第10章 DEATH OF LITTLE NELL 小妮儿之死

She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the hand of God, and waiting for the breath of life; not one who had lived, and suffered death. Her couch was dressed with here and there some winter-berries and green leaves, gathered in a spot she had been used to favour. “When I die, put near me something that has loved the light, and had the sky above it always.” These were her words.

She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. Her little bird—a poor, slight thing, the pressure of a finger would have crushed—was stirring nimbly in its cage; and the strong heart of its child-mistress was mute and motionless for ever! Where were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings and fatigues? All gone. Sorrow was dead, indeed, in her; but peace and perfect happiness were born—imaged in her tranquil beauty and profound repose.

And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this change. Yes, the old fireside had smiled upon that same sweet face; it had passed like a dream through haunts of misery and care—at the door of the poor schoolmaster on the summer evening, before the furnace fire upon the cold wet night, at the still bedside of the dying boy, there had been the same mild and lovely look. So shall we know the angels in their majesty after death.

The old man held one languid arm in his, and the small tight hand folded to his breast for warmth. It was the hand she had stretched out to him with her last smile—the hand that had led him on through all their wanderings. Ever and anon he pressed it to his lips, then hugged it to his breast again, murmuring that it was warmer now; and as he said it he looked in agony to those who stood around, as if imploring them to help her.

She was dead, and past all help or need of help. The ancient rooms she had seemed to fill with life even while her own was waning fast, the garden she had tended, the eyes she had gladdened, the noiseless haunts of many a thoughtful hour, the paths she had trodden as it were but yesterday, could know her no more. “It is not,” said the schoolmaster, as he bent down to kiss her on the cheek, and gave his tears free vent—“it is not in this world that Heaven's justice ends.Think what it is,compared with the world to which her young spirit has winged its early flight, and say, if one deliberate wish, expressed in solemn tones above this bed, could call her back to life, which of us would utter it?”

She had been dead two days. They were all about her at the time, knowing that the end was drawing on. She died soon after daybreak. They had read and talked to her in the earlier portion of the night; but as the hours crept on she sank to sleep. They could tell, by what she faintly uttered in her dreams, that they were of her wanderings with the old man. They were of no painful scenes, but of those who had helped them and used them kindly; for she often said, “God bless you!” with great fervour. Waking, she never wandered in her mind but once, and that was at beautiful music which, she said, was in the air. God knows. It may have been.

Opening her eyes at last from a very quiet sleep, she begged that they would kiss her once again. That done, she turned to the old man, with a lovely smile upon her face—such, they said, as they had never seen, and never could forget—and clung with both her arms about his neck. She had never murmured or complained, but with a quiet mind, and manner quite unaltered—save that she every day became more earnest, and more grateful to them—faded like the light upon the summer's evening.

The child who had been her little friend came there almost as soon as it was day with an offering of dried Bowers, which he begged them to lay upon her breast. He told them of his dream again, and that it was of her being restored to them, just as she used to be. He begged hard to see her, saying that he would be very quiet, and that they need not fear his being alarmed, for he had sat alone by his younger brother all day long when he was dead, and had felt glad to be so near him. They let him have his wish; and indeed he kept his word, and was in his childish way a lesson to them all.

Up to that time the old man had not spoken once—except to her—or stirred from the bedside. But when he saw her little favourite, he was moved as they had not seen him yet, and made as though he would have him come nearer. Then, pointing to the bed, he burst into tears for the first time; and they who stood by, knowing that the sight of this child had done him good, left them alone together.

Soothing him with his artless talk of her, the child persuaded him to take some rest, to walk abroad—to do almost as he desired him. And when the day came on which they must remove her in her earthly shape from earthly eyes for ever, he led him away, that he might not know when she was taken from him. They were to gather fresh leaves and berries for her bed.

And now the bell—the bell she had so often heard by night and day, and listened to with solemn pleasure, almost as to a living voice—rung its remorseless toll for her, so young, so beautiful, so good. Decrepit age, and vigorous life, and blooming youth, and helpless infancy, poured forth—on crutches, in the pride of health and strength, in the full blush of promise, in the mere dawn of life—to gather round her tomb. Old men were there, whose eyes were dim and senses failing—grandmothers, who might have died ten years ago and still been old—the deaf, the blind, the lame, the palsied—the living dead, in many shapes and forms, to see the closing of that early grave.

Along the crowded path they bore her now—pure as the newly fallen snow that covered it, whose day on earth had been as fleeting. Under that porch where she had sat when Heaven, in its mercy, brought her to that peaceful spot, she passed again;and the old church received her in its quiet shade. They carried her to one old nook,where she had many and many a time sat musing, and laid their burden softly on the pavement. The light streamed on it through the coloured window—a window where the boughs of trees were ever rustling in the summer, and where the birds sang sweetly all day long. With every breath of air that stirred among those branches in the sunshine, some trembling, changing light would fall upon her grave.

“Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” Many a young hand dropped in its little wreath—many a stifled sob was heard. Some, and they were not a few, knelt down. All were sincere and truthful in their sorrow. The service done, the mourners stood apart, and the villagers closed round to look into the grave before the stone should be replaced.

One called to mind how he had seen her sitting on that very spot, and how her book had fallen on her lap, and she was gazing with a pensive face upon the sky. Another told how he had wondered much that one so delicate as she should be so bold; how she had never feared to enter the church alone at night, but had loved to linger there when all was quiet, and even to climb the tower-stair, with no more light than that of the moon rays stealing through the loop-holes in the thick old walls. A whisper went about among the oldest there that she had seen and talked with angels; and when they called to mind how she had looked and spoken, and her early death, some thought it might be so indeed.

Thus, coming to the grave in little knots, and glancing down, and giving place to others, and falling off in whispering groups of three or four, the church was cleared in time of all but the sexton and the mourning friends. Then, when the dusk of evening had come on, and not a sound disturbed the sacred stillness of the place—when the bright moon poured in her light on tomb and monument, on pillar, wall, and arch, and most of all, it seemed to them, upon her quiet grave—in that calm time, when all outward things and inward thoughts teem with assurances immortality, and worldly hopes and fears are humbled in the dust before them, then with tranquil and submissive hearts they turned away, and left the child with God.

—CHARLES DICKENS

Words

assurance,evidence.

complained,repined.

creature,being.

daybreak,dawn.

deliberate,premeditate.

delicate,weakly.

disturbed,broke.

favourite,darlings.

fleeting,transient.

gladdened,rejected.

glancing,looking.

grateful,thankful.

immortality,deathless.

imploring,beseeching.

languid,exhausted.

misery,wretchedness.

monument,memorial.

nimbly,actively.

offering,present.

painful,trying.

palsied,paralyzed.

patient,endowing.

pavement,floor.

pensive,thoughtful.

persuaded,induced.

pleasure,satisfaction.

profound,deep.

repose,rest.

restored,returned.

sincere,honest.

solemn,serious.

soothing,calming.

stifled,smothered.

trembling,flickering.

unaltered,unchanged.

vigorous,healthy.

wandered,raved.

wanderings,journeyings.

她死去了。如此美丽而安静的沉睡，如此不受疼痛的困扰，看起来如此漂亮。她似乎是上帝手中刚刚诞生的生命一般，等待着生命的气息吹拂的人，而不是一个已经生活过的，然后死去的人。她的睡椅上到处装饰着冬天的莓果和绿叶，放在她曾经喜欢的地方。“要是我死了，在我身边放上喜欢光且生长在蓝天下的东西。”她曾如是说道。

她死去了。亲爱的、温柔的、耐心的、高贵的妮儿死去了。她的那只小鸟——一只可怜的小东西，只消一个手指的力量就能把它压死——麻木地在自己的笼子里扑棱个不停。它那小主人强健的心脏已经永远静止了，停止了跳动！她曾经的那些关怀，她曾经受过的磨难，她的疲惫不堪都到哪里去了？一切都逝去了。悲伤也死去了，的确，她心中的悲伤，但平静和完美的幸福则诞生了——幻化在她那宁静的美和深沉的静之中。

然而她的身体依然躺在那里，没有丝毫变化。是的，久远的火堆向着同样的一张甜美的脸庞微笑着，好像做了个梦一样，摆脱了痛苦和关怀的萦绕——在一个夏日早晨那可怜的校长家门前，在火炉温暖阴冷的夜晚之前，在那不久于人世的男孩子的病榻前，都曾出现过同样一张温和而可爱的脸庞。因此，我们只有在她们死去才知道天使的伟大。

老人把小妮儿低垂的一只手臂握在自己手里，把那小小的手掌紧紧握在自己怀里温暖着。她最后一次向老人伸出的就是这只手，她的脸上带着最后的笑容——这只手曾带着他走过了所有的颠簸路程。他亲吻了那手，道了永别，然后再一次把它贴近胸膛，喃喃道，手变热了些；他一边说着，一边难过地看着周围站着的人，好像在祈求他们帮帮她一样。

她死去了，没有任何人能帮得了她，也没有帮她的必要了。即使生命渐渐褪色，她也曾经给这古老的房子带来生机，她曾经照料过的花园，她曾经带去笑意的双眼，那许多个无声的深思的时刻，她曾经踏过的小路，就好像昨天一样，再也见不到她了。“并不是，”校长说道，他一边俯下身子去吻她的脸颊，脸上泪水纵横：“并不是在这个世界上，上帝不公正了。想想这是什么，和这个她年轻的灵魂早早飞去的世界相比，如果，如果一个虔诚的许愿，用严肃的口吻在这床边说出，能够让她起死回生，我们中会有谁许下这个愿望呢？”

