Chapter 4 Chapter 4 War

From the moment I reprimanded old Mrs. Ferrer, I was a representative.As a man, I represent all the disinherited in the world.I have no proud and happy anticipation, I rebel against God and man in wrath.No more vague intentions hold me back.I know what I want to do.I'm going to protest, or I'd rather die. I'm going to protest, or I'd rather die.I'm going to kill Nettie!Nettie, she smiled and resigned myself to another.She now represents all the conceivable pleasures that I do not have, the imaginations of a lost heart in youth, the unattainable joys of life.Nettie, she represents all those who benefit from our so-called hopelessly unjust social order.I will destroy them both.When this is done, I'll shoot and destroy myself, and see what happens to me when I'm dead.

I made up my mind to do this, and I feel extremely angry.Above me, huge meteors soared skyward, flying triumphantly and proudly past the pale yellow moon, eclipsing the surrounding stars. "Let me destroy!" I shouted, "Let me kill!" I couldn't help shouting.My blood is boiling.It whets my appetite and makes me feel tired. For a long time I was prowling the heathlands for food.That road leads to the lower highlands.I talked to myself along the way.Night had fallen and I was plodding home, 17 miles, never thinking of resting.I haven't eaten anything since morning.

I guess I'm crazy.However, I can still recall my gibberish at the time. Several times as I walked, I lamented through light that was neither day nor night.On several occasions, I have reasoned incoherently with the God I call Almighty.But I'm always talking to that white ray of light in the sky. "Why am I here just to suffer the shame?" I asked. "Why did you give me insatiable pride? Why did you give me the desire to divide myself? Are you playing with me? In this world, you are Are you joking with your followers? I...even I would have more humor than this!" "Why don't you learn some decency of pity from me! Why don't you try to redeem it? Did I ever mess with those poor little people all day long? I dragged them around disgustingly dirty; Let him starve; let him hurt; make him suffer? Why should you? Your jokes are so dull. Try a smaller one, won't you? Try something that doesn't hurt too much joke."

"You say that's your intention! Your intention for me. You're giving me my innate grief. Oh! How can I trust you? You forget that I have eyes to find something else. Let me Go your own way! God! What's that frog under the wheel doing? Will that cat tear that bird to pieces?" After questioning the god like this, I stretched out a hand to the sky in a strange way, and said, "Quickly answer me!" A week ago, there was always moonlight in the sky.But now the light is low and hazy, and I can only make my way across the open space of the park by distinguishing between white and black ground.A low white mist fell less than three feet from the ground and hung over the grass in a haze.The woods rose ghostly from the far imaginary sea.That night, the world seemed vast, unreal, and strange.There seemed to be no one outside, and my somewhat hoarse voice was floating alone in the silent woods.Sometimes, I argue; sometimes, when I'm depressed, I stumble; sometimes, I feel violently tortured.

When I think of Nettie's sarcasm and sarcasm at me, of her and Ferrar's mutual support, suddenly, indifference explodes into bursts of rage. "I won't let it go!" I yelled, "I won't let it go!" After a frantic fit, I pulled the gun out of my pocket and fired it into the still night sky.Three times, I hit the target. Bullets whizzed through the air, and terrified trees spoke in fading voices of the atrocities I had just committed.As the gunfire slowly died away, the vast night sky gradually calmed down again, and then it was silent again.My shooting, my swearing, my blasphemy, my prayer... I pray again... everything is swallowed up by silence.

how to say?It was a suffocating roar that calmed and overwhelmed.It disappears into the peaceful, overpoweringly bright Kunitari.The sound of my gun, which woke up everything around, suddenly became loud, and then dissipated. I found myself standing, pistol still in hand, surprised to find that my emotions were saturated with something beyond comprehension.Then, I looked up, looked at the huge star in the sky, and stared at it for a long time. "Who are you?" I couldn't help but ask. I was like a man in an indifferent wilderness when I suddenly heard a voice.That voice also died.

As I walked through Clayton Heights, I remembered that I hadn't been able to see the hordes of people coming out of their homes all night to watch the comet.The little preacher who stood on the rubbish heap outside the temporary fence, exhorting sinners to forgive their sins before the final judgment, is no longer in the same place. After midnight for a long time, people all went home.At first, I didn't realize this.Later, loneliness and loneliness made me wonder.Because of the light of the comet, the gas lamps seemed to be dimmed.On the quiet main street, the little newspaper seller has closed his door to rest.However, a notice board was left out late into the night, with advertisements posted on it.

