glimpsed, though the door was ajar, the paintings hid the walls, and the pleated covers over the lamp-stands, looked It looks like a head wrapped in a turban.He walked forward slowly, firm on tiptoe, as if aware of being watched, noticing the Well of Darkness in the foyer below, and the odd shadows his movements cast on the walls and ceiling.The silence was unpleasant, but, remembering that the woman was "expecting" someone, he didn't want the silence to be broken.He reached the landing and stood motionless.As he shaded the candles to inspect the place, he saw that the doors on both sides of the corridor were closed.Behind which of these doors, he asked himself, was the woman, shadow or person, now alone with "it"? Nothing guided him, but an instinct that never delayed pushed him forward to seek.He tried a door on the right—an empty room, the furniture shrouded in dust covers, the mattress rolled up on the bed.He tried the second door, leaving the first open behind him, again an empty bedroom.He stepped out into the corridor again, stood for a while, waiting, and then let go of his throaty call, low but still echoing unpleasantly in the hall below: "Where are you? I need Help—what room are you in?" There was no answer; he was almost glad he hadn't heard any, for he knew full well that he was actually waiting for another sound - the "expected" sound of his footsteps.The thought of encountering this unknown third person made him shudder, as if it involved an encounter with his whole soul which he dreaded and which must be avoided at all costs.After waiting another second or two, he noticed that the candle-ends were nearly burnt out, and with a mood both hesitant and determined, he walked across the landing to the door facing him.He opened the door without stopping at the threshold.Holding the candle with outstretched arms, he walked in bravely. His nostrils told him he had found the right one at last, for he caught a strange smell, stronger this time than before, which sent a new shudder through his nerves.He now knew why the smell was associated with unhappiness, pain, and misery, because he smelled it—the hospital smell.Strong narcotics have been used in this room—and recently. Simultaneously with the sense of smell, vision also receives its information.Behind the door, on a huge double bed to his right, lay the woman in the black fur coat, which startled him.He saw the jewels on the slender neck; but he did not see the eyes, for they were closed—closed by death, he knew at once, and the body was stretched out and motionless.He stepped forward.A black trickle ran from parted lips, down the chin, and disappeared into the fur collar, a stream of blood.The blood was barely dry.It shines. Perhaps it was strange, when the horror of the imagination had the power to freeze him from head to body, while the sight of some real terror had the restoring effect.Seeing blood and death, and being in situations that were often horrific, if not downright