Arthur sat in the library of the theological seminary at Pisa, looking through a pile of manuscript sermons. It was a hot evening in June, and the windows stood wide open, with the shutters half closed for coolness. The Father Director, Canon Montanelli, paused a moment in his writing to glance lovingly at the black head bent over the papers.

"Can't you find it, carino? Never mind; I must rewrite the passage. Possibly it has got torn up, and I have kept you all this time for nothing."

Montanelli's voice was rather low, but full and resonant, with a silvery purity of tone that gave to his speech a peculiar charm. It was the voice of a born orator, rich in possible modulations. When he spoke to Arthur its note was always that of a caress.

"No, Padre, I must find it; I'm sure you put it here. You will never make it the same by rewriting."

Montanelli went on with his work. A sleepy cockchafer hummed drowsily outside the window, and the long, melancholy call of a fruitseller echoed down the street: "Fragola! fragola!"

"'On the Healing of the Leper'; here it is." Arthur came across the room with the velvet tread that always exasperated the good folk at home. He was a slender little creature, more like an Italian in a sixteenth-century portrait than a middle-class English lad of the thirties. From the long eyebrows and sensitive mouth to the small hands and feet, everything about him was too much chiseled, overdelicate. Sitting still, he might have been taken for a very pretty girl masquerading in male attire; but when he moved, his lithe agility suggested a tame panther without the claws.

"Is that really it? What should I do without you, Arthur? I should always be losing my things. No, I am not going to write any more now. Come out into the garden, and I will help you with your work. What is the bit you couldn't understand?"

They went out into the still, shadowy cloister garden. The seminary occupied the buildings of an old Dominican monastery, and two hundred years ago the square courtyard had been stiff and trim, and the rosemary and lavender had grown in close-cut bushes between the straight box edgings. Now the white-robed monks who had tended them were laid away and forgotten; but the scented herbs flowered still in the gracious mid-summer evening, though no man gathered their blossoms for simples any more. Tufts of wild parsley and columbine filled the cracks between the flagged footways, and the well in the middle of the courtyard was given up to ferns and matted stone-crop. The roses had run wild, and their straggling suckers trailed across the paths; in the box borders flared great red poppies; tall foxgloves drooped above the tangled grasses; and the old vine, untrained and barren of fruit, swayed from the branches of the neglected medlar-tree, shaking a leafy head with slow and sad persistence.

In one corner stood a huge summer-flowering magnolia, a tower of dark foliage, splashed here and there with milk-white blossoms. A rough wooden bench had been placed against the trunk; and on this Montanelli sat down. Arthur was studying philosophy at the university; and, coming to a difficulty with a book, had applied to "the Padre" for an explanation of the point. Montanelli was a universal encyclopaedia to him, though he had never been a pupil of the seminary.

"I had better go now," he said when the passage had been cleared up; "unless you want me for anything."

"I don't want to work any more, but I should like you to stay a bit if you have time."

"Oh, yes!" He leaned back against the tree-trunk and looked up through the dusky branches at the first faint stars glimmering in a quiet sky. The dreamy, mystical eyes, deep blue under black lashes, were an inheritance from his Cornish mother, and Montanelli turned his head away, that he might not see them.

"You are looking tired, carino," he said.

"I can't help it." There was a weary sound in Arthur's voice, and the Padre noticed it at once.

"You should not have gone up to college so soon; you were tired out with sick-nursing and being up at night. I ought to have insisted on your taking a thorough rest before you left Leghorn."

"Oh, Padre, what's the use of that? I couldn't stop in that miserable house after mother died. Julia would have driven me mad!"

Julia was his eldest step-brother's wife, and a thorn in his side.

"I should not have wished you to stay with your relatives," Montanelli answered gently. "I am sure it would have been the worst possible thing for you. But I wish you could have accepted the invitation of your English doctor friend; if you had spent a month in his house you would have been more fit to study."

"No, Padre, I shouldn't indeed! The Warrens are very good and kind, but they don't understand; and then they are sorry for me,--I can see it in all their faces,--and they would try to console me, and talk about mother. Gemma wouldn't, of course; she always knew what not to say, even when we were babies; but the others would. And it isn't only that----"

"What is it then, my son?"

Arthur pulled off some blossoms from a drooping foxglove stem and crushed them nervously in his hand.