On the bulletin board, there is only one word, the letters are very dazzling, that is: "War". Just think about it!Empty rough streets, my footsteps, no one is awake, no sound, only me!I say this before the announcement, in the silence of people sleeping.In the haste the bulletin board was dirty.The notice was very clear, and the word was a bit abnormal, which made people feel surprised.It heralds the coming of a great disaster. "war!" I wake up from a state of calm, and often, an emotional rush follows. It was getting late and my mother was at my bedside.She prepared breakfast for me on an old tray.

"Sleep more, dear," she said. "You've been sleeping. It was three o'clock when you got home last night. You must be exhausted." "Look at that face of yours," she went on. "It's terribly white. Your eyes are shining... I was terrified when I let you in. You couldn't even stand on the steps." My eyes moved slowly to the pockets of my coat.There is something still there.She may not have noticed yet. "I went to Chaxhill," I said. "You know, maybe?" "Honey, I got a letter last night," she said, leaning closer to me, placing the tray on my lap, and kissing my hair lightly.At that point, both of us stood still, in that position.Her cheek just touched my hair.

I took the tray from her. "Don't touch my clothes, Mom." I said hurriedly as she walked towards my clothes, "My clothes are clean." Then, when she turned and walked away, I said in surprise, "My God! mom! just almost!I know, a little bit...now... dear mother, oh!Well, leave me alone! ’ So, like a docile servant, my mother walked away from me. How rudely the world and I have been exploiting this obedience! That morning, I seemed to be out of anger, and I was strong again in my grief.My will seems to be as strong as steel.Now love, hate, fear are all gone.I just feel so sorry for my mother for what's to come.

I wondered, as I ate my breakfast, how I found out about that place called Shaffermbury, and how I could hope to get there, when I had less than five shillings on hand. I dressed methodically, choosing a dress with the least frayed neckline.Shaved carefully.Then, I went to the public library to look up a map. Shavembury is on the Essex coast, a long way from Clayton. When I got to the station, I copied something from the train timetable.I asked a porter who wasn't too familiar with Shavembury either.However, the staff at the ticket office helped me.I racked my brains.Finally figured out everything I wanted to know. Then, I went to the street strewn with coal dust.At least I need two quid. I walked back to the public library, into the newspaper reading room, and pondered this question carefully.A new situation suddenly interrupted my train of thought.People seemed agitated by the morning news.The current atmosphere in the room is also very abnormal, there are more people than usual, and more people talking than usual. For a moment, I was a little overwhelmed.Suddenly, I remembered: "War, war with the Germans. That's right!" A naval battle is said to be taking place in the North Sea.Fuck him, I thought about my own business again. I'm reminded of Palod.Can I go talk to him and borrow some money from him?I weighed how sure it was. Then, I want to sell or pawn something.But that didn't work either. My winter coat won't cost me much even if it's new.Nor can I sell many shillings for my watch.It might be about the same if you add up the money for the two items. With conflicting feelings, I thought of the small storage box that my mother usually went to pick up the rent.She always goes there quietly so that no one will notice, and she always keeps it locked in the tea chest in her bedroom.I knew it was next to impossible for me to get money unsolicited from her.And, though I told myself that nothing trivial was important in matters of love and death, as soon as I thought of that tea-chest, I could not escape the vexing doubts and uneasiness.Is there no other way?Maybe try other ways first, and then beg her, and maybe get a few shillings more than I need. For the first time in my life, I thought calmly about the sons of men whose lives were settled, and I said to myself, "They're the ones who won't find themselves in the pawn shop. However, I'll make it through." " I feel that time flies, but I don't feel excited about it inside.Steady is fast.Palod used to say that.And I'm going to plan everything back and forth, and then aim for the distant target and hit it like a fired bullet. On the way home for lunch, I hesitated at a pawn shop.I