There resulted a singular mosaic3 of extraordinary, bright-coloured and melodramatic statements, for Levin, who first hobbled down the hill with Tietjens and then hobbled back up, clinging to his arm, brought out monstrosities of news about Sylvia’s activities, without any sequence, and indeed without any apparent aim except for the great affection he had for Tietjens himself . . . All sorts or singular things seemed to have been going on round him in the vague zone, outside all this engrossed4 and dust-coloured world — in the vague zone that held . . . Oh, the civilian5 population, tea-parties short of butter! . . .
And as Tietjens, seated on his hams, his knees up, pulled the soft woolliness of his flea-bag under his chin and damned the paraffin heater for letting out a new and singular stink6, it seemed to him that this affair was like coming back after two months and trying to get the hang of battalion7 orders . . . You come back to the familiar, slightly battered8 mess ante-room. You tell the mess orderly to bring you the last two months’ orders, for it is as much as your life is worth not to know what is or is not in them . . . There might be an A.C.I. ordering you to wear your helmet back to the front, or a battalion order that Mills bombs must always be worn in the left breast pocket. Or there might be the detail for putting on a new gas helmet! . . . The orderly hands you a dishevelled mass of faintly typewritten matter, thumbed out of all chance of legibility, with the orders for November 26 fastened inextricably into the middle of those for the 1st of December, and those for the 10th, 25th and 29th missing altogether . . . And all that you gather is that headquarters has some exceedingly insulting things to say about A Company; that a fellow called Hartopp, whom you don’t know, has been deprived of his commission; that at a court of inquiry9 held to ascertain10 deficiencies in C Company Captain Wells — poor Wells I— has been assessed at ￡27 11 4d., which he is requested to pay forthwith to the adjutant . . .
So, on that black hillside, going and returning, what stuck out for Tietjens was that Levin had been taught by the general to consider that he, Tietjens, was an extraordinarily11 violent chap who would certainly knock Levin down when he told him that his wife was at the camp gates; that Levin considered himself to be the descendant of an ancient Quaker family . . . (Tietjens had said Good God! at that); that the mysterious ‘rows’ to which in his fear Levin had been continually referring had been successive letters from Sylvia to the harried12 general . . . and that Sylvia had accused him, Tietjens, of stealing two pairs of her best sheets . . . There was a great deal more. But having faced what he considered to be the worst of the situation, Tietjens set himself coolly to recapitulate13 every aspect of his separation from his wife. He had meant to face every aspect, not that merely social one upon which, hitherto, he had automatically imagined their disunion to rest. For, as he saw it, English people of good position consider that the basis of all marital15 unions or disunions is the maxim16: No scenes. Obviously for the sake of the servants — who are the same thing as the public. No scenes, then, for the sake of the public. And indeed, with him, the instinct for privacy — as to his relationships, his passions, or even as to his most unimportant motives17 — was as strong as the instinct of life itself. He would, literally18, rather be dead than an open book.
And, until that afternoon, he had imagined that his wife, too, would rather be dead than have her affairs canvassed19 by the other ranks . . . But that assumption had to be gone over. Revised . . . Of course he might say she had gone mad. But, if he said she had gone mad he would have to revise a great deal of their relationships, so it would be as broad as it was long . . .
The doctor’s batman, from the other end of the hut, said:
Poor — 0 Nine Morgan . . . ’ in a sing-song, mocking voice . . .
For though, hours before, Tietjens had appointed this moment of physical ease that usually followed on his splurging heavily down on to his creaking camp-bed in the doctor’s lent hut, for the cool consideration of his relations with his wife, it was not turning out a very easy matter. The hut was unreasonably20 warm: he had invited Mackenzie — whose real name turned out to be McKechnie, James Grant McKechnie — to occupy the other end of it. The other end of it was divided from him by a partition of canvas and a striped Indian curtain. And McKechnie, who was unable to sleep, had elected to carry on a long — an interminable — conversation with the doctor’s batman.
The doctor’s batman also could not sleep and, like McKechnie, was more than a little barmy on the crumpet — an almost non-English-speaking Welshman from God knows what up-country valley. He had shaggy hair like a Caribbean savage21 and two dark, resentful wall-eyes; being a miner he sat on his heels more comfortably than on a chair and his almost incomprehensible voice went on in a low sort of ululation, with an occasionally and startlingly comprehensible phrase sticking out now and then.