"I can't bear the town," he began after a moment's pause. "There are the shops where she used to buy me toys when I was a little thing, and the walk along the shore where I used to take her until she got too ill. Wherever I go it's the same thing; every market-girl comes up to me with bunches of flowers--as if I wanted them now! And there's the church-yard--I had to get away; it made me sick to see the place----"

He broke off and sat tearing the foxglove bells to pieces. The silence was so long and deep that he looked up, wondering why the Padre did not speak. It was growing dark under the branches of the magnolia, and everything seemed dim and indistinct; but there was light enough to show the ghastly paleness of Montanelli's face. He was bending his head down, his right hand tightly clenched upon the edge of the bench. Arthur looked away with a sense of awe-struck wonder. It was as though he had stepped unwittingly on to holy ground.

"My God!" he thought; "how small and selfish I am beside him! If my trouble were his own he couldn't feel it more."

Presently Montanelli raised his head and looked round. "I won't press you to go back there; at all events, just now," he said in his most caressing tone; "but you must promise me to take a thorough rest when your vacation begins this summer. I think you had better get a holiday right away from the neighborhood of Leghorn. I can't have you breaking down in health."

"Where shall you go when the seminary closes, Padre?"

"I shall have to take the pupils into the hills, as usual, and see them settled there. But by the middle of August the subdirector will be back from his holiday. I shall try to get up into the Alps for a little change. Will you come with me? I could take you for some long mountain rambles, and you would like to study the Alpine mosses and lichens. But perhaps it would be rather dull for you alone with me?"

"Padre!" Arthur clasped his hands in what Julia called his "demonstrative foreign way." "I would give anything on earth to go away with you. Only--I am not sure----" He stopped.

"You don't think Mr. Burton would allow it?"

"He wouldn't like it, of course, but he could hardly interfere. I am eighteen now and can do what I choose. After all, he's only my step-brother; I don't see that I owe him obedience. He was always unkind to mother."

"But if he seriously objects, I think you had better not defy his wishes; you may find your position at home made much harder if----"

"Not a bit harder!" Arthur broke in passionately. "They always did hate me and always will--it doesn't matter what I do. Besides, how can James seriously object to my going away with you--with my father confessor?"

"He is a Protestant, remember. However, you had better write to him, and we will wait to hear what he thinks. But you must not be impatient, my son; it matters just as much what you do, whether people hate you or love you."

The rebuke was so gently given that Arthur hardly coloured under it. "Yes, I know," he answered, sighing; "but it is so difficult----"

"I was sorry you could not come to me on Tuesday evening," Montanelli said, abruptly introducing a new subject. "The Bishop of Arezzo was here, and I should have liked you to meet him."

"I had promised one of the students to go to a meeting at his lodgings, and they would have been expecting me."

"What sort of meeting?"

Arthur seemed embarrassed by the question. "It--it was n-not a r-regular meeting," he said with a nervous little stammer. "A student had come from Genoa, and he made a speech to us-- a-a sort of--lecture."

"What did he lecture about?"

Arthur hesitated. "You won't ask me his name, Padre, will you? Because I promised----"

"I will ask you no questions at all, and if you have promised secrecy of course you must not tell me; but I think you can almost trust me by this time."

"Padre, of course I can. He spoke about--us and our duty to the people--and to--our own selves; and about--what we might do to help----"

"To help whom?"

"The contadini--and----"

"And?"

"Italy."

There was a long silence.

"Tell me, Arthur," said Montanelli, turning to him and speaking very gravely, "how long have you been thinking about this?"

"Since--last winter."

"Before your mother's death? And did she know of it?"

"N-no. I--I didn't care about it then."

"And now you--care about it?"

Arthur pulled another handful of bells off the foxglove.

"It was this way, Padre," he began, with his eyes on the ground. "When I was preparing for the entrance examination last autumn, I got to know a good many of the students; you remember? Well, some of them began to talk to me about--all these things, and lent me books. But I didn't care much about it; I always wanted to get home quick to mother. You see, she was quite alone among them all in that dungeon of a house; and Julia's tongue was enough to kill her. Then, in the winter, when she got so ill, I forgot all about the students and their books; and then, you know, I left off coming to Pisa altogether. I should have talked to mother if I had thought of it; but it went right out of my head. Then I found out that she was going to die----You know, I was almost constantly with her towards the end; often I would sit up the night, and Gemma Warren would come in the day to let me get to sleep. Well, it was in those long nights; I got thinking about the books and about what the students had said--and wondering-- whether they were right and--what-- Our Lord would have said about it all."

