BẢN CHÉP ÂM THANH 🔗
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Part three of Amy Foster by Joseph Conrad. This LibriVox
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recording is in the public domain. Reading by Bologna Times,
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Amy Foster by Joseph Conrad, Section three. If it hadn't
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been for the still cross at Miss Swaffer's belt, he
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would not, he confessed, have known whether he was in
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a Christian country at all. He used to cast stealthy
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glances at it and feel comforted. There's nothing here the
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same as in his country. The earth and the water
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were different. There were no images of the Redeemer by
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the roadside. The very grass was different, and the trees,
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all the trees but the three old Norway pines on
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the bit of lawn before Swaffer's house, and these reminded
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him of his country. He had been detected once after dusk,
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with his forehead against the trunk of one of them,
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sobbing and talking to himself. They had been like brothers
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to him. At that time he affirmed everything else was strange,
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conceiving the kind of existence overshadowed, oppressed by the every
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day material appearances, as if by the visions of a nightmare.
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At night when he could not sleep, he kept on
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thinking of the girl who gave him the first piece
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of bread he had eaten in this born land. She
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had been neither fierce, nor angry, nor frightened. Her face
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he remembered as the only comprehensible face amongst all these
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faces that were as closed, as mysterious, and as mute
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as the faces of the dead, who were possessed of
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a knowledge beyond the comprehension of the living. I wonder
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whether the memory of her compassion prevented him from cutting
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his throat. But there I suppose I am an old sentimentalist,
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and forget the instinctive love of life, which it takes
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all the strength of an uncommon despair to overcome. He
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did the work which was given him with an intelligence
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which surprised Old Swaffer. By and by it was discovered
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that he could helpe at the plowing, could milk the cows,
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feed the bullocks and the cattle yard, and was of
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some use with the sheep. He began to pick up
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words too, very fast, and suddenly, one fine morning in
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spring he rescued from an untimely death. A grandchild of
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Old Swaffer. Swaffer's younger daughter is married to Wilcox, a solicitor,
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and the town clerk of Colbruk. Regularly twice a year
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they come to stay with the old man for a
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few days. Their only child, a little girl not three
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years old at the time, ran out of the house
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alone in her little white penafore, and toddling across the
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grass of a terrace garden, pitched herself over a low wall,
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head first into the horse pond in the yard below.
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Our man was out with the wagoner and the plow
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in the field nearest to the house, and as he
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was leading the team round to begin a fresh furrow,
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he saw through the gap of the gate what for
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anybody else would have been a mere flutter of something white.
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But he had straight, glancing, quick, far reaching eyes that
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only seemed to flinch and lose their amazing power before
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the immensity of the sea. He was barefooted and looking
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as outlandish as the heart of squaffer could desire. Leaving
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the horses on the turn to the inexpressible disgust of
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the wagoner, he bounded off, going over the plowed ground
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in long leaps, and suddenly appeared before the mother thrust
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the child into her arms and strode away. The pond
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was not very deep, but still if he had not
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had such good eyes, the child would have perished miserably,
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suffocated in the foot or so of sticky mud. At
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the bottom, Old Swaffer walked out slowly into the field,
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waited till the plow came over to his side, had
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a good look at him, and without saying a word,
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went back to the house. But from that time they
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laid out his meals on the kitchen table, and at
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first Miss Swaffer, all in black and with an inscrutable face,
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would come and stand in the doorway of the living
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Load full transcript
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room to see him make a big sign of the
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cross before he fell to I believe that from that
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day too, Swaffer began to pay him regular wages. I
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can't follow step by step his development. He cut his
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hair short, was seen in the village and along the
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road going to and fro to his work like any
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other man. Children ceased to shout after him. He became
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aware of social differences, but remained for a long time
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surprised at the bare poverty of the churches among so
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much wealth. He couldn't understand either why they were kept
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shut up on week days. There was nothing to steal
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in them. Was it to keep people from praying? Too often.
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The rectory took much notice of him about that time,
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and I believe the young ladies attempted to prepare the
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ground for his conversion. They could not, however, break him
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of his habit of crossing himself, but he went so
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far as to take off the string with a couple
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of brass metals the size of a sixpence, a tiny
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metal cross, and a square sort of scapulary, which he
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wore round his neck. He hung them on the wall
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by the side of his bed, and he was still
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to be heard every evening reciting the large prayer in
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incomprehensible words and in a slow, fervent tone, as he
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had heard his old father do at the head of
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all the knailing family, big and little, on every evening
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of his life. And though he wore corduroys at work
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and a slop made pepper and salt suit on Sundays,
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strangers would turn round to look after him on the road.
