Part II Chapter Seven (第2/2页)
led, and am as hey had drugged me.
I t frigly, by ts stairs, and ss.
If sers for ever!
It is someto see er t, and cter; t myself, and pinc, srong one, and soon punishes me again.
to my c seems longer. My uncle s, all t time, as for tiles duct me to ions o my progress.
iles?
Still badly, sir.
Still fierce?
Fierce, and snappish.
Youve tried your hand?
Semper, mes and tears. At night, Barbara shakes her head.
a dot of a girl, to be so naugiles says stle tartar as you. you be good?
I m I upturn my d tread to t. Mrs Stiles trikes my face. to my uncles door.
of us. Good God, ?
Oful thing, sir!
Not more of break out, among the books?
But s ime at me. I stand very stiff, my face, my pale my shoulders.
At lengtakes off acles and closes o me, and very soft at to the bridge of his nose, and pinches.
ell, Maud, , tiles, and aff, all ing on yood manners. I ter to find you biddable. os s only to examine your c is , I tiless is cool, hmm?
-edged, for cutting pages. oops and puts t against my face. ens me. as a girls. o see you , Maud. Indeed I am. Do you suppose I you t? It is you it, since you provoke it so. I t like to be struck.—t is cooler, is it not? urhe blade. I shiver. My bare arms
creep ing, s, on yood manners. ell, t, at Briar. e , and , and again. Mrs Stiles and my staff are paid to do it; I am a sco it by nature. Look about you my colle. Do you suppose tient man? My books e to me sloedly passed many tedious ation of poorer volumes t mig; moves t of to a spot beilts up my fad looks it over. ts tucks tacles behind his ears.
I advise you to wiles, roublesome again.
Perer all, and may be broken. My uurns to o my se is not t of a is y of patieience so terrible as t of tics labour at easks—veying sand from one leaking cup into anoting titces in a sunbeam; filling invisible ledgers ing sums. lemen, and ricead of affs.—I ot say. And of course, ts t e to me later, day, in my cs surface. But I see t it is dark, and kno it is silent—indeed, its substance is tance of ter or like wax.
Sruggle, it o itself, and I will drown.
I do not .
I cease struggling at all, and surrender myself to its viscid, circular currents.
t is t day, perion. But day, at
eigutors me a desk and a stool for me close to ting finger on ool is and t of my single and finally groience er all; and to be free of a desire to ty often.
Still, t o o e, to se moves silently upon paper, and a green-so save my eyes.
t s, of smouldering dust: a curious smell—I so e it!—th.
My self is of t tedious kind, and sists cext, from antique volumes, into a leat is filled my job is to re blank again ask, more tter I am made to copy: for tion, groo tear; and t of a smudge on a leaf of text, or tearing paper, is more ts of t I fear most as a cres of past lessons, imperfectly erased.
I call t I am not taugo recite, softly and clearly; I am augo sing. I never learn t am scead in tcley, silk. I learn inks; tting of pens; tyles and sizes of founts: sans-serif, antique, Egyptian, pica, brevier, emerald, ruby, Pearl. . . t is a c. For te.
But I learn quickly. turns. I am made small re-soled slippers, a goiff as t, but of velvet. I am alloo take my supper in t one end of a great oak table, set s at t if I so let fall a fork, or to jar my knife against my plate, terrible eye. t obliges you to grind your silver in t way?
toe and too fully once.
take s, and s, and calves feet, my kid-skin gloves groing to tae leaves me. I care most for t in a crystal glass engraved arnisial. to keep me mindful, not of my name, but of t of my mother; which was Marianne.
S spot of all t lonely park—ary grey stone among so many aken to see it, and made to keep tomb .
Be grateful t you may, says Mrs Stiles, crim tery grass, end my grave? I s fotten.
aken all tle daugo make ors cut to , I groful meek, receiving t s provokes o tless enougo scolds, o tain to sigtone. In time—so ing
am I!—I find out ter; tc giving birto a litter of kittens, I take one for a pet, and for o call it loudest ty child you are! how fine your black fur is! e, kiss your mama.
Do you see, ances make of me?
Mrs Stiles trembles and the words.
take ture arid ! so Barbara, w no more.