她已经死去两天了。他们都守在她旁边，知道就要结束了，她在黎明之后不久就去了。他们在刚刚入夜的时候给她读读书，和她说说话，但随着夜渐渐深了，她就陷入了沉睡。他们能从她梦中迷迷糊糊的话语中知道，她在和老人一起流浪。那里没有痛苦，只有那些关心他们和好心帮助他们的人，因为她经常饱含深情地说：“上帝保佑您！”只有一次，她在自己的想法中游荡着，走着，空气中响着美妙的音乐声，她说：“上帝知道。”她最后的时光可能是这样的。

她最后一次从安静的沉睡中睁开眼睛，祈求他们再吻她一次。之后，她转向老人，脸上挂着迷人的笑容——这个模样，他们说，他们从未见过，也不会忘记。老人把她的胳膊挂在自己的脖子上，她没有低声说什么，也没有抱怨什么，但心却很平静，举止并未异样——除了她每天都会对他们真挚地感恩——她的逝去就像夏天傍晚时分的光一样地褪去了。

那个曾经和她是朋友的小孩，几乎在收到干枯的宝禾的那天就马上去看她了，他祈求过他们把宝禾放在自己的胸口。他告诉他们自己的梦，梦中她又活过来了，她就像从前一样。他祈求看看她，说自己不会出声，说他们不必害怕自己的惊慌，因为他在自己弟弟死去的时候一整天都守候在他身旁，他很高兴能守在女孩儿的身边。他们让他如愿，他也的确恪守了自己的诺言，以自己孩子般的方式给他们上了一课。

到那时为止，老人一句话也没有说——除了和她说话——他也没有离开过床边。但当他看到她那小小的最好的朋友的时候，老人被打动了，他们之前没见过他，老人想让他走得更近点。然后，他指着床，眼泪第一次一涌而出，那些站在旁边的人，知道这个孩子曾经对她好过，就让他们独自待在一起了。

老人用那粗糙的言语说着她的故事，安慰着他，那孩子劝他歇息一下，出去走走，做一些他自己希望做的事情。当到了必须得把她移走的日子的时候，当把她尘世间的身体从这世间永远移开的时候，老人让女孩儿的朋友走了，他可能不知道她是什么时候被他从身边夺走的。人们找来嫩叶和莓作为她的睡榻。

而现在铃声响了——她曾日日夜夜经常听到的铃声，快快乐乐地听着的铃声，就好像有生命敲响了毫无怜悯的声响似的，她是如此的年轻，如此的美丽，如此的善良。风烛残年的人、年富力强的人、青春的年轻人以及无助的婴儿，都涌上前来，他们或者健康而精力充沛，或者有大好前程，或者已经进入迟暮之年，都聚集在她的墓旁。老人也去了，他们眼睛低垂，精神低迷——那些可能在十年前就去世的祖母们还在老去——耳聋的，目盲的，脚跛的，瘫痪的——所有活着的人，以各种形态和样子，来看看那英年早逝的孩子。

顺着挤满人的小路，他们抬起了她，她就像初雪一样纯净，在世间短短走过一遭。她曾得上天怜悯，让她坐在安静的门廊下一角，现在他们把她从门廊下抬过去了，古老的教堂接受了她安详的身体。他们把她抬到一个古老的角落，她曾经不止一次坐在那里沉思，人们把她轻轻放在过道上。光线透过彩色的窗子照耀在上头，那窗子到了夏天会有很多树枝窸窸窣窣地摩挲着，鸟儿一整天都在欢唱。阳光下，这些树枝间吹过的每一丝风，都会引起枝丫的颤抖，变化的光线落在她的墓穴上。

“嗟乎，尘归尘，土归土。”许多年轻的手伏在小小的花环上，许多人强忍着啜泣，但是哭出了声。有些人，而且不是少数的几个，跪下身子，所有人的伤悲都真挚而真诚。等到仪式结束了，悼念的人站到一边，村民们围上来看一眼那石头前的墓穴。

有人想起她曾经坐在那里的样子，她的书就搁在膝盖上，她若有所思地看着天空。还有人说道，他曾惊讶像她这样娇弱的人竟会那么勇敢。她从不害怕独自在夜晚走进教堂，她喜欢在那里停留，当一切都静悄悄的，然后爬上塔楼的台阶，除了透过厚实的古墙上的洞洒落进来的月光，都看不见什么光。老人们窃窃私语说，她曾见到过天使，并和他们交谈。当他们想到她曾经的音容笑貌，她的言谈举止，还有她的英年早逝的时候，他们觉得一定是因为见到了天使的缘故。

于是，他们来到墓穴前，看了一眼，让别人再看，三四个人窃窃私语着离去，不一会儿，教堂里就只剩下教堂司事和悼念她的挚友了。尔后，夜幕降临，没有一丝声响搅扰到这里的宁静——明亮的月亮把光线洒向墓穴和墓碑，洒在柱子上、墙上、穹顶上，几乎所有的地方，在他们看来，洒在了她静静的墓室上。在那样一个宁静的时刻，当外界的纷繁和内心的思绪都充满了永恒和不朽，世俗的愿望和恐惧在他们面前都微不足道了，然后，他们怀着宁静而顺从的心，转身离去了，把那孩子交给了上帝。

——查尔斯·狄更斯