"Did you ask Him?" Montanelli's voice was not quite steady.

"Often, Padre. Sometimes I have prayed to Him to tell me what I must do, or to let me die with mother. But I couldn't find any answer."

"And you never said a word to me. Arthur, I hoped you could have trusted me."

"Padre, you know I trust you! But there are some things you can't talk about to anyone. I--it seemed to me that no one could help me--not even you or mother; I must have my own answer straight from God. You see, it is for all my life and all my soul."

Montanelli turned away and stared into the dusky gloom of the magnolia branches. The twilight was so dim that his figure had a shadowy look, like a dark ghost among the darker boughs.

"And then?" he asked slowly.

"And then--she died. You know, I had been up the last three nights with her----"

He broke off and paused a moment, but Montanelli did not move.

"All those two days before they buried her," Arthur went on in a lower voice, "I couldn't think about anything. Then, after the funeral, I was ill; you remember, I couldn't come to confession."

"Yes; I remember."

"Well, in the night I got up and went into mother's room. It was all empty; there was only the great crucifix in the alcove. And I thought perhaps God would help me. I knelt down and waited--all night. And in the morning when I came to my senses--Padre, it isn't any use; I can't explain. I can't tell you what I saw--I hardly know myself. But I know that God has answered me, and that I dare not disobey Him."

For a moment they sat quite silent in the darkness. Then Montanelli turned and laid his hand on Arthur's shoulder.

"My son," he said, "God forbid that I should say He has not spoken to your soul. But remember your condition when this thing happened, and do not take the fancies of grief or illness for His solemn call. And if, indeed, it has been His will to answer you out of the shadow of death, be sure that you put no false construction on His word. What is this thing you have it in your heart to do?"

Arthur stood up and answered slowly, as though repeating a catechism:

"To give up my life to Italy, to help in freeing her from all this slavery and wretchedness, and in driving out the Austrians, that she may be a free republic, with no king but Christ."

"Arthur, think a moment what you are saying! You are not even an Italian."

"That makes no difference; I am myself. I have seen this thing, and I belong to it."

There was silence again.

"You spoke just now of what Christ would have said----" Montanelli began slowly; but Arthur interrupted him:

"Christ said: 'He that loseth his life for my sake shall find it.'"

Montanelli leaned his arm against a branch, and shaded his eyes with one hand.

"Sit down a moment, my son," he said at last.

Arthur sat down, and the Padre took both his hands in a strong and steady clasp.

"I cannot argue with you to-night," he said; "this has come upon me so suddenly--I had not thought--I must have time to think it over. Later on we will talk more definitely. But, for just now, I want you to remember one thing. If you get into trouble over this, if you--die, you will break my heart."

"Padre----"

"No; let me finish what I have to say. I told you once that I have no one in the world but you. I think you do not fully understand what that means. It is difficult when one is so young; at your age I should not have understood. Arthur, you are as my--as my--own son to me. Do you see? You are the light of my eyes and the desire of my heart. I would die to keep you from making a false step and ruining your life. But there is nothing I can do. I don't ask you to make any promises to me; I only ask you to remember this, and to be careful. Think well before you take an irrevocable step, for my sake, if not for the sake of your mother in heaven."

"I will think--and--Padre, pray for me, and for Italy."

He knelt down in silence, and in silence Montanelli laid his hand on the bent head. A moment later Arthur rose, kissed the hand, and went softly away across the dewy grass. Montanelli sat alone under the magnolia tree, looking straight before him into the blackness.

"It is the vengeance of God that has fallen upon me," he thought, "as it fell upon David. I, that have defiled His sanctuary, and taken the Body of the Lord into polluted hands,--He has been very patient with me, and now it is come. 'For thou didst it secretly, but I will do this thing before all Israel, and before the sun; THE CHILD THAT IS BORN UNTO THEE SHALL SURELY DIE.'"

