雙語(yǔ)·灼人的秘密 暴風(fēng)雨

“Was it all a terrible dream?” Edgar asked himself when he awoke next morning. His head ached and as his eyes travelled down his body he saw that he had gone to sleep in his clothes. He jumped up, and ran to the looking-glass. There he was confronted with a pale, drawn face, tousled hair, a red swelling upon a smudgy forehead. With an effort the child collected his thoughts, trying to remember what had happened. Yes, he had come to fisticuffs with his enemy, out there in the passage, sometime after midnight; had then rushed back to his room; had thought of decamping; had been overwhelmed by fatigue; had thrown himself on to his bed without undressing; and had fallen into a restless sleep,full of nightmares and the stench of freshly spilled blood.

In the garden below he could hear the sound of foot-steps on the gravel; voices floated up to him; the sun was high in the heavens. It must be late. He consulted his watch, but found it had stopped.

In his excitement he had forgotten to wind it up. Curiously enough this uncertainty as to the hour disquieted him more than anything else. He quickly undressed, washed, and dressed himself again. Then he went downstairs, feeling slightly guilty and very much disturbed.

He found his mother sitting in the dining-room over her breakfast. Alone, thank goodness. It was a relief not to have to look upon that hated countenance....But Edgar was not quite sure of himself as he stepped up to the table and wished his mother “Good morning.”

She gave no response, continuing to stare fixedly out of the window. Her face was very pale, deep shadows lay around her eyes, and her delicate nostrils quivered as they invariably did when she was greatly moved. Edgar bit his lips. Her silence puzzled him. Did she know who had attacked Otto von Sternfeldt in the passage? Had he seriously damaged the baron? Doubts assailed him and tortured him. Her sightless, staring eyes alarmed him even more profoundly; he was afraid to move lest they should suddenly be turned upon him; he drank his coffee and ate his roll with as little movement as possible so as not to attract her attention. He thought she must be exceedingly angry. A quarter of an hour went by, while he waited for something to happen. Not a word was spoken. Then, still behaving as though he were not present, his mother got up and went out. What was he to do? Remain sitting at the table, or follow her? In the end, he decided upon the latter course. She continued to ignore him, so that he felt more and more humiliated. He lagged behind, not knowing whither to go. In the end, he went up to the suite he and his mother occupied—but found the outer door locked against him.

Yesterday’s hardihood had completely disappeared; he had not a notion what to do. Perhaps he had acted badly when he fell upon the baron tooth and nail. Could they be preparing some terrible retribution or a fresh humiliation? He was convinced they were concocting a plan, setting a trap for unwary feet. There was a feeling about these two as when a storm is brewing and flashes of lightning speed from cloud to cloud. This burden of misgiving weighed heavily upon his spirit throughout the morning, and it was a very small and diminished Edgar who finally presented himself at the luncheon table.

“Good day,” he said, once more endeavouring to break the silence which hung like a threatening cloud over his head.

She looked through him, and again made no answer. Edgar now recognized how terribly angry she was, so angry, indeed, that she did not venture to speak. Never had he roused her to such a pitch of exasperation. The boy’s heart sank; he was genuinely frightened. Hitherto when she had scolded him it was, rather, an affair of the nerves than of the emotions, a summer storm that was quickly over and followed by an indulgent laugh. To-day he felt that he had stirred her to the depths, had aroused something wild and untamed in her nature, and he trembled in face of the forces he had unleashed. Hardly a morsel of food could he swallow; his throat as dry, his lips were cracked. His mother seemed unaware of his desperate plight. But when the horrible meal at last came to an end and they rose from table, Frau Blumental turned casually to her son and said:

“Come to my room, Edgar. I wish to have a few words with you.”

No threat in her voice, thank goodness! But, oh, how icy and aloof was her demeanour. Her words fell over Edgar like a cold douche and made him shiver. His defiance oozed away. Like a whipped cur, the child followed his mother in silence to her room.

She prolonged Edgar’s martyrdom by sitting for a while without uttering a word. Through the open window came the joyous laughter of children at play; but Edgar’s heart beat to suffocation. Frau Blumental, too, was ill at ease, avoiding her son’s eyes even when she began to speak to him.

“I don’t intend to tell you what I think of your conduct, Edgar. The mere thought of it horrifies me. You will pay for the consequences. But you are certainly not fit to mix with grown-ups and sensible people. I have written to your father and told him that your unruly behaviour needs stricter discipline than I am able to provide. I have suggested he find you a tutor, or that he send you to a boarding-school, where you will be taught your manners. That is all. I myself shall not bother about you any more.”

