第44章流年故事（9）
&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。