廈門論文翻譯-廈門學(xué)術(shù)翻譯-廈門文學(xué)翻譯-廈門藝術(shù)翻譯-廈門論文翻譯公司-廈門文學(xué)藝術(shù)翻譯-廈門十大翻譯公司-廈門有資質(zhì)的翻譯公司-廈門翻譯公司哪家好-廈門譯語翻譯公司

中文譯文如下：

亞瑟坐在比薩神學(xué)院的圖書館里，瀏覽著一堆布道手稿。

這是六月的一個炎熱的晚上，窗戶全都散開，百葉窗卻是半掩著，為的是有些涼意。神學(xué)院院長蒙泰尼里神父停下筆來，慈祥地望著埋在手稿里的那一頭黑發(fā)。

“Carino［意大利語：親愛的］，找不到嗎？沒關(guān)系的，那一節(jié)我就重寫一遍?？赡苁潜凰旱袅耍屇惆酌α诉@么長的時間。”

蒙泰尼里的聲音低沉而渾厚，悅耳的音色給他的話語增添了一種特殊的魅力。一位天生的演說家才會具備這種抑揚頓挫的聲音。他在跟亞瑟說話時，語調(diào)中總是含著一種愛意。

“不，Padre［意大利語：神父，天主教徒對教士的稱呼。這個詞也可指父親。亞瑟一直稱蒙泰尼里為“Padre”，可見他對蒙泰尼里懷有很深的感情。］，我一定要找到它。我敢肯定您是放在這里的。再寫一遍，不可能和以前的一模一樣。”

蒙泰尼里繼續(xù)伏案工作。一只昏昏欲睡的金龜子停在窗外，正在那里無精打采地鳴叫。“草莓！草莓！”水果小販的叫賣聲從街道那頭傳來，悠長而又凄涼。

“《麻風(fēng)病人的治療》，就在這里。”亞瑟從房間那邊走過來，他那輕盈的步伐總讓他的家人感到惱火。他長得又瘦又小，不像是三十年代的一位英國中產(chǎn)階級青年，更像是一幅十六世紀(jì)肖像畫中的一位意大利人。從長長的眉毛、敏感的嘴唇到小巧的手腳，他身上的每一個部位都顯得過于精致，太弱不禁風(fēng)了。要是安靜地坐在那里，別人會誤以為他是一個身著男裝的女孩，長得楚楚動人。但是在他走動的時候，他那輕盈而又敏捷的體態(tài)使人想到一只馴服的豹子，已經(jīng)沒有了利爪。

“真的找到了嗎？亞瑟，沒有了你，我該怎么辦呢？我肯定會老是丟三落四的。算了，我現(xiàn)在就不寫了。到花園去吧，我來幫你溫習(xí)功課。哪個小地方你有什么不懂的？”

他們走進(jìn)修道院的花園，這里很幽靜，綠樹成蔭。神學(xué)院所占的建筑曾是多明我會的一座修道院。兩百多年以前，這個四四方方的院落曾被收拾得整整齊齊。筆直的黃楊樹之間長著叢叢的迷迭香和薰衣草，被剪得短短的?，F(xiàn)在，那些曾經(jīng)栽種過它們的白袍修士全都入土為安，沒有人再去想起他們。但是幽香的藥草仍在靜謐的仲夏夜晚開花吐艷，盡管再也沒有人去采集花蕊炮制草藥了。叢生的野荷蘭芹和耬斗菜填滿了石板路的裂縫，院中央的水井已經(jīng)讓位給了羊齒葉和縱橫交錯的景天草。玫瑰花蓬蓬，紛披的根伸出條蔓越過了小徑；黃楊樹籬閃耀著碩大的紅霉粟花；高高的毛地黃在雜草的上面低垂下了頭；無人照看的老葡萄藤也不結(jié)果，藤條從一棵已為人們遺忘的枸杞樹枝上垂掛下來，搖晃著葉茂的枝頭，慢悠悠的，卻不停下來，帶著一種哀怨。

一棵夏季開花的木蘭樹挺立在院落的一角，高大的樹干像是一座由茂密的樹葉堆成的巨塔，四下探出乳白色的花朵。

一只做工粗糙的木凳挨著樹干，蒙泰尼里就坐在上面。亞瑟在大學(xué)里主修哲學(xué)，因為他在書上遇到了一道難題，所以就來找他的“Padre”解惑答疑。他并不是神學(xué)院的學(xué)生，但是蒙泰尼里對他來說卻是一本百科全書。

“這會兒我該走了。”等那一個章節(jié)講解完了以后，亞瑟說道，“要是沒有別的事情，我就走了。”

“我不想接著去工作，但是如果你有時間的話，我希望你能待上一會兒。”

“那好！”他靠在樹干上，抬頭透過影影綽綽的樹葉，遙望寂靜的天空。第一批暗淡的星星已經(jīng)在那里閃爍。黑色的睫毛下面長著一雙深藍(lán)色的眼睛，夢幻一般神秘。這雙眼睛遺傳自他那位出生于康沃爾郡的母親。蒙泰尼里轉(zhuǎn)過頭去，避免看見那雙眼睛。