horrific, was nothing new to him.He walked forward quietly, and touched the woman's cheek with his steady hand, its softness showed the warmth of life not long ago.The last coldness had not yet seized hold of the life-empty form, and its beauty, in its utter stillness, took on a new and strange sweetness, like a mysterious flower.Pale, silent, lifeless, it lay before his eyes, illuminated by the flickering light of his weeping candle.He turned up his fur coat and touched his heart that was not beating.An hour or two ago at most, he thought, the heart was still busy at work, the breath was passing through the two parted lips, the eyes were shining beautifully.His hand touched a hard nub—the head of a long steel hat pin, driven deep into the heart, all the way to the head. So he knew which was the shadow--which was real and which was false.He also learned what "it" meant. But before he had time to think or think about what he had to do, or even to straighten up from his bent over the body, there was the sound of the front door being slammed shut from the empty house below.Another fear he had forgotten for so long seized him at once—the fear of himself.His own shuddering terror came with inexorable force.He turned around, extinguished the candle, the hand holding the candle trembled violently, and rushed out of the room. The next ten minutes were a nightmare in which he could neither be his own master nor know exactly what he had done.All he was aware of was the sound of footsteps already on the stairs, approaching quickly.The flash of the flashlight was already on the banister of the stairs, and as the hand holding the flashlight rose, the shadow of the banister flew sideways along the wall.For a moment of frenzy he thought of the police, of his presence at the house, of the murdered woman.It's a sinister connection.No matter what happens, he has to run away without even being seen.His heart was beating wildly.He shot like an arrow across the landing and into the room opposite, and luckily he left the door of that room open.Apparently by some incredible luck, he was neither seen nor heard by the man, who reached the landing a moment later, entered the room where the woman's body lay, and carefully turned the The door is closed. O'Reilly was trembling, afraid to breathe, lest he could hear him, seized by his own personal fear, an unhealed remnant of war shell shock, it did not occur to him to ask him, or not ask him to, what responsibility.He only thought of himself.He was aware of only one clear thing—that he must get out of the house without being heard or seen.He didn't know who the newcomer was, but miraculously, O'Reilly was sure that it wasn't him that the woman "expected", but the murderer himself, and now it was the murderer's turn to expect this third person.In that room, close at hand, was the man he himself had killed an hour or two before, the murderer who now concealed and awaited his second victim.And the door is closed. But it will