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His foreignness had a peculiar and indelible stamp. At last
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people became used to see him, but they never became
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used to him, his rapid skimming walk, his swarthy complexion,
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his hat cocked on the left, ear, his habit on
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warm evenings, of wearing his coat over one shoulder like
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a hussar's dullmen, his manner of leaping over the stiles,
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not as a feat of agility, but in the ordinary
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course of progression. All these peculiarities were, as one may say,
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so many causes of scorn and offense to the inhabitants
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of the village. They wouldn't, in their dinner hour, lie
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flat on their backs on the grass to stare at
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the sky. Neither did they go about the fields screaming
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dismal tunes. Many times have I heard his high pitched
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voice from behind the rich of some sloping sheep walk,
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a voice light and soaring like a lark's, but with
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a melancholy human note over our fields, that hear only
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the song of birds, and I should be startled myself. Ah.
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He was different, innocent of heart and full of good will,
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which nobody wanted. This castaway, that, like a man transplanted
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into another planet, was separated by an immense space from
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his past and by an immense ignorance from his future.
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His quick, fervent utterance positively shocked everybody. An excitable devil,
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they called him one evening in the tap room of
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the Coach and Horses, having drunk some whisky, he upset
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them all by singing a love song of his country.
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They hooted him down, and he was pained. But Prebble,
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the lame Wheelwright, and Vincent, the fat Blacksmith, and the
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other notables too wanted to drink their evening beer in peace.
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On another occasion he tried to show them how to dance.
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The dust rose in clouds from the sanded floor. He
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leaped straight up amongst the deal tables, druck his heels together,
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squatted on one heel in front of old Prebble, shooting
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out the other leg, uttered wild and exulting cries, jumped
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up to whirl on one foot, snapping his fingers above
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his head, and a strange carter, who was having a
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drink in there, began to swear and cleared out with
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his half pinte in his hand into the bar. But
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when suddenly he sprang upon a table and continued to
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dance among the glasses, the landlord interfered he didn't want
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any acrobat tricks in the tap room. They laid their
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hands on him, having had a glass or two. Mister
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Swaffer's foreigner tried to expostulate, was ejected forcibly got a
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black eye. I believe he felt the hostility of his
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human surroundings, but he was tough, tough in spirit too,
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as well as in body. Only the memory of the
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sea frightened him with that vague terror that is left
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by a bad dream. His home was far away, and
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he did not want now to go to America. I
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had often explained to him that there is no place
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on earth where true gold can be found, lying ready
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and to be got for the trouble of the picking up. How, then,
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he asked, could he ever return home with empty hands,
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when there had been sold a cow, two ponies, and
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a bit of land to pay for his going. His
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eyes would fill with tears, and, averting them from the
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immense shimmer of the sea, he would throw himself face
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down on the grass, but sometimes cocking his hat with
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a little conquering air. He would defy my wisdom. He
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had found his bit of true gold. That was Amy
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Foster's heart, which was a golden heart and soft to
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people's misery, he would say, in the accents of overwhelming conviction.
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He was called Yank. He had explained that this meant
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little John, But as he would also repeat very often,
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that he was a mountaineer, some word sounding in the
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dialect of his country, like Gurral. He got it for
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his surname. And this is the only trace of him
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that the succeeding ages may find in the marriage register
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of the parish. There it stands Yanko Gurral in the
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rector's handwriting, the crooked cross made by the castaway, a
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cross whose tracing, no doubt, seemed to him the most
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solemn part of the whole ceremony. Is all that remains
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now to perpetuate the memory of his name. His courtship
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had lasted some time ever since he got his precarious
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footing in the community. It began by his buying for
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Amy Foster a green satin ribbon in Darnfort. This was
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what you did in his country. You bought a ribbon
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at a jew's stall on a fair day. I don't
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suppose the girl knew what to do with it, but
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he seemed to think that his honorable intentions could not
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be mistaken. It was only when he declared his purpose
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to get married that I fully understood how for a
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hundred futile and inappreciable reasons, how shall I say odious?