“你看上去挺累，Carino。”蒙泰尼里說道。

“沒辦法。”亞瑟的聲音帶著倦意，Padre立即就注意到了。

“你不應(yīng)該這么早就上大學(xué)，那會兒照料病人整夜都睡不了覺，身體都給拖垮了。你在離開里窩那之前，我應(yīng)該堅持讓你好好休息一段時間。”

“不，Padre，那有什么用呢？母親去世以后，那個鬼家我就待不下去了。朱麗亞會把我逼瘋的！”

朱麗亞是他同父異母兄長的妻子，對他來說她是一根毒刺。

“我不應(yīng)該讓你和家人住在一起，”蒙泰尼里輕聲地說道，“我清楚那樣對你一點好處都沒有。但是我希望你能接受你那位做醫(yī)生的英國朋友的邀請，如果你在他家住上一個月，回頭再去上學(xué)，你的身體會好得多。”

“不，Padre，我不該那樣做??！華倫一家人都非常好，和氣得很，但是他們就是不明白。而且他們還覺得我可憐，我從他們的臉上能夠看出來。他們會設(shè)法安慰我，談起母親。瓊瑪當(dāng)然不會那樣，她總是知道不該說些什么，甚至在我們很小的時候她就這樣。但是其他的人會說的。還有——”

“還有什么，我的孩子？”

亞瑟從一根低垂的毛地黃枝條上捋下了幾朵花來，神經(jīng)質(zhì)地用手揉碎它們。

“那個小鎮(zhèn)我待不下去了。”他在片刻之后說道。

“那里的幾家店鋪，在我小時她常去給我買玩具；沿河的道路，她在病重以前我常扶她去散步。不管我走到哪里，總是讓我觸景生情。每一位賣花的姑娘都會向我走來，手里捧著鮮花——好像我現(xiàn)在還需要它們似的！還有教堂——我必須離開那里，看見那個地方就讓我傷心不已——”

他打住了話頭，坐下來把毛地黃撕成了碎片。悠長而又深沉的寂靜，以至于他抬起頭來，納悶神父為什么不說話。木蘭樹下，天色漸漸地暗了下來，一切都顯得若隱若現(xiàn)。但是還有一絲余光，可以看見蒙泰尼里臉色煞白，怪嚇人的。他正低著頭，右手緊緊地抓住木凳的邊角。亞瑟轉(zhuǎn)過頭去，心中油然產(chǎn)生一種敬畏之情，驚愕不已。他仿佛是在無意之間踏上了圣地。

“我的上帝！”他想，“在他身邊，我顯得多么渺小，多么自私！即使是他遇到了我這樣的不幸，他也不可能覺得更加傷感。”

蒙泰尼里隨即抬起頭來，四下看了看。

“我不會強迫你回到那里去，現(xiàn)在無論如何我都不會那么做，”他滿含深情地說道，“但是你必須答應(yīng)我一條，今年放暑假時好好地休息一下。我看你最好還是遠(yuǎn)離里窩那地區(qū)，我可不能眼看著你的身體垮下去。”

“Padre，您在神學(xué)院放假時到哪兒去？”

“我會帶著學(xué)生進(jìn)山，就像以往那樣，照看他們在那里安頓下來?？墒堑搅税嗽轮醒?，副院長休完假后就會回來。那時我就會去阿爾卑斯山散散心。你會跟我去嗎？我可以帶你到山里作長途旅行，而且你會愿意研究一下阿爾卑斯山的苔蘚和地衣?？墒?，只有我一個人在身邊，你會覺得十分乏味嗎？”

“Padre！”亞瑟拍起手來，朱麗亞說這種動作暴露出“典型的外國派頭”。“能和您去，叫我干什么我都愿意。只是——我不知道——”他打住了話頭。

“你認(rèn)為伯頓先生會不同意嗎？”

“他當(dāng)然不會樂意的，但是他也不好對我橫加干涉了。我現(xiàn)在都已十八歲了，想干什么就能干什么。話又說回來，他只是我的同父異母兄長，我看不出我就該對他俯首帖耳。他對母親總是不好。”

“但是他如果當(dāng)真反對，我看你最好就不要違背他的意愿。不然的話，你會發(fā)現(xiàn)在家里的處境會更難——”