It was troublesome, but orthodox enough. The batman had been blown literally out of most of his senses and the VIth Battalion of the Glamorganshire Regiment22 by some German high explosive or other, more than a year ago. But before then, it appeared, he had been in McKechnie’s own company in that battalion. It was perfectly23 in order that an officer should gossip with a private formerly25 of his own platoon or company, especially on first meeting him after long separation caused by a casualty to one or the other. And McKechnie had first re-met this scoundrel Jonce, or Evanns, at eleven that night — two and a half hours before. So there, in the light of a single candle stuck in a stout26 bottle they were tranquilly27 at it: the batman sitting on his heels by the officer’s head; the officer, in his pyjamas28, sprawling29 half out of bed over his pillows, stretching his arms abroad, occasionally yawning, occasionally asking: ‘What became of Company-Sergeant30-Major Hoyt?’ . . . They might talk till half-past three.
But that was troublesome to a gentleman seeking to recapture what exactly were his relations with his wife.
Before the doctor’s batman had interrupted him by speaking startlingly of 0 Nine Morgan, Tietjens had got as far as what follows with his recapitulation: The lady, Mrs Tietjens, was certainly without mitigation a whore; he himself equally certainly and without qualification had been physically31 faithful to the lady and their marriage tie. In law, then, he was absolutely in the right of it. But that fact had less weight than a cobweb. For after the last of her high-handed divagations from fidelity32 he had accorded to the lady the shelter of his roof and of his name. She had lived for years beside him, apparently33 on terms of hatred34 and miscomprehension. But certainly in conditions of chastity. Then, during the tenuous35 and lugubrious36 small hours, before his coming out there again to France, she had given evidence of a madly vindictive37 passion for his person. A physical passion at any rate.
Well, those were times of mad, fugitive38 emotions. But even in the calmest times a man could not expect to have a woman live with him as the mistress of his house and mother of his heir without establishing some sort of claim upon him. They hadn’t slept together. But was it not possible that a constant measuring together of your minds was as proper to give you a proprietary39 right as the measuring together of the limb? It was perfectly possible. Well then . . .
What, in the eyes of God, severed40 a union? . . . Certainly he had imagined — until that very afternoon — that their union had been cut, as the tendon of Achilles is cut in a hamstringing, by Sylvia’s clear voice, outside his house, saying in the dawn to a cabman, ‘Paddington!’ . . . He tried to go with extreme care through every detail of their last interview in his still nearly dark drawing-room at the other end of which she had seemed a mere14 white phosphorescence . . .
They had, then, parted for good on that day. He was going out to France; she into retreat in a convent near Birkenhead — to which place you go from Paddington. Well then, that was one parting. That, surely, set him free for the girl!
He took a sip24 from the glass of rum and water on the canvas chair beside him. It was tepid41 and therefore beastly. He had ordered the batman to bring it him hot, strong and sweet, because he had been certain of an incipient42 cold. He had refrained from drinking it because he had remembered that he was to think cold-bloodedly of Sylvia, and he made a practice of never touching43 alcohol when about to engage in protracted44 reflection. That had always been his theory: it had been immensely and empirically strengthened by his warlike experience. On the Somme, in the summer, when stand-to had been at four in the morning, you would come out of your dug-out and survey, with a complete outfit45 of pessimistic thoughts, a dim, grey, repulsive46 landscape over a dull and much too thin parapet. There would be repellent posts, altogether too fragile entanglements47 of barbed wire, broken wheels, detritus48, coils of mist over the positions of revolting Germans. Grey stillness; grey horrors, in front, and behind amongst the civilian populations! And clear, hard outlines to every thought . . . Then your batman brought you a cup of tea with a little — quite a little — rum in it. In three of four minutes the whole world changed beneath your eyes. The wire aprons50 became jolly efficient protections that your skill had devised and for which you might thank God; the broken wheels were convenient landmarks51 for raiding at night in No Man’s Land. You had to confess that, when you had re-erected that parapet, after it had last been jammed in, your company had made a pretty good job of it. And, even as far as the Germans were concerned, you were there to kill the swine; but you didn’t feel that the thought of them would make you sick beforehand . . . You were, in fact, a changed man. With a mind of a different specific gravity. You could not even tell that the roseate touches of dawn on the mists were not really the effects of rum . . .