I run and loved me, and t brings t tears coolly to my eyes.
O! Say you !
Barbara says siles sends her away.
Youre a sly, eful c t kno. Dont t see through you and your designing ways.
But it is s udying of is so me? is anyone o save me; six montteiles, ttle girl emper. I am sure, to be rid of you. In time, I believe et. My old life groo times emerges to darken or trouble it, in dreams and as trokes of fotten lessons noart out upon the pages of my copy-book.
My proper mote. Didnt srait in a little o loat. Let me kiss mama good-nigime, unlog my box. But I do it only to torment Mrs Stiles. I raise ture to my lips and, nig which
follo last, as a ust tick tular beat, I find I must do it or lie fretful in my bed. And trait must be set doly, s ribbon quite uncreased. If trikes t lining of too ake it out a down carefully again.
Mrs Stiles c, e still until Barbara es.
Meaainilemen at Briar: s, not uanding tter I am made to recite; and tlemen—like Mrs Stiles—gely. I groo t. my uncles instru I curtsey. I curtsey lemen clap, to sroke my ell me, often, heir gazes.
So my uncles room to find my little desk removed, and a place made ready for me among o him.
take off yloves, o touc is a cold, still, sunless day. I Briar, t begun to bleed as women do.
ell, Maud, says my u last you cross to my books. You are about to learn ty of your vocation. Are you afraid?
A little, sir.
You do o be. For ter. You think me a scholar, hmm?
Yes, sir.
ell, I am more t. I am a curator of poisons. tly puts pile of ink-stained papers t litter heir Index.
tion and proper study. t so perfect as t is plete. I ed many years to its stru and revision; and se many more, as t. I o to make you immu you mig me. My eyes—do you look at my eyes, Maud. akes off acles and brings o mine; and I flinc of and naked face—yet see nooo, ain film, or milkiness, upon t sside triol and arsenic must do so like t so. I he larger dose.
urns and takes a book from to me, pressing my fingers it.
Keep t o tutored. tainted, sell. You uand me? I ouch poison, Maud. Remember.
tain Draion of Laura. I sit alone, and turn tand at last tter I lemen.
t pleasure. My uncle collects it—keeps it , keeps it ordered, on guarded s keeps it strangely—not for its o; rat provides fuel for tisfying of a curious lust.
I mean, t of the bookman.
See o me softly, draexts e t edge? Observe tooling, look. he
tilts to me but, jealously, let me take it. Not yet not yet! Ater; titles, look, picked out ials floext. extravagance! And t see ispiece— ture is of a lady reed on a coucleman beside tip—doer Borel, most rare. I all at Liverpool, for a s part noy pounds.—e, e! y o my ea, to see you colour? ell, no more of t. leisure. You tance, in tiny of the form.
So o me, many times. I do not believe een. t first, seems a frig c lusts, gro limbs and cavities, be proo fevers, to crises, seek not togeting flesopped up ing of my legs. I imagine myself fingered and pierced ... I am teen, as I o restlessness: I begin to lie eac at Barbaras side, back t to study t. take to c I kno, and fair—darkest of all. t troubles me. t last, one day, sc are you looking at? s, I anss as . her cheek flares crimson. Oh! she cries. I never did! here did you learn such words? From my uncle, I say.
Oleman. Ill tell Mrs Stiles! Siles ead, like Barbara, sarts back. But takes up a block of soap and, while
Barbara o my mout bad fue.
Speak like a devil, and a filt? Like your orasher? ill you? ill
you?
ts me fall, and stands and out a light.
t least, I may keep ;
I ongue gro still taste lavender. I t , after all.
But soon, I do not care. My t groand my uncles books to be filled rut c quite fades from my limbs. tlessurns all to s. I bee o be. I bee a librarian.
tful turk, my uncle mig?
e index—o Priapus and Venus ed me, as oticed to the loom.
I knoill e. I knoors, aueers— ents of ters:
"Mr Lilly: on t of Paris claims no kno, sodomitical matter. S;
My uncle heir lenses.
t no leave to languis me see . . . ival of till trey? You must copy it, Maud ..."
I will, I say.
You t myself, and yaudies me. aken s nib.
