雙語·灼人的秘密 初步領(lǐng)悟

At length Edgar halted. His limbs, his body trembled violently that he had to support himself against a tree. His breath came quickly and spasmodically. What was he to do? Where could he go? Impossible to remain here, almost within sight of the house which had been his temporary home. He was forsaken, helpless. The world was a harsh and unfeeling place. Even the trees which but yesterday afforded shelter from the sun and had clustered round him in brotherly affection, now stood aloof and looked down grimly. The unknown lay ahead of him. His loneliness amid the vastness of nature filled him with dread. Such solitude could not be borne, he must go somewhere and find a companion. He dared not seek out his father in Vienna, for Herr Blumental was a martinet and would insist upon Edgar’s prompt return to Semmering. This thought was intolerable. Better by far to be alone and to journey forth into the unexplored. He felt as if never again could he look his mother in the face without remembering that he had struck her with his fist.

But what about Grandma? She had always made much of him—such a kind old lady. Invariably she had been on his side when he had got into trouble at home. He could hide in her house in Baden until his parents’ anger had cooled off. From there he would write a long letter, begging Dad and Mummy to forgive him. All the pride had seeped out of him. He felt very small and helpless in the midst of this huge and antagonistic universe, and wanted nothing better than to become once again the child he had been a few days ago.

How did one get to Baden, he wondered. Pulling out a shabby purse which was his inseparable companion, he extracted a gold piece that had been given him for his birthday. How he had polished it every day with his grubby handkerchief, until it shone and shone again! He had never been able to make up his mind to spend it. Like a little sun it was. Lovely. Bright. Beautiful. Would it suffice to pay for his railway fare? Often and often he had travelled by train! Yet never had it entered his head to inquire how much a journey cost. For the first time in his short life he was up against reality. Things he had taken for granted apparently possessed a value of their own and could not be had for the asking. They needed to be paid for in hard cash. A short hour ago he thought himself so wonderfully clever, knowing all there was to know. But there were hundreds of problems and secrets that were a sealed book to him. He realized his shortcomings now. More and more did the sense of humiliation master him as he made his way to the station. Often and often he had dreamed of setting forth into the world to win his laurels, to become an emperor, a king, a famous soldier, a poet. Now that he had finally realized part of this dream, he felt exceeding small, and, as he fixed his eyes on the station building, his mind was wholly preoccupied with the question: “Shall I have enough to pay for my ticket?” The shining rails ran away into the infinite; not a soul could be seen on the platform or in the waiting-room. Edgar tiptoed up to the ticket office and asked softly and modestly how much it cost to go to Baden. A pair of surprised eyes looked through the little hole, and smiled not unkindly at the timid youngster.

“Half fare, or a whole?”

“Whole,” stammered Edgar, every atom of conceit punched out of him.

“Six crowns.”

“Please give me a ticket.”

He shoved the shining treasure across the diminutive counter, picked up the ticket and change. The piece of cardboard spelled freedom. He thrust the silver coins into his pocket, and listened well satisfied to the muffled clinking as they rattled together.

Only twenty minutes till the train was due. Edgar crept into a doorway so that no one should catch sight of him. A few passengers trailed in and wandered aimlessly about the platform. They failed to notice the runaway, though he himself felt as if all eyes were upon him. A whistle in the distance came as an immense relief to his suspense. Here was the train destined to convey him right away into the world. It was not until he had already stepped into a first-class carriage that he noticed he had been given a third-class ticket. So there were differences between travellers, he thought. Another initiation! His neighbours, when he had rectified his mistake, were a couple of Italian workmen, with calloused hands and rough voices. They had slung their tools on to the rack, and were sitting relaxed and listless. “They must have been working very hard, mused the child as one of them nodded off to sleep. I suppose they earned money for what they did. How much I wonder?”Money, then, was a thing one had to earn, that one was not automatically provided with. So far Edgar had taken his comfortable circumstances for granted, and had never given a thought to those abysses of misery which beset him on either hand. There were professions and trades to be followed, incomes to be earned—so many secrets he had never even noticed. He had learned much during his hour of solitude; and, as he cogitated these problems yet further and gazed at the fleeing landscape through the window, greater and greater illumination came to him. Gradually amid his gloomy anxiety, something seemed to grow, up and to blossom as he became conscious of the amazing kaleidoscope presented to him by life. He had run away because he was a coward and had been scared: true, but through his poltroonery he had come to taste the sweets of independence, he had come into contact with a reality he had hitherto completely ignored. Was he himself not just as great an enigma to his father and mother as the world had been to him? Quite possible. He saw with a new vision, as if manifold veils had been torn away from his eyes, as if the inside of things was being revealed to him, as if the secret of secrets was being disclosed. Houses flew past as though borne on the wings of the wind. Who were the people dwelling inside all these cottages and farmsteads, Edgar wondered. Were they rich or poor, happy or unhappy; were they full of uneasy longing as he was; did they want to know everything; were the children, like himself so far, merely playing with life? At the level crossings, the switchmen with their little flags were no longer the puppets he had always thought them, toy men, objects set up at those particular spots by chance. Edgar understood now that they had a function to perform, that they were fulfilling their destiny, had entered upon the struggle for life. The train gained in speed as it wound its way down the valley, leaving the high mountains behind. The contours were softened with the tender green of springtime. Only once did the fugitive look back at the high country he had left. The hills were blue distant, unattainable. As they receded more and more, and were swallowed up in the late afternoon fogs, it seemed to him that he had left childhood behind for ever in those remote and austere regions.