Therefore he had determined52 not to touch his grog. But his throat had gone completely dry; so, mechanically, he had reached out for something to drink, checking himself when he had realized what he was doing. But why should his throat be dry? He hadn’t been on the drink. He had not even had any dinner. And why was he in this extraordinary state? . . . For he was in an extraordinary state. It was because the idea had suddenly occurred to him that his parting from his wife had set him free for his girl . . . The idea had till then never entered his head.
He said to himself: We must go methodically into this! Methodically into the history of his last day on earth . . .
Because he swore that when he had come out to France this time he had imagined that he was cutting loose from this earth. And during the months that he had been there he had seemed to have no connection with any earthly things. He had imagined Sylvia in her convent and done with; Miss Wannop he had not been able to imagine at all. But she had seemed to be done with.
It was difficult to get his mind back to that night. You cannot force your mind to a deliberate, consecutive53 recollection unless you are in the mood; then it will do whether you want it to or not . . . He had had then, three months or so ago, a very painful morning with his wife, the pain coming from a suddenly growing conviction that his wife was forcing herself into an attitude of caring for him. Only an attitude probably, because, in the end, Sylvia was a lady and would not allow herself really to care for the person in the world for whom it would be least decent of her to care . . . But she would be perfectly capable of forcing herself to take that attitude if she thought that it would enormously inconvenience himself . . .
But that wasn’t the way, wasn’t the way, wasn’t the way, his excited mind said to himself. He was excited because it was possible that Miss Wannop, too, might not have meant their parting to be a permanency. That opened up an immense perspective. Nevertheless, the contemplation of that immense perspective was not the way to set about a calm analysis of his relations with his wife. The facts of the story must be stated before the moral. He said to himself that he must put, in exact language, as if he were making a report for the use of garrison54 headquarters, the history of himself in his relationship to his wife . . . And to Miss Wannop, of course. ‘Better put it into writing,’ he said.
Well then. He clutched at his pocket-book and wrote in large pencilled characters:
‘When I married Miss Satterthwaite,’— he was attempting exactly to imitate a report to General Headquarters —‘unknown to myself, she imagined herself to be with child by a fellow called Drake. I think she was not. The matter is debatable. I am passionately55 attached to the child who is my heir and the heir of a family of considerable position. The lady was subsequently, on several occasions, though I do not know how many, unfaithful to me. She left me with a fellow called Perowne, whom she had met constantly at the house of my godfather, General Lord Edward Campion, on whose staff Perowne was. That was long before the war. This intimacy57 was, of course, certainly unsuspected by the general. Perowne is again on the staff of General Campion, who has the quality of attachment58 to his old subordinates, but as Perowne is an inefficient59 officer, he is used only for more decorative60 jobs. Otherwise, obviously, as he is an old regular, his seniority should make him a general, and he is only a major. I make this diversion about Perowne because his presence in this garrison causes me natural personal annoyance61.
‘My wife, after an absence of several months with Perowne, wrote and told me that she wished to be taken back into my household. I allowed this. My principles prevent me from divorcing any woman, in particular any woman who is the mother of a child. As I had taken no steps to ensure publicity62 for the escapade of Mrs Tietjens, no one, as far as I know, was aware of her absence. Mrs Tietjens, being a Roman Catholic, is prevented from divorcing me.
‘During this absence of Mrs Tietjens with the man Perowne, I made the acquaintance of a young woman, Miss Wannop, the daughter of my father’s oldest friend, who was also an old friend of General Campion’s. Our station in Society naturally forms rather a close ring. I was immediately aware that I had formed a sympathetic but not violent attachment for Miss Wannop, and fairly confident that my feeling was returned. Neither Miss Wannop nor myself being persons to talk about the state of our feelings, we exchanged no confidences . . . A disadvantage of being English of a certain station.
‘The position continued thus for several years. Six or seven. After her return from her excursion with Perowne, Mrs Tietjens remained, I believe, perfectly chaste63. I saw Miss Wannop sometimes frequently, for a period, in her mother’s house or on social occasions, sometimes not for long intervals64. No expression of affection on the part of either of us ever passed. Not one. Ever.
‘On the day before my second going out to France I had a very painful scene with my wife, during which, for the first time, we went into the question of the parentage of my child and other matters. In the afternoon I met Miss Wannop by appointment outside the War Office. The appointment had been made by my wife, not by me. I knew nothing about it. My wife must have been more aware of my feelings for Miss Wannop than I was myself.