It appears you find your occupation dull, last. Pero return to your room. I say not?
Perer a moment.
Per back your book t, Maud— t, as I cross to truct Mrs Stiles to keep t suppose I so keep you warm in idleness, hmm?
I ate, ter—it seems aler t until made to dress for dinner. But at table, e, my uops , in this house.
takes tter arike ead I must sit, ting my o t, biting doears, upon my uncles ink-staiongue, until I am dismissed.
day at eigurn to my o yawn again.
I groaller, in t follos and gloves and slippers.—My ues it, vaguely, and instructs Mrs Stiles to cut me ern of t take a sort of malicious pleasure from to suit hen again, perhaps in her grief for
er sten t little girls are meant to turn out Briar, and dra, noy. I o my gloves and my t unloosening s. Undressed, I seem to feel myself as naked and unsafe as one of my uncles lenseless eyes.
Asleep, I am sometimes oppressed by dreams. Once I fall into a fever, and a surgeon sees me. fless o my croubled, s? ell, expect t. You are an unon girl. rokes my o be taken in a cup of er—for restlessness. Barbara puts out ture, wiles looks on.
to be married, and I am given anot as a bird—one of ttle, little birds t men bring dos. Se skin marked een, i as butter. S first. S still to be, and ill its look of mine. I beat he resemblance.
So my life passes. You mig kno queer. But I read otalk of servants, and catc—by tying glances of parlourmaids and grooms!—I see well enougy I have bee.
I am as rakes of fi; but came to my uncles s park. I kno remember t follo remember do, , for example, sit a horse, or dance. I have
never o spend it. I ain, or a sea.
I , I t, too. I kno, from my uncles books. I kno lies upon a river—er, t, overturned punt tted as ual mockery, it seems to me, of my fi; but I like to sit upon it, gazing at t ters edge. I remember tory, of t and er of a king. I so find a ot to keep it!—but to take its pla t and leave it at Briar to groo be me. I ten of t claim me.
t is o fancies. and at t and at my o, for many a time. And in t t covers t crest, to t of secrets.
But I am i, and long to get out. . .
I am seventeen and a promise and tory of a gullible girl wo .
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led, and am as hey had drugged me.
I t frigly, by ts stairs, and ss.
If sers for ever!
It is someto see er t, and cter; t myself, and pinc, srong one, and soon punishes me again.
to my c seems longer. My uncle s, all t time, as for tiles duct me to ions o my progress.
iles?
Still badly, sir.
Still fierce?
Fierce, and snappish.
Youve tried your hand?
Semper, mes and tears. At night, Barbara shakes her head.
a dot of a girl, to be so naugiles says stle tartar as you. you be good?
I m I upturn my d tread to t. Mrs Stiles trikes my face. to my uncles door.
of us. Good God, ?
Oful thing, sir!
Not more of break out, among the books?
But s ime at me. I stand very stiff, my face, my pale my shoulders.
At lengtakes off acles and closes o me, and very soft at to the bridge of his nose, and pinches.
ell, Maud, , tiles, and aff, all ing on yood manners. I ter to find you biddable. os s only to examine your c is , I tiless is cool, hmm?
-edged, for cutting pages. oops and puts t against my face. ens me. as a girls. o see you , Maud. Indeed I am. Do you suppose I you t? It is you it, since you provoke it so. I t like to be struck.—t is cooler, is it not? urhe blade. I shiver. My bare arms
creep ing, s, on yood manners. ell, t, at Briar. e , and , and again. Mrs Stiles and my staff are paid to do it; I am a sco it by nature. Look about you my colle. Do you suppose tient man? My books e to me sloedly passed many tedious ation of poorer volumes t mig; moves t of to a spot beilts up my fad looks it over. ts tucks tacles behind his ears.
I advise you to wiles, roublesome again.
Perer all, and may be broken. My uurns to o my se is not t of a is y of patieience so terrible as t of tics labour at easks—veying sand from one leaking cup into anoting titces in a sunbeam; filling invisible ledgers ing sums. lemen, and ricead of affs.—I ot say. And of course, ts t e to me later, day, in my cs surface. But I see t it is dark, and kno it is silent—indeed, its substance is tance of ter or like wax.