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He was to all the countryside. Every old woman in
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the village was up in arms. Smith, coming upon him
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near the farm, promised to break his head for him
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if he found him about again. But he twisted his
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little black mustache with such a bellicose air, and rolled
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such big, black, fierce eyes at Psmith that this promise
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came to nothing. Smith, however, told the girl that she
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must be mad to take up with a man who
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was surely wrung in his head. All the same, when
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she heard him in the gloaming whistle from beyond the
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orchard a couple of bars of a weird and mourn
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full tune, she would drop whatever she had in her hand.
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She would leave Missus Smith in the middle of a sentence,
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and she would run out to his call. Missus Smith
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called her a shameless hussy. She answered nothing, She said
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nothing at all to anybody, and went on her way
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as if she had been deaf. She and I alone,
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all in the land I fancy could see his very
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real beauty. He was very good looking, and most graceful
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in his bearing, with that something wild as of a
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woodland creature in his aspect. Her mother moaned over her
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dismally whenever the girl came to see her on her
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day out. The father was surly but pretended not to know.
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And missus Finn once told her plainly that this man,
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my dear, will do you some harm some day yet.
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And so it went on. They could be seen on
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the roads, she tramping stolidly in her finery, gray dress,
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black feather stout boots, prominent white
cotton gloves that caught
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your eye a hundred yards away, and he, his coat
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slung picturesquely over one shoulder, pacing by her side, gallant
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of bearing, and casting tender glances upon the girl with
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a golden heart. I wonder whether he saw how plain
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she was. Perhaps among types so different from what he
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had ever seen, he had not the power to judge.
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Or perhaps he was seduced by the divine quality of
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her pity. Uncle was in great trouble meantime in his country.
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You get an old man for an ambassador in marriage affairs.
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He did not know how to proceed. However, one day,
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in the midst of sheep in a field he was
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now suaffers under shepherd with foster. He took off his
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hat to the father and declared himself humbly, I dare
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say she's fool enough to marry you, was all Foster said.
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And then he used to relate. He puts his hat
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on his head, looks black at me as if he
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wanted to cut my throat, whistles the dog, and off
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he goes, leaving me to do the work. The Fosters,
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of course, didn't like to lose the wages the girl earned.
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Amy used to give all her money to her mother.
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But there was in Foster a very genuine aversion to
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that match. He contended that the fellow was very good
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with sheep, but was not fit for any girl to marry.
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For one thing, he used to go along the hedges
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muttering to himself like a damned fool. And then these
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foreigners behave very queerly to women sometimes, and perhaps he
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would want to carry her off somewhere, or run off himself.
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It was not safe. He preached to his daughter that
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the fellow might ill use her in some way. She
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made no answer. It was, they said in the village,
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as if the man had done something to her. People
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discussed the matter. It was quite an excitement and the
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two went on walking out together in the face of opposition.
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Then something unexpected happened. I don't know whether old Swaffer
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ever understood how much he was regarded in the light
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of a father by his foreign retainer. Anyway, the relation
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was curiously feudle. So when Yanko asked formally for an
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interview and the miss too, he called the severe deaf
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Miss Swaffer simply miss it was to obtain their permission
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to marry. Swaffer heard him unmoved, dismissed him by a nod,
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and then shouted the intelligence into Miss Swaffer's best dear.
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She showed no surprise and only remarked grimly, in a veiled,
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blank voice, he certainly won't get any other girl to
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marry him. It is Miss Swaffer who has all the
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credit of the munificence. But in a very few days
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it came out that mister Swaffer had presented Yanko with
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a cottage, the cottage you've seen this morning, and something
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like an acre of ground, had made it over to
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him in absolute property. Wilcox expedited the deed, and I
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remember him telling me he had a great pleasure in
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making it ready. It recited in consideration of saving the
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life of my beloved grandchild Bertha Wilcox. Of course, after that,
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no power on earth could prevent them from getting married.
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Her infatuation endured. People saw her going out to meet
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him in the evening. She stared with unblinking, fascinated eyes
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up the road where he was expected to appear, walking
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freely with a swing from the hip, and humming one
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of the love tunes of him his country. When the
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boy was born. He got elevated at the coach and horses,
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essayed again a song and a dance, and was again ejected.