‘In St James’s Park I invited Miss Wannop to become my mistress that evening. She consented and made an assignation. It is to be presumed that that was evidence of her affection for me. We have never exchanged words of affection. Presumably a young lady does not consent to go to bed with a married man without feeling affection for him. But I have no proof. It was, of course, only a few hours before my going out to France. Those are emotional sorts of moments for young women. No doubt they consent more easily.
‘But we didn’t. We were together at one-thirty in the morning, leaning over her suburban65 garden gate. And nothing happened. We agreed that we were the sort of persons who didn’t. I do not know how we agreed. We never finished a sentence. Yet it was a passionate56 scene. So I touched the brim of my cap and said: So long! . . . Or she . . . I don’t remember. I remember the thoughts I thought and the thoughts I gave her credit for thinking. But perhaps she did not think them. There is no knowing. It is no good going into them . . . except that I gave her credit for thinking that we were parting for good. Perhaps she did not mean that. Perhaps I could write letters to her. And live . . . ’
He exclaimed:
‘God, what a sweat I am in! . . . ’
The sweat, indeed, was pouring down his temples. He became instinct with a sort of passion to let his thoughts wander into epithets66 and go about where they would. But he stuck at it. He was determined to get it expressed. He wrote on again:
‘I got home towards two in the morning and went into the dining-room in the dark. I did not need a light. I sat thinking for a long time. Then Sylvia spoke67 from the other end of the room. There was thus an abominable68 situation. I have never been spoken to with such hatred. She went, perhaps, mad. She had apparently been banking69 on the idea that if I had physical contact with Miss Wannop I might satisfy my affection for the girl . . . And feel physical desires for her . . . But she knew, without my speaking, that I had not had physical contact with the girl. She threatened to ruin me; to ruin me in the Army; to drag my name through the mud . . . I never spoke. I am damn good at not speaking. She struck me in the face. And went away. Afterwards she threw into the room, through the half-open doorway70, a gold medallion of St. Michael, the R.C. patron of soldiers in action that she had worn between her breasts. I took it to mean the final act of parting. As if by no longer wearing it she abandoned all prayer for my safety . . . It might just as well mean that she wished me to wear it myself for my personal protection . . . I heard her go down the stairs with her maid. The dawn was just showing through the chimney-pots opposite. I heard her say: Paddington. Clear, high syllables71! And a motor drove off.
‘I got my things together and went to Waterloo. Mrs Satterthwaite, her mother, was waiting to see me off. She was very distressed72 that her daughter had not come, too. She was of opinion that it meant we had parted for good. I was astonished to find that Sylvia had told her mother about Miss Wannop because Sylvia had always been extremely reticent73, even to her mother . . . Mrs Satterthwaite, who was very distressed — she likes me! — expressed the most gloomy forebodings as to what Sylvia might not be up to. I laughed at her. She began to tell me a long anecdote74 about what a Father Consett, Sylvia’s confessor, had said about Sylvia years before. He had said that if I ever came to care for another woman Sylvia would tear the world to pieces to get at me . . . Meaning, to disturb my equanimity75! . . . It was difficult to follow Mrs Satterthwaite. The side of an officer’s train, going off, is not a good place for confidences. So the interview ended rather untidily.’
At this point Tietjens groaned76 so audibly that McKechnie, from the other end of the hut, asked if he had not said anything. Tietjens saved himself with:
‘That candle looks from here to be too near the side of the hut. Perhaps it isn’t. These buildings are very inflammable.’
It was no good going on writing. He was no writer, and this writing gave no sort of psychological pointers. He wasn’t himself ever much the man for psychology77, but one ought to be as efficient at it as at anything else . . . Well then . . . What was at the bottom of all the madness and cruelty that had distinguished78 both himself and Sylvia on his last day and night in his native country? . . . For, mark! It was Sylvia who had made, unknown to him, the appointment through which the girl had met him. Sylvia had wanted to force him and Miss Wannop into each other’s arms. Quite definitely. She had said as much. But she had only said that afterwards. When the game had not come off. She had had too much knowledge of amatory manoeuvres to show her hand before . . .