“一點也不會更難！”亞瑟怒形于色，打斷了他的話。“他們總是恨我，過去恨我，將來還會恨我——這與我做什么沒有關(guān)系。此外，我是同您、同我的懺悔神父一道外出，杰姆斯還怎么能當(dāng)真反對呢？”

“可是你要記住，他是一位新教徒。你還是給他寫封信吧，我們不妨等一等，看他怎么說。但是你也不要操之過急，我的孩子。不管人家是恨你還是愛你，都要檢點你自己的所作所為。”

他委婉地道出責(zé)備的話來，一點也不會讓亞瑟聽了臉紅。

“是的，我知道。”他答道，并且嘆息了一聲。“可這也太難了——”

“星期二晚上你沒能過來，當(dāng)時我覺得很遺憾。”蒙泰尼里說道，突然之間換了一個話題，“阿雷佐主教到這兒來了，我是想讓你見見他。”

“我答應(yīng)了一個學(xué)生，要去他的住處開會。當(dāng)時他們在那兒等我。”

“什么會？”

聽到了這個問題，亞瑟好像有些窘迫。“它、它不、不是一次正、正常的會議，”他說道，因為緊張而有點口吃。“有個學(xué)生從熱那亞來了，他給我們作了一次發(fā)言，算是、是——講演吧。”

“他講了一些什么？”

亞瑟有些猶豫。“Padre，您不要問他的名字，好嗎？因為我答應(yīng)過——”

“我不會問你什么，而且如果你已經(jīng)答應(yīng)過保密，你當(dāng)然就不該告訴我。但是到了現(xiàn)在，我想你該信任我了吧。”

“Padre，我當(dāng)然信任你。他講到了——我們，以及我們對人民的責(zé)任——還有，對我們自己的責(zé)任，還講到了——我們可以做些什么，以便幫助——”

“幫助誰？”

“幫助農(nóng)民——和——”

“和什么？”

“意大利。”

一陣長久的沉默。

“告訴我，亞瑟，”蒙泰尼里說罷轉(zhuǎn)身看著他，語調(diào)非常莊重。“這事你考慮了多長時間？”

“自從——去年冬天。”

“是在你母親去世之前？她知道這事嗎？”

“不、不知道。我、我那時對此并不關(guān)心。”

“那么現(xiàn)在你——關(guān)心這事嗎？”

亞瑟又揪下了一把毛地黃花冠。

“是這樣的，神父，”他開口說道，眼睛看著地上。“在我去年準(zhǔn)備入學(xué)考試時，我結(jié)識了許多學(xué)生。你還記得嗎？呃，有些學(xué)生開始對我談?wù)?mdash;—所有這些事情，并且借書給我看。

但是我對這事漠不關(guān)心。當(dāng)時我只想早點回家去看母親。你知道的，在那所地牢一般的房子里，和他們低頭不見抬頭見，她十分孤單。朱麗亞那張嘴能把她給氣死。后來到了冬天，她病得非常厲害，我就把那些學(xué)生和他們那些書全給忘了。后來，你知道的，我就根本不到比薩來了。如果我想到了這事，我當(dāng)時肯定會跟母親說的。但是我就是沒有想起來。后來我發(fā)現(xiàn)她要死了——你知道的，我?guī)缀跏且恢迸阒钡剿廊?。我?jīng)常整夜不睡，瓊瑪•華倫白天會來換我睡覺。呃，就是在那些漫漫長夜里，我這才想起了那些書來，以及那些學(xué)生所說的話——并且思考他們說的對不對，以及我們的主對這事會怎么說。”

“你問過他嗎？”蒙泰尼里的聲音并不十分平靜。

“問過，Padre。有時我向他祈禱，求他告訴我該做些什么，或者求他讓我同母親一起死去。但是我得不到任何的答復(fù)。”

“你一個字也沒有跟我提過。亞瑟，我希望當(dāng)時你能信任我。”

“Padre，您知道我信任您！但是有些事情您不能隨便說。我——在我看來，那時沒人能夠幫我——甚至連您和母親都幫不上我。我必須從上帝那里直接得到我自己的答復(fù)。您知道的，這關(guān)系到我的一生和我整個的靈魂。”

蒙泰尼里轉(zhuǎn)過身去，凝視著枝繁葉茂的木蘭樹。在暗淡的暮色之中，他的身形變得模糊起來，就像是一個黑暗的鬼魂，潛伏在顏色更暗的樹枝之間。

“后來呢？”他慢聲細(xì)語地同道。

“后來——她就死了。您知道的，最后的三天晚上我一直陪著她——”