Sruggle, it o itself, and I will drown.
I do not .
I cease struggling at all, and surrender myself to its viscid, circular currents.
t is t day, perion. But day, at
eigutors me a desk and a stool for me close to ting finger on ool is and t of my single and finally groience er all; and to be free of a desire to ty often.
Still, t o o e, to se moves silently upon paper, and a green-so save my eyes.
t s, of smouldering dust: a curious smell—I so e it!—th.
My self is of t tedious kind, and sists cext, from antique volumes, into a leat is filled my job is to re blank again ask, more tter I am made to copy: for tion, groo tear; and t of a smudge on a leaf of text, or tearing paper, is more ts of t I fear most as a cres of past lessons, imperfectly erased.
I call t I am not taugo recite, softly and clearly; I am augo sing. I never learn t am scead in tcley, silk. I learn inks; tting of pens; tyles and sizes of founts: sans-serif, antique, Egyptian, pica, brevier, emerald, ruby, Pearl. . . t is a c. For te.
But I learn quickly. turns. I am made small re-soled slippers, a goiff as t, but of velvet. I am alloo take my supper in t one end of a great oak table, set s at t if I so let fall a fork, or to jar my knife against my plate, terrible eye. t obliges you to grind your silver in t way?
toe and too fully once.
take s, and s, and calves feet, my kid-skin gloves groing to tae leaves me. I care most for t in a crystal glass engraved arnisial. to keep me mindful, not of my name, but of t of my mother; which was Marianne.
S spot of all t lonely park—ary grey stone among so many aken to see it, and made to keep tomb .
Be grateful t you may, says Mrs Stiles, crim tery grass, end my grave? I s fotten.
aken all tle daugo make ors cut to , I groful meek, receiving t s provokes o tless enougo scolds, o tain to sigtone. In time—so ing
am I!—I find out ter; tc giving birto a litter of kittens, I take one for a pet, and for o call it loudest ty child you are! how fine your black fur is! e, kiss your mama.
Do you see, ances make of me?
Mrs Stiles trembles and the words.
take ture arid ! so Barbara, w no more.
I run and loved me, and t brings t tears coolly to my eyes.
O! Say you !
Barbara says siles sends her away.
Youre a sly, eful c t kno. Dont t see through you and your designing ways.
But it is s udying of is so me? is anyone o save me; six montteiles, ttle girl emper. I am sure, to be rid of you. In time, I believe et. My old life groo times emerges to darken or trouble it, in dreams and as trokes of fotten lessons noart out upon the pages of my copy-book.
My proper mote. Didnt srait in a little o loat. Let me kiss mama good-nigime, unlog my box. But I do it only to torment Mrs Stiles. I raise ture to my lips and, nig which
follo last, as a ust tick tular beat, I find I must do it or lie fretful in my bed. And trait must be set doly, s ribbon quite uncreased. If trikes t lining of too ake it out a down carefully again.
Mrs Stiles c, e still until Barbara es.
Meaainilemen at Briar: s, not uanding tter I am made to recite; and tlemen—like Mrs Stiles—gely. I groo t. my uncles instru I curtsey. I curtsey lemen clap, to sroke my ell me, often, heir gazes.
So my uncles room to find my little desk removed, and a place made ready for me among o him.
take off yloves, o touc is a cold, still, sunless day. I Briar, t begun to bleed as women do.
ell, Maud, says my u last you cross to my books. You are about to learn ty of your vocation. Are you afraid?
A little, sir.
You do o be. For ter. You think me a scholar, hmm?
Yes, sir.
ell, I am more t. I am a curator of poisons. tly puts pile of ink-stained papers t litter heir Index.
tion and proper study. t so perfect as t is plete. I ed many years to its stru and revision; and se many more, as t. I o to make you immu you mig me. My eyes—do you look at my eyes, Maud. akes off acles and brings o mine; and I flinc of and naked face—yet see nooo, ain film, or milkiness, upon t sside triol and arsenic must do so like t so. I he larger dose.
urns and takes a book from to me, pressing my fingers it.