Why then had she done it? Partly, undoubtedly80, out of pity for him. She had given him a rotten time; she had undoubtedly, at one moment, wanted to give him the consolation81 of his girl’s arms . . . Why, damn it, she, Sylvia, and no one else, had forced out of him the invitation to the girl to become his mistress. Nothing but the infernal cruelty of their interview of the morning could have forced him to the pitch of sexual excitement that would make him make a proposal of illicit82 intercourse83 to a young lady to whom hitherto he had spoken not even one word of affection. It was an effect of a Sadic kind. That was the only way to look at it scientifically. And without doubt Sylvia had known what she was doing. The whole morning; at intervals, like a person directing the whiplash to a cruel spot of pain, reiteratedly, she had gone on and on. She had accused him of having Valentine Wannop for his mistress. She had accused him of having Valentine Wannop for his mistress. She had accused him of having Valentine Wannop for his mistress . . . With maddening reiteration84, like that. They had disposed of an estate; they had settled up a number of business matters; they had decided85 that his heir was to be brought up as a Papist — the mother’s religion! They had gone, agonizedly enough, into their own relationships and past history. Into the very paternity of his child . . . But always, at moments when his mind was like a blind octopus86, squirming in an agony of knife-cuts, she would drop in that accusation87. She had accused him of having Valentine Wannop for his mistress . . .
He swore by the living God.. He had never realized that he had a passion for the girl till that morning; that he had a passion deep and boundless88 like the sea, shaking like a tremor89 of the whole world, an unquenchable thirst, a thing the thought of which made your bowels90 turn over . . . But he had not been the sort of fellow who goes into his emotions . . . Why, damn it, even at that moment when he thought of the girl, there, in that beastly camp, in that Rembrandt beshadowed hut, when he thought of the girl he named her to himself Miss Wannop.
It wasn’t in that way that a man thought of a young woman whom he was aware of passionately loving. He wasn’t aware. He hadn’t been aware. Until that morning . . .
Then . . . that let him out . . . Undoubtedly that let him out . . . A woman cannot throw her man, her official husband, into the arms of the first girl that comes along and consider herself as having any further claims upon him. Especially if, on the same day, you part with him, he going out to France! Did it let him out? Obviously it did.
He caught with such rapidity at his glass of rum and water that a little of it ran over on to his thumb. He swallowed the lot, being instantly warmed..
What in the world was he doing? Now? With all this introspection? . . . Hang it all, he was not justifying91 himself . . . He had acted perfectly correctly as far as Sylvia was concerned. Not perhaps to Miss Wannop . . . Why, if he, Christopher Tietjens of Groby, had the need to justify92 himself, what did it stand for to be Christopher Tietjens of Groby? That was the unthinkable thought.
Obviously he was not immune from the seven deadly sins. In the way of a man. One might lie, yet not bear false witness against a neighbour; one might kill, yet not without fitting provocation93 or for self-interest; one might conceive of theft as receiving cattle from the false Scots which was the Yorkshireman’s duty; one might fornicate, obviously, as long as you did not fuss about it unhealthily. That was the right of the Seigneur in a world of Other Ranks. He hadn’t personally committed any of these sins to any great extent. One reserved the right so to do and to take the consequences . . .
But what in the world had gone wrong with Sylvia? She was giving away her own game, and that he had never known her do. But she could not have made more certain, if she had wanted to, of returning him to his allegiance to Miss Wannop than by forcing herself there into his private life, and doing it with such blatant94 vulgarity. For what she had done had been to make scenes before the servants! All the while he had been in France she had been working up to it. Now she had done it. Before the Tommies of his own unit. But Sylvia did not make mistakes like that. It was a game. What game? He didn’t even attempt to conjecture95! She could not expect that he would in the future even extend to her the shelter of his roof . . . What then was the game? He could not believe that she could be capable of vulgarity except with a purpose . . .
She was a thoroughbred. He had always credited her with being that. And now she was behaving as if she had every mean vice96 that a mare97 could have. Or it looked like it. Was that, then, because she had been in his stable? But how in the world otherwise could he have run their lives? She had been unfaithful to him. She had never been anything but unfaithful to him, before or after marriage. In a high-handed way so that he could not condemn98 her, though it was disagreeable enough to himself. He took her back into his house after she had been off with the fellow Perowne. What more could she ask? . . . He could find no answer. And it was not his business!
But even if he did not bother about the motives of the poor beast of a woman, she was the mother of his heir. And now she was running about the world declaiming about her wrongs. What sort of a thing was that for a boy to have happen to him? A mother who made scenes before the servants! That was enough to ruin any boy’s life . . .