他說不下去了，停頓了片刻，但是蒙泰尼里一動也不動。

“在他們把她安葬之前的兩天里，”亞瑟繼續(xù)說道，聲音放得更低，“我什么事情都不能想。后來，我在葬禮以后就病倒了。您總記得，我都不能來做懺悔。”

“是的，我記得。”

“呃，那天深夜我起身走進(jìn)母親的房間。里面空蕩蕩的，只有神食里那個巨大的十字架還在那里。我心想也許上帝會給予我?guī)椭?。我跪了下來，等?mdash;—等了一整夜。到了早晨，我醒悟了過來——Padre，沒有用的。我解釋不清。我無法告訴您我看見了什么——我自己一點兒都不知道。但是我知道上帝已經(jīng)回答了我，而且我不敢違抗他的意愿。”

他們默不做聲，在黑暗之中坐了一會兒。蒙泰尼里隨后轉(zhuǎn)過身來，把手放在亞瑟的肩上。

“我的孩子，”他說，“上帝不許我說他沒有跟你講過話。

但是記住在發(fā)生這件事的時候你的處境，不要把悲痛或者患病所產(chǎn)生的幻想當(dāng)作是他向你發(fā)出了莊嚴(yán)的感召。如果他的確是通過死亡的陰影對你作出了答復(fù)，那么千萬不要曲解他的意思。你的心里到底在想些什么呢？”

亞瑟站起身來。一字一頓地作了回答，好像是在背誦一段教義問答。

“獻(xiàn)身于意大利，幫著把她從奴役和苦難中解救出來，并且驅(qū)逐奧地利人，使她成為一個共和國，沒有國王，只有基督。”

“亞瑟，想想你在說些什么！你甚至都不是意大利人啊。”

“這沒有什么區(qū)別，我是我自己。既然我已經(jīng)得到了上帝的啟示，那我就要為她而獻(xiàn)身。”

又是一陣沉寂。

“剛才你講的就是基督要說的話——”蒙泰尼里慢條斯理地說道，但是亞瑟打斷了他的話。

“基督說：‘凡為我而獻(xiàn)身的人都將獲得新生。’”

蒙泰尼里把一只胳膊撐著一根樹枝，另一只手遮住雙眼。

“坐一會兒，我的孩子，”他最終說道。

亞瑟坐了下來，Padre，緊緊地握住雙手。

“今晚上我不能跟你展開辯論，”他說，“這件事對我來說太突然了——我沒有想過——我必須安排時間仔細(xì)考慮一下。然后我們再確切地談?wù)?。但是現(xiàn)在，我要你記住一件事。

如果你在這件事上遇到了麻煩，如果你——死了，你會讓我心碎的。”

“Padre——”

“不，讓我把話說完。有一次我告訴過你，在這個世上除了你之外我沒有一個人。我并不認(rèn)為你完全理解這話的意思。

人在年輕的時候很難理解這話的意思。如果我像你這么大，我也理解不了。亞瑟，你就像我的——就像我的——我自己的兒子。你懂嗎？你是我眼里的光明，你是我心中的希望。為了不讓你走錯一步路，毀了你的一生，我情愿去死。但是我無能為力。我不要求你對我作出什么承諾。我只要求你記住這一點，并且事事小心。在你毅然決然地走出這一步時好好想一想，如果不為了你那在天的母親，那也為了我想一想。”

“我會的——而且——神父，為我祈禱吧，為意大利祈禱吧。”

他默默地跪了下來，蒙泰尼里默默地把手放在他那垂下的頭上。過了一會兒，亞瑟抬起頭來，親吻了一下那只手，然后踏著沾滿露水的草地，輕輕地離去。蒙泰尼里獨自坐在木蘭樹下，直愣愣地望著眼前的黑暗。

“上帝已經(jīng)降罪于我了，”他想，“就像降罪于大衛(wèi)一樣。我已經(jīng)玷污了他的圣所，并用骯臟的手褻瀆了圣體——他對我一直都很有耐心，現(xiàn)在終于降罪于我。‘你在暗中行這事，我卻要在以色列眾人面前、日光之下報應(yīng)你。故此你所得的孩子必定要死。’［引自《圣經(jīng)》之《撒母耳記下》］”