decided to pawn off my watch for now until I find my coat. I ate my lunch in silence, thinking about my plans. Lunch is potato cakes, mainly potatoes, with some minced cabbage and minced bacon. After lunch, I put on my coat and walked out of the residence.At this time, my mother was washing dishes by the sink in the back. In a house like ours, the so-called sink is behind the kitchen in the living room, and it's dark and damp and smells disgusting.It was a basement.There was a coal cellar in the house, a dirty, dark pit with no cover.A lot of fine cinders spread from the inside to the uneven brick floor, and the pedals creaked.Our sink is dirtier than the average household.That's where you have to wash off the greasy after every meal.Cooling vapors hung in the air, and the smell of overcooked Chinese cabbage filled the air.Wherever pans and kettles are left, they leave a soot-stained mark.There were potato peelings on the sewer screen, and an indescribably disgusting amount of debris.The "sanctuary" of the room was the sink.It was a trough made of stone, with a firm layer of oil on it, which made people hate to touch it, and it was disgusting to even look at it.Above the stone trough is a cold water tap.The position of the faucet makes it splash when the water falls.This faucet is our water source.In such a place, to see a little old lady working slowly but very gently and selflessly.Her clothes were dirty, and the original color of her clothes had turned a muddy black-gray; her feet were worn with old boots that didn't fit well; her hands were rough and deformed due to constant work; her hair was unkempt... This is my mother.Seeing her, you must feel very awkward.In winter, her hands would become rougher and she would cough uncontrollably. I walked out while she was doing the dishes.I'm going to sell my coat and watch so I can leave her and fly away. I'm in a bind again when it comes to pawning two of my mortgageable items.I kind of didn't want to pawn my paraphernalia at Clayton because the pawnbroker there knew me and he led me to the shop where I bought the gun.If I did, I would let a person know too much about me.I ended up going to Clayton anyway.I forgot how much I got.I remember much less than what I paid for a one-way ticket to Shavembury. As a precaution, I went back to the public library to see if it was possible to shorten the trip by walking a dozen miles.My boot is so badly damaged that the sole of my left foot is about to fall off.In such a case, if I were to go in boots and drag them along, I would find that all my plans might be in vain.As long as I walk lightly, the boots will still work.I went to the shoemaker in Heck Street and he said it would take two days to fix the shoe. At five minutes to three I got home and decided to take the five o'clock train to Birmingham anyway.However, I still feel that money is tight, I want to sell some books or something, and I can't think of anything else in the house that can be sold for money.Mother's silverware: two silver spoons, a silver salt dish, pawned four weeks ago.But I still want to search. As I walked up the steps to the door, I noticed Mr. Gabitas had spotted me.He suddenly closed the red curtains, with a decisive look in his eyes, and then disappeared.As I was walking down the corridor, he suddenly opened the door in front of me and stopped me. I hope you can picture me as a big, depressed fool in simple clothes.The clothes were shiny in all the frayed places, and around the neck was a faded red tie and a piece of ripped linen, and the left hand was still in the pocket, as if to scratch. Mr Gabitas is shorter than me.His first impression on me is the same as his first impression on everyone.He is very smart.I think he wants to be like a bird.He has the charm of a bird.But, in fact, he lacked the vivid vitality of the bird, and the bird never panted.He was dressed in the clothes of the priest of the day.That attire seemed now to be the strangest of all the clothes of that old world.He was dressed in the cheapest cheap fabric, ill-fitting due to poor tailoring, and the long skirt accentuated his cylindrical shape and made his short legs even more apparent.He wears a pair of big glasses.There is a white tie around the neck, which looks a little dirty.Between two rows of not very white teeth dangled a pipe made of thorns.His complexion was very pale.Although he was only thirty-three or fourteen years old, he was already bald. He will seem to you the strangest of men, with complete disregard for the beauty of