There was no getting away from it that that was what Sylvia had been doing. She had deluged99 the general with letters for the last two months or so, at first merely contenting herself with asking where he, Tietjens, was and in what state of health, conditions of danger, and the like. Very decently, for some time, the old fellow had said nothing about the matter to him. He had probably taken the letters to be the naturally anxious inquiries100 of a wife with a husband at the front; he had considered that Tietjens’ letters to her must have been insufficiently101 communicative, or concealed102 what she imagined to be wounds or a position of desperate danger. That would not have been very pleasant in any case; women should not worry superior officers about the vicissitudes103 of their menfolk. It was not done. Still, Sylvia was very intimate with Campion and his family — more intimate than he himself was, though Campion was his godfather. But quite obviously her letters had got worse and worse.
It was difficult for Tietjens to make out exactly what she had said. His channel of information had been Levin, who was too gentlemanly ever to say anything direct at all. Too gentlemanly, too implicitly104 trustful of Tietjens’ honour . . . and too bewildered by the charms of Sylvia, who had obviously laid herself out to bewilder the poor Staff-wallah . . . But she had gone pretty far, either in her letters or in her conversation since she had been in that city, to which — it was characteristic — she had come without any sort of passports or papers, just walking past gentlemen in their wooden boxes at pierheads and the like, in conversation with — of all people in the world! — with Perowne, who had been returning from leave with King’s dispatches, or something glorified105 of the Staff sort! In a special train very likely. That was Sylvia all over.
Levin said that Campion had given Perowne the most frightful106 dressing107 down he had ever heard mortal man receive. And it really was damn hard on the poor general, who, after happenings to one of his predecessors108, had been perfectly rabid to keep skirts out of his headquarters. Indeed it was one of the crosses of Levin’s worried life that the general had absolutely refused him, Levin, leave to marry Miss de Bailly if he would not undertake that that young woman should leave France by the first boat after the ceremony. Levin, of course, was to go with her, but the young woman was not to return to France for the duration of hostilities109. And a fine row all her noble relatives had raised over that. It had cost Levin another hundred and fifty thousand francs in the marriage settlements. The married wives of officers in any case were not allowed in France, though you could not keep out their unmarried ones . . .
Campion, anyhow, had dispatched his furious note to Tietjens after receiving, firstly, in the early morning, a letter from Sylvia in which she said that her ducal second-cousin, the lugubrious Rugeley, highly disapproved110 of the fact that Tietjens was in France at all, and after later receiving, towards four in the afternoon, a telegram, dispatched by Sylvia herself from Havre, to say that she would be arriving by a noon train. The general had been almost as much upset at the thought that his car would not be there to meet Sylvia as by the thought that she was coming at all. But a strike of French railway civilians111 had delayed Sylvia’s arrival. Campion had dispatched, within five minutes, his snorter to Tietjens, who he was convinced knew all about Sylvia’s coming, and his car to Rouen Station with Levin in it.
The general, in fact, was in a fine confusion. He was convinced that Tietjens, as Man of Intellect, had treated Sylvia badly, even to the extent of stealing two pair of her best sheets, and he was also convinced that Tietjens was in close collusion with Sylvia. As Man of Intellect, Campion was convinced, Tietjens was dissatisfied with his lowly job of draft-forwarding officer, and wanted a place of an extravagantly112 cushy kind in the general’s own entourage . . . And Levin had said that it made it all the worse that Campion in his bothered heart thought that Tietjens really ought to have more exalted113 employment. He had said to Levin:
‘Damn it all, the fellow ought to be in command of my Intelligence instead of you. But he’s unsound. That’s what he is: unsound. He’s too brilliant . . . And he’d talk both the hind49 legs off Sweedlepumpkins.’ Sweedlepumpkins was the general’s favourite charger. The general was afraid of talk. He practically never talked with anyone except about his job — certainly never to Tietjens — without being proved to be in the wrong, and that undermined his belief in himself.
So that altogether he was in a fine fume114. And confusion. He was almost ready to believe that Tietjens was at the bottom of every trouble that occurred in his immense command.
But, when all that was gathered, Tietjens was not much farther forward in knowing what his wife’s errand in France was.