Keep t o tutored. tainted, sell. You uand me? I ouch poison, Maud. Remember.
tain Draion of Laura. I sit alone, and turn tand at last tter I lemen.
t pleasure. My uncle collects it—keeps it , keeps it ordered, on guarded s keeps it strangely—not for its o; rat provides fuel for tisfying of a curious lust.
I mean, t of the bookman.
See o me softly, draexts e t edge? Observe tooling, look. he
tilts to me but, jealously, let me take it. Not yet not yet! Ater; titles, look, picked out ials floext. extravagance! And t see ispiece— ture is of a lady reed on a coucleman beside tip—doer Borel, most rare. I all at Liverpool, for a s part noy pounds.—e, e! y o my ea, to see you colour? ell, no more of t. leisure. You tance, in tiny of the form.
So o me, many times. I do not believe een. t first, seems a frig c lusts, gro limbs and cavities, be proo fevers, to crises, seek not togeting flesopped up ing of my legs. I imagine myself fingered and pierced ... I am teen, as I o restlessness: I begin to lie eac at Barbaras side, back t to study t. take to c I kno, and fair—darkest of all. t troubles me. t last, one day, sc are you looking at? s, I anss as . her cheek flares crimson. Oh! she cries. I never did! here did you learn such words? From my uncle, I say.
Oleman. Ill tell Mrs Stiles! Siles ead, like Barbara, sarts back. But takes up a block of soap and, while
Barbara o my mout bad fue.
Speak like a devil, and a filt? Like your orasher? ill you? ill
you?
ts me fall, and stands and out a light.
t least, I may keep ;
I ongue gro still taste lavender. I t , after all.
But soon, I do not care. My t groand my uncles books to be filled rut c quite fades from my limbs. tlessurns all to s. I bee o be. I bee a librarian.
tful turk, my uncle mig?
e index—o Priapus and Venus ed me, as oticed to the loom.
I knoill e. I knoors, aueers— ents of ters:
"Mr Lilly: on t of Paris claims no kno, sodomitical matter. S;
My uncle heir lenses.
t no leave to languis me see . . . ival of till trey? You must copy it, Maud ..."
I will, I say.
You t myself, and yaudies me. aken s nib.
It appears you find your occupation dull, last. Pero return to your room. I say not?
Perer a moment.
Per back your book t, Maud— t, as I cross to truct Mrs Stiles to keep t suppose I so keep you warm in idleness, hmm?
I ate, ter—it seems aler t until made to dress for dinner. But at table, e, my uops , in this house.
takes tter arike ead I must sit, ting my o t, biting doears, upon my uncles ink-staiongue, until I am dismissed.
day at eigurn to my o yawn again.
I groaller, in t follos and gloves and slippers.—My ues it, vaguely, and instructs Mrs Stiles to cut me ern of t take a sort of malicious pleasure from to suit hen again, perhaps in her grief for
er sten t little girls are meant to turn out Briar, and dra, noy. I o my gloves and my t unloosening s. Undressed, I seem to feel myself as naked and unsafe as one of my uncles lenseless eyes.
Asleep, I am sometimes oppressed by dreams. Once I fall into a fever, and a surgeon sees me. fless o my croubled, s? ell, expect t. You are an unon girl. rokes my o be taken in a cup of er—for restlessness. Barbara puts out ture, wiles looks on.
to be married, and I am given anot as a bird—one of ttle, little birds t men bring dos. Se skin marked een, i as butter. S first. S still to be, and ill its look of mine. I beat he resemblance.
So my life passes. You mig kno queer. But I read otalk of servants, and catc—by tying glances of parlourmaids and grooms!—I see well enougy I have bee.
I am as rakes of fi; but came to my uncles s park. I kno remember t follo remember do, , for example, sit a horse, or dance. I have
never o spend it. I ain, or a sea.
I , I t, too. I kno, from my uncles books. I kno lies upon a river—er, t, overturned punt tted as ual mockery, it seems to me, of my fi; but I like to sit upon it, gazing at t ters edge. I remember tory, of t and er of a king. I so find a ot to keep it!—but to take its pla t and leave it at Briar to groo be me. I ten of t claim me.
t is o fancies. and at t and at my o, for many a time. And in t t covers t crest, to t of secrets.
But I am i, and long to get out. . .
I am seventeen and a promise and tory of a gullible girl wo .
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