Edgar’s head sank on his breast. He knew that this was only a prologue, and that worse was in store. Frau Blumental continued:

“You will have to apologize to Baron von Sternfeldt....”

The boy trembled; but she was adamant, and refused him a moment’s pause for a protest.

“The baron left this morning and you will write him a letter to my dictation....”

Again Edgar made as though to speak, and again his mother went on precipitately:

“Not a word! Sit down. There is a sheet of paper and a pen....”

Edgar looked up at her. He read decision in her hard eyes. Never had she looked like this. He seated himself at the table, took up the pen, and bowed his head low over the paper.

“Date it. Done? Leave a line. Good. Now write ‘dear Baron von Sternfeldt.’ Comma. Leave another line. A little to the right, begin, ‘I am sorry to learn that you have left Semmering,’ two m’s in Semmering. Got that? Very well. Continue the sentence, after a comma, and that ‘I cannot say good-bye to you personally but only by letter’; hurry up, no need to write as if you were doing a copy. Full stop. ‘Also, I want to ask your pardon for my unseemly conduct last night. Mother told you that I am convalescent after a severe illness and am easily overwrought. That makes me do things for which I am very sorry afterwards....’”

The bowed back straightened; Edgar turned round, defiance blazing up anew.

“That’s not true; I won’t write...”

“Edgar,” cried his mother threateningly.

“It’s not true. I’ve done nothing to be sorry for. I’ve done nothing naughty for which I need beg anyone’s pardon. All I did was to run to your side when you called for help.”

Her lips blanched; her nostrils quivered. “I called for help? You’re crazy.” Edgar sprang fiercely to his feet.

“Yes, you did, out there in the passage, last night, when he caught hold of you. ‘Let go of me. Leave me,’ you said so loud that I could hear the words quite plainly from my room.”

“You are lying, my poor child. The baron and I were not in the passage. He merely saw me to the landing.”

Such a brazen falsehood took the boy’s breath away. He was stunned, looking at her with scared eyes, and stammering:

“You...were...not in...the passage? And he...did not...take...hold of you? Forcibly....against your will...?”

She laughed; a cold, dry laugh.

“Must have been dreaming, my boy.”

This was too much for Edgar. He knew that grownups lied, that they used funny words to express what was not true, told fibs, had recourse to strange ambiguities. But anything as bold-faced as this he was utterly unprepared for.

“And is this huge bump on my forehead also a dream?”

“How am I to know what other young jackanapes you’ve been fighting with? Come now, I don’t want any back-talk from you. Sit down and write.”

She had gone very pale, and was making a great effort to remain calm.

But Edgar crumpled up; a last faint ember of credulity and trust in his elders was quenched. How could anyone trample on truth so ruthlessly? He would not believe that a monstrous lie such as this could go unscathed. He rallied his forces, became cool and collected and bitter. An ironical, bantering, and sarcastic tone entered his voice.

“So I’ve been dreaming, have I? All that happened in the passage, this bump on my forehead-just a dream! And of course you and he did not go for a walk in the moonlight. Neither did he try to get you down a small dark path in the forest. Oh, no, nothing of that is true, is it? But did you really fancy I was going to allow myself to be locked into my room like a naughty child? Not such an ass. I know what I know.”

He looked her squarely and pertly in the face, and this saucy expression cowed her for a moment. It was dreadful to see hatred gleaming from the eyes of her only child. Then her anger broke loose.

“Enough! Write what I tell you, immediately otherwise...”

“Otherwise what?” he demanded peremptorily.

“Otherwise I’ll beat you as if you were in very fact a little child.”

Edgar stepped close up to his mother a jeering and challenging laugh issuing from his mouth.

Her hand was already raised and came down in a resounding smack upon his head. He uttered a yell of rage and surprise. Then, like a drowning man whose ears are buzzing, whose hands vainly strive to find some flotsam whereon to cling, he struck out blindly. Something soft and yielding countered his fists. Again he struck, this time upwards towards a blanched face. A cry...

The scream of pain brought him to his senses. What had he done? Something terrible, something unforgivable. He had struck his mother. Frightened, ashamed, disgusted, he wished the floor would open and swallow him up. He must get away from those horrified eyes. Away...away. Edgar stumbled towards the door, down the stairs, through the hall, into the forest. Oh, to get away, far away! He rushed along as if pursued by a pack of hounds giving tongue.