his body and the refinement of his manners.However, in the past, people accepted him and respected him.He lived until a year ago.However, his image in later years was different.On the afternoon I saw him, he was indeed a very slovenly, very clumsy, very inattentive little fellow.Not only was his attire queer, but, if you had stripped him naked, you would have seen his belly protrude from slack muscles and a good appetite.His shoulders were round and his skin had yellow blemishes. "Hello!" he said, pretending to be at ease, "I haven't seen you for a long time, come in and chat." The host's invitation in the living room was more like an order.I really want to decline, it's really not the right time to extend the invitation.But I couldn't immediately think of an excuse. "Okay!" I said reluctantly.So, I entered the door. "I'm so glad you could come in and have a chat," he added. "In this parish, it's hard to get many opportunities for wise conversation." I thought to myself: What kind of mind is he at ease?He showed concern for me with somewhat nervous attentions, speaking in a jerky way, rubbing his hands together, and rolling his eyes to look at me from behind his spectacles.I had a strange feeling as I sat on his leather couch.For some reason, it felt like I was sitting in Clayton's dentist's operating room. "They're going to make trouble for us in Beihai, it seems." He said, with a kind of innocent interest in his tone. "I'm glad they're going to war." There is an air of elegance in his room.This often makes me uneasy, and the atmosphere also makes me feel depressed.On the table under the window are scattered some photographic materials, as well as a commemorative photo album of his last trip to the mainland.On the shelf in the recess of the fireplace, upholstered in American cloth, are my once unbelievably large number of books... about eight hundred, including the packable clergyman's photo album and school and college textbooks .The small wooden shield with the University's coat of arms hanging above the mirror, and the photograph of Mr. Gabitas in his Oxford cap and gown on the opposite wall further suggest the owner's status as a scholar.In the middle of that wall is his writing desk.The writing desk is open.I knew that there was a sorting shelf for documents, which not only made Mr. Gabitas appear educated, but that he was a man of culture.There he writes about life advice.Organize articles entirely by yourself! "Yes," he said, and stood on the hearthrug. "The war is bound to come. If we fight it now, it will be over." He stood on his toes first, and then suddenly put his weight on the heels of his feet.He looked dismissively through his glasses at a watercolor painting his sister had painted.The painting is a bouquet of violets.The picture is on top of the sideboard.Inside the cabinet are his tableware, tea sets and oil boxes. "Right," he said, as if he was going to do as he was told. I coughed and thought to myself: how can I get out of here now. He asked me to smoke.That strange old habit!I refused.Then I began to speak of the horror of the strike in a trusting tone. "Wars and strikes are two different things," he said, momentarily serious.He said the miners were only on strike for the sake of the union, which showed that their wives and children had no brains.This made me want to stay here a little longer to argue. "I don't quite agree with that." I cleared my throat. "If the workers don't strike for the union now, if they break the strike, how are they going to get by if there's a layoff emergency?" To this he replied that the bosses could not get the highest wages when they were selling coal at the lowest price. I replied, "That's not the case at all. Bosses don't treat workers fairly. They have to protect themselves." Gabitas replied, "Oh, I don't know. I haven't been in Falls long enough. I'd say this can't just be settled by the bosses." "That's only on the workers' side." I extended his words. So we finally started arguing.I think it's a really exhausting argument.I have no way out now, and the tone of my speech has begun to become agitated.Mr. Gabitas' cheeks and the tip of his nose began to flush.However, there was no trace of his troubles in his voice. "You know," I said, "I'm a socialist. I don't think the world is just for a few people to sit and shit and piss on everybody else's neck." "My dear young man," said the venerable Gabitas, "I am one with you. Who is not? But that does not antagonize me." "You haven't seen the fatal weakness of the damned