open again at any time, blocking all escape routes. O'Reilly came out quietly, sneaked across the landing, reached the head of the stairs, and began to descend in the most cautious manner, at the risk of danger.Every time the bare plank creaked under his weight—no matter how sneakily his body landed on it—his heart stopped beating.He experimented with every step he took, putting as much weight as he could on the banister.A little more than halfway down, what he dreaded happened, and his foot caught in a protruding carpet seam; he slipped out on the polished floor—if he hadn't clung frantically to the railing , nearly falling headfirst, with a bang that seemed to him like the explosion of a hand grenade in a forgotten trench.Then his nerves broke down, and fear seized him.After the strong echo, and in the ensuing silence, he heard the upstairs bedroom door open. It was useless and impossible to hide now.He bounded down the last flight of stairs, four flights at a time, to the foyer and sprinted through, opening the front door, while his pursuers, torches in hand, were halfway down the stairs behind him.He slammed the door shut and headed out into the welcome, obscuring fog outside. The fog was no longer a terror to him now, he welcomed its cloak of concealment; it didn't matter which direction he ran, so long as he kept his distance from the house of death.Of course the man who was chasing him did not follow him into the street.He crossed the open street without a shiver.But he ran in a circle, though he didn't realize it.There was no one around, not a groping figure passing by him, no rumble of traffic reaching his ears, and when he finally stopped to catch his breath against the block railing, he found himself without his hat.He remembered now that when he examined the body, partly out of respect, partly perhaps unconsciously, he took off his hat and put it on—on the bed. It was there, in that house of death, revealing the inescapable evidence.A litany of possible consequences raced through his mind like lightning.Fortunately it was a new hat; luckier still, he had not put his name or initials on it; but the miller's mark was there, quite visible, and the police would come to him at once two days before Just go to the store where you bought it.Will the people in the store remember what he looked like?Will he remember his trips to the store, dates and conversations?He thought it impossible; there were many people who looked like him, and he had no outstanding features.他试图思考，但是他的头脑混乱而烦恼，他的心脏可怕地跳动着，他觉得极不舒服。他徒劳地想为他为什么远远离开家，没戴帽子待在外面的雾里找到借口。但是没有一个主意冒出来。他紧紧抓着冰冷的栏杆，勉强保持着直立，很快就会垮下去——突然一个人影从雾里冒出来，停下来盯着他，伸出一只手抓住他，然后说话了。 “你病了，我亲爱的先生，”一个男人友好地说道，“我能帮点什么忙吗？来，让我帮你。”他立即看出这不是个酒鬼。“来，抓住我的胳膊，好吗？我是个医生，而且幸运的是，你正好在我的房子外面。进来。”他半拉半推着奥雷利——后者现在濒临崩溃，上了台阶，用大门钥匙开了门。 “突然病了——在雾里迷了路……吓着了，但是很快就会没事了，非常感谢——”奥雷利结结巴巴地表示着感激，已经觉得好点儿了。他陷在门厅的一把椅子里，医生则放下他一直拿着的一个纸包，很快领他到了一个舒服的房间里；炉火明亮地燃烧着；电灯用罩子遮着，令人愉快；一瓶威士忌和一个苏打水瓶立在一个大扶手椅旁边的小桌子上；奥雷利还没找到话说，另一个已经给他倒了一杯，请他慢慢呷着，若是感觉还不太好，就不必费心说话。 “这会让你恢复过来的。