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People expressed their commiseration for a woman married to that
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jack in the box. He didn't care. There was a
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man now, he told me boastfully, to whom he could
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sing and talk in the language of his country, and
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show how to dance by and by. But I don't know.
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To me he appeared to have grown less springy of step,
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heavier in body, less keen of eye. Imagination, no doubt,
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but it seems to
me now as if the net
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of fate had been drawn close around him already. One
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day I met him on the footpath over the Telford Hill.
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He told me that women are funny. I had heard
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already of domestic differences. People were saying that Amy Foster
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was beginning to find out what sort of man she
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had married. He looked upon the sea with indifferent, unseeing eyes.
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His wife had snatched the child out of his arms
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one day as he sat on the doorstep crooning to
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it a song such as the mothers sing to babies
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in his mountains. She seemed to think he was doing
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it some harm. Women are funny, And she had objected
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to him praying aloud in the evening. Why he expected
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the boy to repeat the prayer aloud after him, by
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and by, as he used to do after his old
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father when he was a child in his own country.
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And I discovered he longed for their boy to grow
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up so that he could have a man to talk
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with in that language that, to our ears sounded so disturbing,
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so passionate, and so bizarre. Why his wife should dislike
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the idea? He couldn't tell. But that would pass, he said,
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and tilting his head knowingly, he tapped his breastbone to
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indicate that she had a good heart, not hard, not fierce,
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open to compassion, charitable to the poor. I walked away thoughtfully,
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and wondered whether his difference, his strangeness, were not penetrating
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with repulsion that dull naesure that had begun by irresistibly attracting,
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I wondered. The doctor came to the window and looked
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out at the frigid splendor of the sea, immense in
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the haze, as if enclosing all the earth, with all
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the hearts lost among the passions of love and fear. Physiologically, now,
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he said, turning away abruptly, it was possible, It was possible.
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He remained silent, then went on. At all events. The
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next time I saw him, he was ill, lung trouble.
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He was tough, but I dare say he was not
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acclimatized as
well as I had supposed. It was a
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bad winter, and of course these mountaineers do get fits
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of hum sickness, and a state of depression would make
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him vulnerable. He was lying half dressed on a couch downstairs.
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A table covered with a dark oilcloth took up all
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the middle of the little room. There was a wicker
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cradle on the floor, a kettle spouting steam on the hob,
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and some child's linen lay drying on the fender. The
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room was warm, but the door opens right into the garden.
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As you noticed, perhaps he was very feverish and kept
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on muttering to himself. She sat on a chair and
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looked at him fixedly across the table with her brown
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blurred eyes. Why don't you have him upstairs? I asked,
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with a start and a confused stammer. She said, oh ah,
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I couldn't sit with him upstairs, sir. I gave her
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certain directions and going outside. I said again that he
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ought to be in bed upstairs. She wrung her hands.
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I couldn't. I couldn't. He can sense saying something I
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don't know what, With a memory of all the talk
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against the man that had been dead, into her ears,
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I looked at her narrowly. I looked into her short
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sighted eyes, at her dumb eyes that once in her
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life had seen an enticing shape, but seemed staring at
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me to see nothing at all now. But I saw
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she was uneasy. What's the matter with him? She asked,
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in a sort of vacant trepidation. He doesn't look very ill.
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I never did see anybody look like this before, do
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you think, I asked indignantly. He is shamming. I can't
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help it, sir, she said stolidly, And suddenly she clapped
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her hands and looked right and left. And there's the baby.
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I am so frightened. He wanted me just now to
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give him the baby. I can't understand what he says
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to it. Can't you ask a neighbor to come in
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to night, I asked, please, sir. Nobody seems to care
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to come, she muttered, dully, resigned. All at once. I
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impressed upon her the necessity of the greatest care, and
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then had to go. There was a good deal of
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sickness that winter. Oh I hope he won't talk, she
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exclaimed softly, just as I was going away. I don't
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know how it is. I did not see, but I didn't.
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And yet, turning in my trap, I saw her lingering
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before the door, very still, and as if meditating a
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flight up the Miry road towards the night. His fever increased.
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He tossed, moaned and now, and then muttered a complaint.
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And she sat with the table between her and the couch,
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watching every movement and every sound, with the terror, the
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unreasonable terror of that man she could not understand, creeping
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over her she had drawn the wicker cradle close to
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her feet. There was nothing in her now but the
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maternal instinct and that accountable fear. Suddenly coming to himself parched,
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he demanded a drink of water. She did not move.