system. I've seen it." "Really?" he said, and there was a knock at the front door.Just before he could think of what to say, he heard his mother call to open the door. "Now...," I said, standing up, but he wouldn't let me go. "No, no, no!" he said, "this is only to collect money for Dorcas." He put his hands on my chest and wouldn't let me go. "We had an interesting conversation just now," he insisted. At this moment, Miss Ramir came in.She was an older lady who helped at Clayton Church.He greeted her and she ignored me and walked over to his workbench. I'm still standing by my chair, but I can't get out of the house. "I hope I'm not bothering you!" Miss Ramir asked. "No," he said, pulling out the tray and opening the workbench.I can't help but want to see what he's going to do. When I was worrying about not being able to leave him, I found that he was pulling out the money.Of course, this money has nothing to do with my morning schedule.I listened to his conversation with Miss Ramir with no interest.Out of the corner of my eye, when they were talking about Wallis, I saw what seemed to be a lot of guineas strewn about in the bottom of the drawer. "They're so unreasonable." Rami Miss Er was very angry.Yeah, who can live in a crazy society willingly? I walked away from them, put my feet on the mantel, and leaned my elbows on the plush-covered hearth, and began to notice the pictures, the pipes, and the ashtrays that adorned it.I was thinking, what is the thing I need to think about right away before going to the train station? At this time, my thoughts took a strange leap, as if I was forced to jump over a bottomless abyss... Then, I imagined that when Gabitas closed the drawer, the gold pounds seemed to be gone.This money is exactly what I need. "I don't want to disturb your conversation any more," Miss Ramir said, retreating towards the door. Mr. Gabitas saw her off politely, opened the door for her, and escorted her to the door.Just then, I had a feeling that those gold pounds were right in front of me. The front door was closed.He turned back again.My chance to slip past. "I have to go," I said.I have a strong desire to get out of this room. "My dear boy," he insisted, "I really don't want you to go. Of course, you must be in some hurry!" Then, obviously trying to change the subject of our conversation, he said: "We haven't talked yet. Berber's book." Behind the vague humility I expressed to him was a kind of anger.As if having to adapt to his thoughts.Why should I pretend to be inferior to him in terms of knowledge and social status.He asked me what I thought of Berbol's book, and if I had to, I decided to tell him haughtily, that way, maybe he'd let me go.I insisted on standing, but stood in the corner of the fireplace. "That little book you lent me last summer?" I asked. "He's logical, isn't he?" he said, pointing to the sofa with a smile and beckoning me to sit down. I didn't sit down again. "I haven't given much thought to his reasoning," I said. "He was one of the brightest bishops that ever lived in London." "Possibly. But he's duping people up with very flimsy facts." "Do you think so?" "I don't think he's that good. I don't think he proves what he says. I don't think Christianity is true. He knows he's a fool. His reasoning is worthless!" Mr. Gabitas, I think, is paler than ever.His usual kindness was gone.His eyes were wide open, and his mouth was also round, so surprised that even his face seemed to be deformed.He also frowned after hearing my words. "I'm disappointed to hear you say that." Finally, he took a breath and said.He stopped repeating his advice: I should sit down.He took a step or two toward the window, then turned around again. "I suggest you..." he said, with a touch of impatience, a touch of cultivated man's tolerance... He was restraining himself. I will not tell you what he argues, or what I argue.In general, reasoning from my thirty-five years of experience, I conclude that if my dialectic is bad, the esteemed Mr. Gabitas's is even worse. The blush on his cheeks grew and his voice changed.We interrupted each other more and more rudely.We invent facts, create things out of nothing, and appeal to the names of authorities whose names we cannot even remember.What a stupid argument!A ridiculous argument!You can imagine the sound of our conversation, like arguing. My mother was undoubtedly stopping in the stairwell, listening anxiously, as if she were about to say: "My dear boy, don't talk to him like that! Oh! Don't offend him! Mr. Gabitas enjoyed your