最好慢慢喝。你绝不应该在这么一个晚上出来。如果你还要走很远，最好在我这儿留宿——” “您太好了，太好了，真的，”奥雷利喃喃道，有一个他已经喜欢而且甚至感到被吸引的人在场，他感到安慰，恢复得很快。 “一点不麻烦，”医生回答说，“我一直住在前面，你知道。我能看出你是什么病——弹震症，我肯定。” 奥雷利对医生的快速诊断印象颇为深刻，也注意到了他的老练和友好。比如说，他就没有提没戴帽子的事。 “很对，”他说，“我在哈雷街和亨利大夫在一起，”他补充说了几句有关他的病的情况。威士忌起了作用，他渐渐恢复了，每分钟都感到越来越好。医生递给他一支雪茄；他们开始谈他的症状和恢复情况，他的信心又部分回来了，虽然他仍然觉得吓得够呛。医生的态度和个性给了他很大帮助，因为医生的脸上显出力量与和善，但是他的容貌也显出不同寻常的果断，只是在明亮而引人注目的双眼中突然闪过一丝痛苦的影子使他的容貌偶尔变柔和了。这张脸，奥雷利想，是一个见识过很多而且可能经历过地狱磨炼的人的脸，但是也是一张单纯、好心而真诚的人的脸。不过这是一个不可轻视的人；在他的温和后面有某种非常坚决的东西。这种品质和性格使奥雷利除了感激，还唤起了他的尊敬。他的同情心被激起来了。 “你还让我敢于做另一个猜测，”对病人的状态做了成功的现场观察以后，医生说道，“你有，明确地说，就在最近你受过一次严重的惊吓，而且”——他犹豫了仅仅一霎——“它对你来说是个解脱，”他继续说着，声音里富有技巧的暗示奥雷利没有注意到，“而且如果你能向——某个人——某个会理解你的人表白你自己，会是很明智的。”他带着友好而十分和善的微笑看着奥雷利。“也许，我不合适吧？”他用柔和的声调问着。 “某个会理解的人，”奥雷利重复着，“这正是我的烦恼。你说中了。一切都这么难以置信。” 医生微笑着。“越是难以置信，”他建议说，“你越是需要表白。压抑，你可能知道，像这种情况下是危险的。你认为你藏住了它，但是它等待时机，以后会冒出来，造成很多麻烦。你知道，自白——”他强调着这个词——“自白对于灵魂有好处！” “你说得太对了。”奥雷利表示同意。 “现在，如果你能够的话，让你自己把它对某个愿意听而且愿意相信的人说出来——，比如，对我说。我是个医生，对很多事情都熟悉。当然啰，我会把你说的一切作为专业秘密；而且，因为我们是陌生人，我相信还是不相信都没有什么特别重要的。不过，在你没说以前，我可以提前告诉你，我想我能保证——我会相信你要说的一切。” 奥雷利于是没再费周折，说了他的故事，因为这个富有技巧的医生的建议找到了一块合适的土壤来植入。在叙述过程中，主人的眼睛没有一次离开过奥雷利的眼睛。他的身体纹丝不动。他的兴趣似乎非常强烈。 “有点儿荒诞，对吗？”奥雷利讲完他的故事以后说道。“而且问题是——”他刚要滔滔不绝地继续说下去，医生立即打断了他。 “奇怪，是的，但是并非难以置信，”医生插话说，“我看不出有任何理由不相信你告诉我的事情，哪怕是一个细节。据我个人经验所知，和这同样不同寻常，同样难以置信的事在所有大城市都发生过。我可以告诉你一个例子。”他停了一下，但是奥雷利充满兴趣而好奇地直盯着他的眼睛，没有做任何评论。“一些年以前，事实上，”医生继续说，“我知道一个非常类似的情况——奇怪地类似。” “真的！我会非常感兴趣——” “类似得简直像个巧合。可能轮到你发现自己很难相信了。”他又停顿了一下，奥雷利则在椅子上向前倾身听着。“是的，”医生慢慢继续道，“我想每个与它有关联的人现在都死了。我没有理由不说出它，因为心心相换，你知道。它是在布尔战争的时候发生的——那么久了，”他强调着补充道。“从某方面看它真的是个很普通的故事，虽然从另一方面看很可怕，但是一个在前方服兵役的人会理解而且——我肯定——会同情。” “我相信如此，”奥雷利爽快地答道。 “我的一个同事，现在已经死了，正如我提到过的——一个外科大夫，有一个大诊所，和一个年轻的有魅力的姑娘结了婚。他们一起快乐地生活了几年。他的财产让她过得很舒适。他的诊室，我得告诉你，离他的房子有些距离——正如应当如此的那样——因此她从不会被他的病案打搅。然后战争来了。像许多其他人那样，虽然早过了服兵役的年龄，他还是自愿报了名。他放弃了赚钱的诊所，去了南非。他的收入，当然啰，断了；大宅子关闭了；他妻子发现她快乐的生活在相当大程度上被剥夺了。看来，她认为这是一个非常艰难的境况。她对他怨声载道。她全无想象力，也没有牺牲的精神，是一种自私类型的人，不过，她仍然是一个美丽而有吸引力的女人——而且年轻，必然就有情人突然出现来安慰她。他们计划一起私奔。他很富有。他们认为日本会很合适。只是，由于某种坏运气，丈夫得到了风声，就在关键时刻赶到了伦敦。” “摆脱她，”奥雷利插话说，“我想。” 医生等了一会。他呷着杯中的酒。然后他盯着奥雷利脸的眼睛有些严酷了。 “摆脱她，是的，”他继续说，“只是他决定摆脱得彻底。他决定杀死她——和她的情人。你知道，他爱她。” 奥雷利没做任何评论。在他自己的国家对于不忠女人的这种做法也并非不为人知。他的兴趣很专注，但是他听的时候也在思考，极力思考。 “他精心计划了时间和地点，”医生小声地继续说着，好似他可能会被人听见。“他知道，他们在现在已经关闭了的大宅子里会面，他和他年轻的妻子在他们顺利的时候曾度过如此快乐的岁月。但是计划在一个重要的细节上失败了——女人在约定的时间来了，但是她情人没有来。她发现死亡正等待着她——这是无痛死亡。然后，她的情人，预定半小时以后到来的，根本没有来。门有意为他开着。宅子是黑暗的，它的房间都关上了，无人居住；甚至没有看管的人。那是一个浓雾的夜晚——就像今天晚上。” “另一个人呢？”奥雷利用变衰弱的声音问，“那个情人——” “有一个人确实进来了，”大夫平静地继续说，“但不是那个情人。这是一个陌生人。” “一个陌生人？”奥雷利低语着，“那么那个外科大夫——他一直在哪儿？” “一直等在外面看见他进去——藏在雾里。他看见那个人进去了。五分钟以后他跟进去，想去完成他的复仇，他的正义行动，不管你愿意怎么叫它。但是进去的那个人是个陌生人——他是偶然进去的——就像你可能做过的那样——去躲避雾——或者——” 奥雷利虽然费了很大努力，还是突然站了起来。他有一种可怕的感觉，他觉得面对着他的这个人是疯子。他有一种强烈的愿望想到外面去，不管有雾没雾，离开这间屋子，躲开这动人的声音那安静的口音。威士忌还在他的血管里起作用。他不觉得缺少信心。但是他很困难地才说出话来。 “我想我现在最好离开，大夫，”他笨拙地说，“但是我觉得必须谢谢你的好意和帮助。”他转过身，牢牢盯住正对着他的那双锐利的眼睛。“你的朋友，”他悄声问，“那个外科大夫——我希望——我的意思是，他被抓住了吗？” “没有，”这是庄严的回答，大夫站在他面前，“他没有被抓住。” 奥雷利等了一下才做出另一个评论。“那么，”他终于说，但是声音比以前大得多，“我想——我很高兴。”他没有握手就向门口走去。 “你没有戴帽子，”他身后的声音提醒道，“如果你等一下，我去拿一顶我的。你不用费心还回来。”大夫走过他身边，走进门厅里，传来撕纸的声音。奥雷利过了一会儿头上戴着帽子离开了宅子，但是直到他半个小时以后到达地铁站，他才意识到那是他自己的帽子。