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第44章流年故事（9）
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&oldhowgoodshewastrand-，havingustothegreathouseintheholidays，whereIinparticularusedtospendmanyhoursbymyself，ingazinguposoftheTwelveCaesars，thathadbeenEmperorsofRome，tilltheoldmarbleheadswouldseemtoliveagain，orItobeturomarblewiththem，howInevercouldbefiredwithroamingaboutthathugemansion，withitsvastemptymoms，withtheirworn-outhangings，flutteriryandcarvedoakehegildingalmostrubbedout—sometimesinthespaciousold—fashionedgardens，whichIhadalmosttomyself，unlesswhennowaarygardeningmanwoulde—aarinesandpeaguponthewalls，withoutmyevertopluckthem，becausetheywereforbiddenfruit，unlessnowandthen，—andbecauseIhadmorepleasureinstrollingaboutamongtheoldmelancholy-lookihefirs，andpiguptheredberries，andthefirapples，whichweregbuttoloaboutuprass，withallthefinegardensmellsaroundme—intheery，tillIostfancymyselfripening，too;alongwiththeesandthelimesinthatgratefulwarmth—orinwatgthedacethatdartedtoandfrointhefishpoomofthegravehereagreatsulkypikehangingmidaterie，asifitmockedattheirimpertifrisking，—Ihadmorepleasureinthesebusy-idlediversionsthaniflavorsofpeaees，es，andsuonbaitsof.HereJohedbatheplateabunchofgrapes，whiobservedbyAlice，hehadmeditateddividingwithher，andbothseemedwillingtoreliheprese.
Theamhteoldhow，thrandmotherFieldlovedallhergrainanespeershemightbesaidtolovetheirunL.—becausehewassohandsomeah，andakiofus;and，insteadofmopingaboutinsolitaryers，likesomeofus，hewouldmoutlesomehorsehecouldget，hemselves，acarryhimhalfovertheam，andjoierswhentherewereanyout—aheoldgreathouseaoo，buthadtoomuchspirittobealentupwithiies—andhrewuptomaeasbraveashewashaheadmirationofeverybody，butrandmotherFieldmostespedhowheusedtocarrymeuponhisbaIwasalame—footedboy—forhewasagoodbitolderthanme—manyamilewhenIotain;—andhowinafterlifehebecamelame-footedtoo，andIdidnotalways（Ifear）makeallowanoughforhimatientandinpain，norremembersuffitlyhowsideratehehadbeentomewhenIwaslame-footed;andhowwhehoughhehadnotbeendeadanhour，itseemedasifhehaddiedagreatwhileago，suchadistawixtlifeah;andhowIborehisdeathaskthoughtprettywellatfirst，butafterwardsithauntedandhauhoughIdidnotcryortakeittoheartassomedo，andasIthinkhewouldhavedoneifIhaddied，yetImissedhimalldaylong，aillthenhowmuchIhadlovedhim，Imissedhiskindness，andImissedhisess，aobealiveagain，twithhim（forwequarreledsometimes），ratherthannothavehimagain，andwasasuhouthim，ashetheirpooruhavebeeookoffhislimboHerethefelladaskediftheirlittlemwhichtheyhadonwasnotforun，andtheylookedup，atogoonabouttheiruotellthemsomestoriesabouttheirprettydeadmother.
&oldhowforsevenlongyears，iimes，sometimesindespair，yetpersistingever，IcourtedthefairAlid，asmuchasderstand，Iexplaiess，anddiffiddeinmadness—wheurningtoAlice，thesoulofthefirstAlicelookedoutathereyeswithsucharealityofrepreseIbedoubtwhistoodtherebeforeme，orwhosethatbrighthairwas;aoodgazing，boththegraduallygrewfaiomyview，redstillreg，fillnothingatlastbuttwomourureswereseeermostdistance，which，withoutspeegelyimpresseduposofspeech:“WearenotofAliorofthee，norareweatall.TheofAlicecallBarmanfather.Wearenothihannothing，anddreams.Weareonlywhatmighthavebeen，andmustoediousshoresofLethemillionsofagesbeforewehaveexistendaname”
aelyawaking，Ifoulyseatedinmybachair，whereIhadfallehefaithfulBridgetungedbymyside—butJohnL.（orJamesElia）wasgoneforever.
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