小说园

第9部分（第4页）

doctor　in　one　of　the　hospitals　he　soon　became　impossible。　They

were　almost　beggars。　But　he　kept　still　his　great　ideas　of

himself；　he　seemed　to　live　in　a　plete　hallucination；　where　he

himself　figured　vivid　and　lordly。　He　guarded　his　wife　jealously

against　the　ignominy　of　her　position；　rushed　round　her　like　a

brandished　weapon；　an　amazing　sight　to　the　English　eye；　had　her

in　his　power；　as　if　he　hypnotized　her。　She　was　passive；　dark；

always　in　shadow。

He　was　wasting　away。　Already　when　the　child　was　born　he

seemed　nothing　but　skin　and　bone　and　fixed　idea。　She　watched　him

dying；　nursed　him；　nursed　the　baby；　but　really　took　no　notice　of

anything。　A　darkness　was　on　her；　like　remorse；　or　like　a

remembering　of　the　dark；　savage；　mystic　ride　of　dread；　of　death；

of　the　shadow　of　revenge。　When　her　husband　died；　she　was

relieved。　He　would　no　longer　dart　about　her。

England　fitted　her　mood；　its　aloofness　and　foreignness。　She

had　known　a　little　of　the　language　before　ing；　and　a　sort　of

parrot…mind　made　her　pick　it　up　fairly　easily。　But　she　knew

nothing　of　the　English；　nor　of　English　life。　Indeed；　these　did

not　exist　for　her。　She　was　like　one　walking　in　the　Underworld；

where　the　shades　throng　intelligibly　but　have　no　connection　with

one。　She　felt　the　English　people　as　a　potent；　cold；　slightly

hostile　host　amongst　whom　she　walked　isolated。

The　English　people　themselves　were　almost　deferential　to　her；

the　Church　saw　that　she　did　not　want。　She　walked　without

passion；　like　a　shade；　tormented　into　moments　of　love　by　the

child。　Her　dying　husband　with　his　tortured　eyes　and　the　skin

drawn　tight　over　his　face；　he　was　as　a　vision　to　her；　not　a

reality。　In　a　vision　he　was　buried　and　put　away。　Then　the　vision

ceased；　she　was　untroubled；　time　went　on　grey；　uncoloured；　like

a　long　journey　where　she　sat　unconscious　as　the　landscape

unrolled　beside　her。　When　she　rocked　her　baby　at　evening；　maybe

she　fell　into　a　Polish　slumber　song；　or　she　talked　sometimes　to

herself　in　Polish。　Otherwise　she　did　not　think　of　Poland；　nor　of

that　life　to　which　she　had　belonged。　It　was　a　great　blot　looming

blank　in　its　darkness。　In　the　superficial　activity　of　her　life；

she　was　all　English。　She　even　thought　in　English。　But　her　long

blanks　and　darknesses　of　abstraction　were　Polish。

So　she　lived　for　some　time。　Then；　with　slight　uneasiness；　she

used　half　to　awake　to　the　streets　of　London。　She　realized　that