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She had not understood, though he may have thought he
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was speaking in English. He waited, looking at her, burning
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with fever, amazed at her silence and immobility, and then
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he shouted, impatiently, water, Give me water. She jumped to
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her feet, snatched up the child, and stood still. He
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spoke to her, and his passionate remonstrances only increased her
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fear of that strange man. I believe he spoke to
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her for a long time, entreating, wondering, pleading, ordering, I suppose,
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she says. She bore it as long as she could,
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and then augusta ridge came over him. He sat up
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and called out terribly, one word, some word. Then he
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got up as though he hadn't been ill at all,
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she says, and as in fevered dismay, indignation and wonder,
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he tried to get to her round the table. She
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simply opened the door and ran out with the child
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in her arms. She heard him call twice after her
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down the road in a terrible voice, and fled. Ah.
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But you should have seen stirring behind the dull,
blurred
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glance of these eyes, the specter of the fear which
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had hunted her on that night, three miles and a
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half to the door of Foster's cottage. I did the
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next day, and it was I who found him lying
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face down, and his body and a puddle, just outside
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the little wicket gate. I had been called out that
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night to an urgent case in the village, and on
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my way home at daybreak passed by the cottage. The
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door stood open. My men helped me to carry him in.
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We laid him on the couch. The lamp smoked, the
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fire was out, the chill of the stormy night oozed
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from the cheerless yellow paper on the wall. Amy I
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called aloud, and my voice seemed to lose itself in
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the emptiness of this tiny house, as if I had
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cried in a desert. He opened his eyes, gone, he
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said distinctly. I had only asked for water, only for
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a little water. He was muddy. I covered him up
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and stood waiting in silence, catching a painfully gasped word.
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Now and then they were no longer in his own language.
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The fever had left him, taking with it the heat
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of life, and with his panting breast and lustrous eyes,
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he reminded me again of a wild creature under the
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nut of a bird caught in a snare. She had
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left him. She had left him sick, helpless, thirsty. The
401
00:25:48.240 --> 00:25:52.279
spear of the hunter had entered his very soul. Why
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00:25:52.799 --> 00:25:56.079
he cried in the penetrating and indignant voice of a
403
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man calling to a responsible maker. A gust of wind
404
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and wish of rain answered, And as I turned away
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to shut the door, he pronounced the word merciful and expired.
406
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Eventually I certified heart failure as the immediate cause of death.
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His heart must have indeed failed him, or else he
408
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might have stood this night of storm and exposure too.
409
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I closed his eyes and drove away. Not very far
410
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from the cottage, I met Foster, walking sturdily between the
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dripping hedges with his Collie at his heels. Do you
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know where your daughter is? I asked, don't I? He cried.
413
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I am going to talk to him. A bit frightening
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a poor woman like this. He won't frighten her any more,
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I said, he is dead. He struck with his stick
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at the mud, and there's the child. Then, after thinking
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deeply for a while, I don't know that it isn't
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for the best. That's what he said. And she says
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nothing at all now, not a word of him. Never
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is his image as utterly gone from her mind as
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his lithe and striding figure, his caroling voice are gone
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from our fields. He is no longer before her eyes
423
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to excite her imagination into a passion of love or fear,
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and his memory seems to have vanished from her dull
425
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brain as a shadow passes away upon a white screen.
426
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She lives in the cottage and works for Miss Swaffer.
427
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She is Amy Foster for everybody, and the child is
428
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Amy Foster's boy. She calls him Johnny, which means little John.
429
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It is impossible to say whether this name recalls anything
430
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to her. Does she ever think of the past? I
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have seen her hanging over the boy's cot in a
432
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very passion of maternal tenderness. The little fellow was lying
433
00:27:52.839 --> 00:27:56.160
on his back, a little frightened at me, but very still,
434
00:27:56.480 --> 00:27:59.640
with his big black eyes, with his fluttered air of
435
00:27:59.680 --> 00:28:03.480
a bird in a snare, and looking at him I
436
00:28:03.599 --> 00:28:07.440
seemed to see again the other one, the Father, cast
437
00:28:07.519 --> 00:28:10.759
up mysteriously by the sea, to perish in the supreme
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disaster of loneliness and despair. End of Part three, End
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of Amy Foster by Joseph Conrad