Cain and Abel - Towards the Classics 1

Author: (English) Geoffrey Archer / Country: Mainland China
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2006-07-01
Features: A highly readable translated novel, with two essential conditions: first, the content is captivating, and second, the translation is fluent. "Towards Classics" is meticulously translated by professional translators from both sides of the Taiwan Strait, with vivid and expressive language. The selection of books for "Towards Classics" is jointly executed by senior editors and book lovers from both sides of the Taiwan Strait. From the vast sea of books over more than a century, they have selected one after another of the good novels that should not be forgotten. As an important part of literature, novels undoubtedly have a large number of readers, and popular novels, due to their ease of reading, have become the mainstream of modern reading. These books were once shining stars on major bestseller lists, and now they are presented to readers once again through the corridor of time, hoping to invite you to share the joy of reading translated novels. This book is one of them...
On April 18, 1906, in S?oniów, Poland, her screams stopped only when she closed her eyes for death, and he began to cry at that moment. The boy who was hunting rabbits in the forest couldn’t even be sure whether it was the woman’s last scream or the baby’s crying that caught his attention. He turned abruptly as if sensing an impending danger, his eyes searching for some animal clearly in extreme pain. He had never heard any animal make such a mournful sound. He cautiously followed the sound, which had turned into crying, but it still didn’t resemble any animal he knew. He hoped this animal was small so he could kill it and bring it home to replace the monotonous rabbit meat on the dinner table. The boy quietly walked toward the river where the strange sound came from. His father had taught him never to stay in open places, so he hid behind trees the whole way. When he reached the edge of the forest, he could clearly see the slope leading straight down to the river. However, it took him some time to realize that this strange crying was not from an ordinary animal. He continued climbing toward the crying thing and suddenly saw the woman. Her clothes were pulled up to her waist, and her legs were spread wide. He rushed to her side and looked down at her abdomen but was too scared to touch her. Lying between her legs was a pink, wet little creature, attached to her by a string-like thing. The little hunter put down the wild rabbit he had just caught and knelt beside the small being. He stared at it for a long time before turning to look at the woman, immediately regretting his decision.
The extreme cold had already turned her body yellow, and at the age of twenty-three, she looked middle-aged to the boy. He could tell at once that she was dead. He picked up the slippery little body—though if you asked him why, he would say it was because the little thing was scratching his face with its nails, which made him uneasy, of course no one would ask him these things—and noticed a small “string” connecting them. He tried to recall how the shepherd had helped the ewe give birth a few days ago. How had he done it? But could he? The crying grew quieter, and he knew the situation was very urgent. He wiped the small knife on his sleeve, hesitated for a moment, and cut near the child’s body. Blood gushed out, and he thought again about how the shepherd had done it. He tied a knot to stop the bleeding. Yes, yes, he pulled a blade of grass and tied a knot around the umbilical cord, then picked up the child and slowly stood up. Three wild rabbits and the dead woman were left behind. Before turning to leave, he gathered the mother’s legs, pulled down her clothes to cover her knees. He thought it was the right thing to do.
"Holy God." This was the phrase he habitually said after doing something good or bad. Right now, he wasn’t sure if what he had done was good or bad. The little hunter ran to his mother’s small wooden cabin, where she had already boiled water, waiting for him to cook the rabbit meat. She might be wondering how many rabbits he had caught today, enough to feed the eight people in the family. At least three were needed. Sometimes he could also catch chickens, ducks, or geese that had escaped from the baron’s estate, where his father worked. Tonight, the little hunter brought back a different kind of animal. He couldn’t even hold it with one hand and had to push the door with his bare feet until his mother came to open it. He quietly handed over what he had, but she didn’t reach for it immediately. Instead, she pressed her chest and stared wide-eyed at the strange scene.
"God!" She made the sign of the cross. The boy looked at his mother’s face, trying to tell whether it was joy or anger, but he saw a tenderness in her eyes he had never seen before. He knew then that what he had done was right.
"Is this a baby, Mom?"
"A little boy," his mother said, her voice sorrowful.
"Where did you find him?"
"By the river. His mother is dead." She made the sign of the cross again.
"Quick, go run and tell your father. He’ll find the midwife, Mrs. Ren, at the estate, and then bring them to the mother. Finally, tell them to come straight home."
The little hunter handed over the baby, relieved that he hadn’t dropped the slippery thing. He wiped his hands on his pants and ran to find his father.
The mother braced the door with her shoulder and called her older daughter to boil water. Then she sat on a wooden stool, unbuttoned her clothes, and put a dry, flat nipple into the baby’s mouth. Her youngest daughter, Sophie, who was only six months old, would have to go hungry tonight. It was then she realized that they still hadn’t decided on dinner.
"What’s the use," she said loudly, pulling the scarf over the baby to cover him. "Poor little thing, you’ll be dead tomorrow."
But when the old midwife came later that night to bathe the child and handle the umbilical cord, she didn’t say anything about it. Her husband watched silently.
"When guests enter the house, God enters with them," the midwife quoted a Polish proverb. Her husband spat, "Hope he doesn’t bring cholera with him. We have enough children of our own." The woman stroked the baby’s thin hair, pretending not to hear. But she looked up and asked, "What should we name him?"
Her husband shrugged. "Let him go into the grave nameless!"
April 18, 1906, Massachusetts, Boston. The doctor grabbed the newborn’s ankle, patted his buttocks, and the baby cried.
In Massachusetts, Boston, there was a hospital that treated only the rich, occasionally taking in these new arrivals to the glittering world. At the Massachusetts General Hospital, the mothers in labor wouldn’t scream or wear their usual clothes. A young man paced anxiously outside the delivery room, while two obstetricians and the family doctor were busy inside. The father, for his first child, couldn’t afford to be careless, so he had called in three doctors. The two obstetricians could earn a handsome sum just by standing by. The one in a white coat under his evening gown was supposed to attend a banquet that night but couldn’t miss this special delivery. The three doctors had discussed beforehand who would deliver the baby, and in the end, the family doctor, Dr. May, won. The young man pacing outside thought of Dr. May and felt confident. In fact, he had no real reason to be anxious.
This morning, he had taken his wife, Anne, to the hospital. It was her ninth month and twenty-eight days of pregnancy. After breakfast, the contractions began, and he predicted the baby wouldn’t be born before his bank closed. He was a man of principle, and he believed his wife’s labor wouldn’t disrupt his orderly life, though he was still pacing outside the delivery room.
Nurses and young doctors hurried past him, lowering their voices until they were out of earshot before speaking normally again. He didn’t mind, because almost everyone treated him like that. Most had never seen him but knew who he was.
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