friendship. Go think about what Mr Gabitas would say." Then, we still maintain false politeness to each other.The moral superiority of Christianity over other religions has long since brought it to the fore, and I don't know why.Because of our insufficient historical knowledge, we can only argue the matter with imaginary concepts.I denounce Christianity for its slave morality, and declare myself a disciple of a German writer.This person was unknown at the time, his name was Nietzsche. (Note: Nietzsche: 1844.1900, German philosopher.). As a believer, I have to confess that I am not particularly familiar with this man's writings.In fact, all I know about him is through two articles in last week's Horn...  But, the venerable Mr. Gabitas never read that kind of books.In spite of the author's characteristic critique of faith, which is promoted by noble gentlemen, I can tell you that I now have no doubt that the esteemed Mr. Gabitas had no idea that Nietzsche was Who. "I'm a Nietzschean," I said, adding further emphasis. He looked very embarrassed when he heard that name.So, I immediately repeated it again. "But do you know what Nietzsche advocates?" I deliberately laughed at him. "Someone must have refuted him completely," he said, still trying to avoid talking about this man he didn't know. "Who was he refuted?" I suddenly said harshly, "You might as well talk about it!" After finishing speaking, I retaliated cruelly. A sudden incident saved Mr. Gabitas from his distress, and at the same time, it aggravated my disaster. After I finished speaking, there was a sound of hooves and wheels squeaking outside, and then the car stopped, and I caught a glimpse of a driver in a straw hat and a pair of black horses.It seemed to be an extraordinary carriage to Clayton. "Hi!" said the respected Gabitas and walked towards the window. "Hey! It's Mrs. Ferral! It's Mrs. Ferral!? What does she want from me?" He turned to me, the blush from the argument gone.His face seemed to be illuminated by a red sun.It was evident that Mrs. Ferrer did not come to see him every day. "I've got a lot going on," he said, and then he almost grinned. "You'll have to allow me to say goodbye for a while! Then I'll tell you what I want to say. But don't go away. I beg you not to go away. I assure you . . . this topic is very interesting." He walked out of the room, waved his hand and made a gesture that he hoped that I would not leave. "You can't control me!" I yelled after him. "Don't, don't, don't!" came his voice from the corridor, "I already have the answer." I think he went on saying, "Totally wrong." Then I saw him run downstairs to talk to the old lady. I cursed secretly.I swear.I took three steps towards the window.That puts me within a yard of that abominable draw. I glanced at the old lady, and then I glanced at the old lady.I think she is so fat.And, in the blink of an eye, both her son's and Nettie's faces exploded in my head.No doubt the Stuarts were no longer distressed by that incident.Then I still date So what am I still doing here? What am I doing here when I can no longer see the truth? I suddenly woke up, as if new energy had been injected into my body.I took another reassuring look at the pastor's poor back, and at the old woman's protruding nose and trembling hands.I realized, without hesitation, I opened the little drawer, put the four gold pounds into my pocket, and closed the drawer again.Then I went to the window again, and they were still talking. Everything is going smooth.He probably won't watch the lottery again for a few hours.I glanced at the clock on the wall.I have 20 minutes.I still have enough time to buy a pair of boots before I go.But how do I get to the train station? I ventured out into the hallway, grabbed my hat and cane... and walked past him? Yes, just do it!Such an important person was talking to him, and he would not stop to argue with me.I boldly walked down the steps. "I would like you to make a list, Mr. Gabitas, of all circumstances of real value," old Mrs. Ferral was saying. "We'll make a list of temporary places," he was saying, and then glanced back at me worriedly. "I'm leaving," I yelled at him, "I'll be back in 20 minutes." Then, I move on.He turned to his master again, as if I didn't matter anymore.Perhaps, he wants me to leave. If anything I have changed, it is that as a result of this resolute and effective theft I have become remarkably calm, refreshed, and omnipotent.After all, my resolution was about to come true.I no longer feel invisible constraints.I feel like