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开 本: 32开纸 张: 轻型纸包 装: 平装-胶订是否套装: 否国际标准书号ISBN: 9787569242621
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经典名著·英文全本·永久珍藏！原汁原味品读英文全本名著！
经典名著，权威选本，无任何删节，完整展现英文原著的无限魅力，是英语学习者、文学爱好者的***、***书目。
一曲荡气回肠、刚强无畏的英雄乐章，无数热血青年为尊严抗争的信仰之光，影响几代中国人英雄情怀的外国文学名著！
在《钢铁是怎样炼成的》书中，主人公保尔·柯察金被问到为何受重伤却一声不吭时，回答：“您读一读《牛虻》就明白了。”
内容简介
《牛虻》讲述了出生在意大利富商家的爱国青年亚瑟因单纯幼稚受神父的诱骗，在忏悔中泄露了青年意大利党的秘密，导致同志被捕，自己也被朋友误解，于是佯装投河自尽，设法奔赴南美。13年后，当他带着一身伤残重回故乡时，苦难的经历已把他磨练成一个坚定的革命者。他用笔名“牛虻”发表文章，揭露、讽刺教会的反动本质和欺骗行为。在一次偷运军火准备起义的行动中，牛虻被捕，经受了敌人的酷刑和实为自己生父的神父的劝降，*后英勇就义。
媒体评论
17岁那年，我进北大读书，认识了郭世英（郭沫若的儿子）。我在他床上看到《牛虻》，一看就放不下了。
——中国当代著名学者、作家、哲学研究者 周国平
如果你能写出一部《牛虻》，底下可以什么也不写。
——中国当代作家、学者 王蒙
我开始喜欢起小说来，是因为《牛虻》。
——中国著名作家、散文家 史铁生
——中国当代著名学者、作家、哲学研究者 周国平
如果你能写出一部《牛虻》，底下可以什么也不写。
——中国当代作家、学者 王蒙
我开始喜欢起小说来，是因为《牛虻》。
——中国著名作家、散文家 史铁生
在线试读
My most cordial thanks are due to the many persons who helped me to collect, in Italy, the materials for this story. I am especially indebted to the officials of the Marucelliana Library of Florence, and of the State Archives and Civic Museum of Bologna, for their courtesy and kindness.
PART I
“What have we to do with Thee,
Thou Jesus of Nazareth?”
CHAPTER I
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 sixteenthcentury portrait than a middleclass 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 closecut bushes between the straight box edgings. Now the whiterobed monks who had tended them were laid away and forgotten; but the scented herbs flowered still in the gracious midsummer 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 stonecrop. 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 medlartree, shaking a leafy head with slow and sad persistence.
In one corner stood a huge summerflowering magnolia, a tower of dark foliage, splashed here and there with milkwhite 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 treetrunk 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 sicknursing 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 stepbrother’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 marketgirl comes up to me with bunches of flowers—as if I wanted them now! And there’s the churchyard—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 awestruck 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 stepbrother; 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 nnot a rregular meeting,” he said with a nervous little stammer. “A student had come from Genoa, and he made a speech to us—aa 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—”
PART I
“What have we to do with Thee,
Thou Jesus of Nazareth?”
CHAPTER I
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 sixteenthcentury portrait than a middleclass 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 closecut bushes between the straight box edgings. Now the whiterobed monks who had tended them were laid away and forgotten; but the scented herbs flowered still in the gracious midsummer 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 stonecrop. 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 medlartree, shaking a leafy head with slow and sad persistence.
In one corner stood a huge summerflowering magnolia, a tower of dark foliage, splashed here and there with milkwhite 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 treetrunk 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 sicknursing 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 stepbrother’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 marketgirl comes up to me with bunches of flowers—as if I wanted them now! And there’s the churchyard—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 awestruck 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 stepbrother; 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 nnot a rregular meeting,” he said with a nervous little stammer. “A student had come from Genoa, and he made a speech to us—aa 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—”
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