the awakening and selected short stories(苏醒)-第46部分
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spark of life。 A negro accompanied him； bearing a bucket of water and a
flask of wine。
There were no wounded here； they had been borne away。 But the
retreat had been hurried and the vultures and the good Samaritans would
have to look to the dead。
There was a soldiera mere boylying with his face to the sky。 His
hands were clutching the sward on either side and his finger nails were
stuffed with earth and bits of grass that he had gathered in his despairing
grasp upon life。 His musket was gone； he was hatless and his face and
clothing were begrimed。 Around his neck hung a gold chain and locket。
The priest； bending over him； unclasped the chain and removed it from the
dead soldier's neck。 He had grown used to the terrors of war and could
face them unflinchingly； but its pathos； someway； always brought the tears
to his old； dim eyes。
The angelus was ringing half a mile away。 The priest and the negro
knelt and murmured together the evening benediction and a prayer for the
dead。
II
The peace and beauty of a spring day had descended upon the earth
like a benediction。 Along the leafy road which skirted a narrow； tortuous
stream in central Louisiana； rumbled an old fashioned cabriolet； much the
worse for hard and rough usage over country roads and lanes。 The fat；
black horses went in a slow； measured trot； notwithstanding constant
urging on the part of the fat； black coachman。 Within the vehicle were
seated the fair Octavie and her old friend and neighbor； Judge Pillier； who
had come to take her for a morning drive。
Octavie wore a plain black dress； severe in its simplicity。 A narrow belt
held it at the waist and the sleeves were gathered into close fitting
wristbands。 She had discarded her hoopskirt and appeared not unlike a
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nun。 Beneath the folds of her bodice nestled the old locket。 She never
displayed it now。 It had returned to her sanctified in her eyes； made
precious as material things sometimes are by being forever identified with
a significant moment of one's existence。
A hundred times she had read over the letter with which the locket had
come back to her。 No later than that morning she had again pored over it。
As she sat beside the window； smoothing the letter out upon her knee；
heavy and spiced odors stole in to her with the songs of birds and the
humming of insects in the air。
She was so young and the world was so beautiful that there came over
her a sense of unreality as she read again and again the priest's letter。 He
told of that autumn day drawing to its close； with the gold and the red
fading out of the west； and the night gathering its shadows to cover the
faces of the dead。 Oh！ She could not believe that one of those dead
was her own！ with visage uplifted to the gray sky in an agony of
supplication。 A spasm of resistance and rebellion seized and swept over
her。 Why was the spring here with its flowers and its seductive breath if
he was dead！ Why was she here！ What further had she to do with life
and the living！
Octavie had experienced many such moments of despair； but a blessed
resignation had never failed to follow； and it fell then upon her like a
mantle and enveloped her。
〃I shall grow old and quiet and sad like poor Aunt Tavie；〃 she
murmured to herself as she folded the letter and replaced it in the secretary。
Already she gave herself a little demure air like her Aunt Tavie。 She
walked with a slow glide in unconscious imitation of Mademoiselle Tavie
whom some youthful affliction had robbed of earthly compensation while
leaving her in possession of youth's illusions。
As she sat in the old cabriolet beside the father of her dead lover； again
there came to Octavie the terrible sense of loss which had assailed her so
often before。 The soul of her youth clamored for its rights； for a share in
the world's glory and exultation。 She leaned back and drew her veil a little
closer about her face。 It was an old black veil of her Aunt Tavie's。 A
whiff of dust from the road had blown in and she wiped her cheeks and
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her eyes with her soft； white handkerchief； a homemade handkerchief；
fabricated from one of her old fine muslin petticoats。
〃Will you do me the favor； Octavie；〃 requested the judge in the
courteous tone which he never abandoned； 〃to remove that veil which you
wear。 It seems out of harmony； someway； with the beauty and promise of
the day。〃
The young girl obediently yielded to her old companion's wish and
unpinning the cumbersome； sombre drapery from her bonnet； folded it
neatly and laid it upon the seat in front of her。
〃Ah！ that is better； far better！〃 he said in a tone expressing unbounded
relief。 〃Never put it on again； dear。〃 Octavie felt a little hurt； as if he
wished to debar her from share and parcel in the burden of affliction
which had been placed upon all of them。 Again she drew forth the old
muslin handkerchief。
They had left the big road and turned into a level plain which had
formerly been an old meadow。 There were clumps of thorn trees here
and there； gorgeous in their spring radiance。 Some cattle were grazing
off in the distance in spots where the grass was tall and luscious。 At the
far end of the meadow was the towering lilac hedge； skirting the lane that
led to Judge Pillier's house； and the scent of its heavy blossoms met them
like a soft and tender embrace of welcome。
As they neared the house the old gentleman placed an arm around the
girl's shoulders and turning her face up to him he said： 〃Do you not think
that on a day like this； miracles might happen？ When the whole earth is
vibrant with life； does it not seem to you； Octavie； that heaven might for
once relent and give us back our dead？〃 He spoke very low； advisedly；
and impressively。 In his voice was an old quaver which was not habitual
and there was agitation in every line of his visage。 She gazed at him with
eyes that were full of supplication and a certain terror of joy。
They had been driving through the lane with the towering hedge on
one side and the open meadow on the other。 The horses had somewhat
quickened their lazy pace。 As they turned into the avenue leading to the
house； a whole choir of feathered songsters fluted a sudden torrent of
melodious greeting from their leafy hiding places。
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Octavie felt as if she had passed into a stage of existence which was
like a dream； more poignant and real than life。 There was the old gray
house with its sloping eaves。 Amid the blur of green； and dimly； she saw
familiar faces and heard voices as if they came from far across the fields；
and Edmond was holding her。 Her dead Edmond； her living Edmond；
and she felt the beating of his heart against her and the agonizing rapture
of his kisses striving to awake her。 It was as if the spirit of life and the
awakening spring had given back the soul to her youth and bade her
rejoice。
It was many hours later that Octavie drew the locket from her bosom
and looked at Edmond with a questioning appeal in her glance。
〃It was the night before an engagement；〃 he said。 〃In the hurry of the
encounter； and the retreat next day； I never missed it till the fight was over。
I thought of course I had lost it in the heat of the struggle； but it was
stolen。〃
〃Stolen；〃 she shuddered； and thought of the dead soldier with his face
uplifted to the sky in an agony of supplication。
Edmond said nothing； but he thought of his messmate； the one who
had lain far back in the shadow； the one who had said nothing。
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The Awakening and Selected Short Stories
A Reflection
Some people are born with a vital and responsive energy。 It not only
enables them to keep abreast of the times； it qualifies them to furnish in
their own personality a good bit of the motive power to the mad pace。
They are fortunate beings。 They do not need to apprehend the
significance of things。 They do not grow weary nor miss step； nor do
they fall out of rank and sink by the wayside to be left contemplati