I can take my time and make it work in my favor.I'll go now to that little shoe shop in Hayker Street, and buy a pretty good pair of boots, ten minutes; then to the station, another five minutes; and on my way!I feel like my plan is perfect, and it has nothing to do with morality.I felt like what Nietzsche called Superman.But I never thought there would be a problem with the vicar's clock. I failed to catch the train. It was partly because the vicar's clock was running low, and partly because of the cobbler's business-mindedness, who let me try another pair of boots when I said I wouldn't have time.I bought the latter pair of boots and gave him the wrong address to send back the old shoes.As I watched the train pull out of the station, I just stood there dreaming of Nietzsche's Superman. Even then, I didn't lose my mind.I deduced almost at once that, if it was a quick pursuit, I should not get on from Clayton either.This will have great advantages.In fact, it would be a mistake to go by train, and it would be all luck.In fact, I've been sloppy in asking about Shavembury.With this clue, the clerk will not forget me.Now, this sudden accident prevented him from reaching his goal.So instead of going into the station at all, without making it look like I missed the train, I walked quietly over, down the road, across the little bridge, and then, aimlessly, along the White Brickyard's Distribution Station Go back up the trail that leads from Clayton Heights to Two Mile Station.There was enough time there to catch the six-thirteen train, I reckoned. I am calm and alert.If the vicar happened to be going to draw at once, he would not have imagined that there would be four short of ten or eleven guineas?If he remembered, would he think of me?If he thought that I took it, would he act immediately?Or wait for me to come back?Will he bother me if he acts right away?Or go to the police?There are a dozen roads and railroads out of the Clayton area, how would he know which way I'd go?If he went to the train station immediately, no one would remember that I left.The reason is very simple, because I missed the train.But would they remember Shaffermbury?This is also unlikely. I decided not to go directly from Birmingham to Shavembury, but to detour from there to Monk Sharpton, to Weavern, and then north to Shavembury.Maybe spend the night somewhere on the way.However, this would allow me to hide effectively without being detected by anyone, although, of course, there would be no escape from a close pursuit.After all, this is not a homicide case, but the theft of four gold pounds. Before heading to Clayton Heights, I adjusted my mood. When I got to the high ground, I looked back.What a world!Suddenly, I began to feel that this was my last look in this world.If I could catch up with the fugitives and succeed, I would die with them, or be hanged. I stopped and looked back more carefully at the hideous valley below. This is where I was born and raised.I'm leaving this valley.I think this is a farewell to me.And then, looking back one last time, the town that had birthed me, broken me, and made me seemed strange in some unspeakable way.Perhaps, I might be more used to reading it when the whole town is obscured by night and becomes hazy.Now, in the bright afternoon sun, the whole town is outlined in the smoke of Sunday, which makes me a little bit lost in it.或许，在过去一周多的时间里，我的情感经历中有什么东西使我领会了许多，使我能洞察到异常的事物，对人们普遍接受的事物置疑。但是，同时，我相信我是平生第一次开始注视到那些乱糟糟的煤矿、住屋、银行、铁路货场、运河、锻造厂、鼓风炉、教堂，大量的丑陋的冒着烟的起伏不平的东西。人们在那儿像垃圾箱里的青蛙一样没有怨言地生活。一切的一切是多么肮脏。各种事物都互相拥挤着，排挤着，摧毁着它周围的事物。高炉的烟气围绕着银行周围的泥土，教堂的圣徒们听着震耳欲聋的轰鸣，公共场所把腐烂变质的东西丢在学校的大门口，凄凉的住屋痛苦地被挤压在庞大的工业建筑物下。到处呈现出没有规则的愚昧，人性被人类创造的事物扼杀。所有有活力的事物都四处飘零，就像一只被击中的瞎了眼的动物在泥沼中挣扎，陷落。 那天下午，我头脑乱糟糟的，况且，心里想着去谋杀，我自问我怎么站到了这些事物的面前。我记下了我所认识到的混乱。尽管我已想到了它，但是，实际上，我当时只是感觉到了它。当我回头张望时，我只是瞬间感觉到了它。终于，我站在那儿，想到的事从我脑海里飞散了。 我将和那乡村永别了。 我要回到那里，无论如何，我不后悔。非常有可能我将在晴朗的天空下，死在那甜美的空气中。 从遥远的斯威星里传来了一点声音。那是遥远的人群发出的微弱的起伏声。然后是三声枪响。 这使我觉得出乎意料……不管怎么说，我要离开这儿了！ 谢天谢地，我要离开这儿了！就在我转身继续要走时，我惦记我母亲。 人们离开自己的母亲似乎就不再有美好的世界。一刹那，我是那样想念我母亲。在地下室里，在下午的日光中，她来回走着，却没有意识到要失去我了。在昏暗的地下厨房里，她弯着腰摸索着，或是举灯到洗涤处去清理了什么，或是耐心地坐下，眼睛盯着炉火，为我准备着茶水。我突然我舍不得这里，一股强烈的自责。我自问，到底为什么要做这样的事呢？Why? 我暂时停下来，那山正好在我和我的家之间，我真想回到母亲那儿。 忽然，我想起了牧师的金镑。如果我已经偷了它们，我还怎么回去？而且，就算我回去了，我又怎么把钱放回去呢？如果我放弃复仇，我的耻辱如何清洗？如果年轻的弗拉尔回来？还有内蒂也回来了，那又会怎么样？ No!我必须舍弃一样，换回我的尊严。 但，至少在我走之前，我本该吻吻我的母亲，给她留个信儿，至少让她别为我担心。这一整夜，她都会睡不着，她在留心仔细听，在耐心地等着我的归来…… 我是不是应该在两公里站给她发封电报呢？ 现在毫无办法了。太晚了，太晚了。这样做等于告诉她我走的路线，会把那些追捕的人引来。如果真有追捕的人，那肯定会很快追上我的。No.我必须也迫不得已伤害母亲。 我继续隐忍着思念朝两英里站走去。这会儿，好像某种更为强烈的愿望引导我走向那里。 天黑前，我到了伯明翰，正好赶上去蒙克夏普顿的火车。那儿就是我准备过夜的地方。