‘She complains,’ Levin had bleated115 painfully at some point on the slippery coastguard path, ‘about your taking her sheets. And about a Miss . . . a Miss Wanostrocht, is it? . . . The general is not inclined to attach much importance to the sheets . . . ’
It appeared that a sort of conference on Tietjens’ case had taken place in the immense tapestried116 salon117 in which Campion lived with the more intimate members of his headquarters, and which was, for the moment, presided over by Sylvia, who had exposed various wrongs to the general and Levin. Major Perowne had excused himself on the ground that he was hardly competent to express an opinion. Really, Levin said, he was sulking, because Campion had accused him of running the risk of getting himself and Mrs Tietjens ‘talked about’. Levin thought it was a bit thick of the general. Were none of the members of his staff ever to escort a lady anywhere? As if they were sixth-form schoolboys . . .
‘But you . . . you . . . you . . . ’ he stuttered and shivered together, ‘certainly do seem to have been remiss118 in not writing to Mrs Tietjens. The poor lady — excuse me! — really appears to have been out of her mind with anxiety . . . ’ That was why she had been waiting in the general’s car at the bottom of the hill. To get a glimpse of Tietjens’ living body. For they had been utterly119 unable, up at H.Q., to convince her that Tietjens was even alive, much less in that town.
She hadn’t in fact waited even so long. Having apparently convinced herself by conversation with the sentries120 outside the guard-room that Tietjens actually still existed, she had told the chauffeur-orderly to drive her back to the Hotel de la Poste, leaving the wretched Levin to make his way back into the town by tram, or as best he might. They had seen the lights of the car below them, turning, with its gaily121 lit interior, and disappearing among the trees along the road farther down . . . The sentry122, rather monosyllabically and gruffly — you can tell all right when a Tommie has something at the back of his mind! — informed them that the sergeant had turned out the guard so that all his men together could assure the lady that the captain was alive and well. The obliging sergeant said that he had adopted that manoeuvre79 which generally should attend only the visits of general officers and, once a day, for the C.O., because the lady had seemed so distressed at having received no letters from the captain. The guardroom itself, which was unprovided with cells, was decorated by the presence of two drunks who, having taken it into their heads to destroy their clothing, were in a state of complete nudity. The sergeant hoped, therefore, that he had done no wrong. Rightly the Garrison Military Police ought to take drunks picked up outside camp to the A.P.M.’s guard-room, but seeing the state of undress and the violent behaviour of these two, the sergeant had thought right to oblige the Red Caps. The voices of the drunks, singing the martial123 anthem124 of the ‘Men of Harlech’, could be heard corroborating125 the sergeant’s opinion as to their states. He added that he would not have turned out the guard if it had not been for its being the captain’s lady.
‘A damn smart fellow, that sergeant,’ Colonel Levin had said. ‘There couldn’t have been any better way of convincing Mrs Tietjens.’
Tietjens had said — and even whilst he was saying it he tremendously wished he hadn’t:
‘Oh, a damned smart fellow,’ for the bitter irony126 of his tone had given Levin the chance to remonstrate127 with him as to his attitude towards Sylvia. Not at all as to his actions — for Levin conscientiously128 stuck to his thesis that Tietjens was the soul of honour — but just as to his tone of voice in talking of the sergeant who had been kind to Sylvia, and, just precisely129, because Tietjens’ not writing to his wife had given rise to the incident. Tietjens had thought of saying that, considering the terms on which they had parted, he would have considered himself as molesting130 the lady if he had addressed to her any letter at all. But he said nothing and, for a quarter of an hour, the incident resolved itself into soliloquy on the slippery hillside, delivered by Levin on the subject of matrimony. It was a matter which, naturally, at that moment very much occupied his thoughts. He considered that a man should so live with his wife that she should be able to open all his letters. That was his idea of the idyllic131. And when Tietjens remarked with irony that he had never in his life either written or received a letter that his wife might not have read, Levin exclaimed with such enthusiasm as almost to lose his balance in the mist:
‘I was sure of it, old fellow. But it enormously cheers me up to hear you say so.’ He added that he desired as far as possible to model his ideas of life and his behaviour on those of this his friend. For, naturally, about as he was to unite his fortunes with those of Miss de Bailly, that could be considered a turning point of his career.
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1
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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cramping
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| 图像压缩 | |
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mosaic
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| n./adj.镶嵌细工的，镶嵌工艺品的，嵌花式的 | |
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engrossed
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| adj.全神贯注的 | |
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civilian
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| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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stink
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| vi.发出恶臭；糟透，招人厌恶；n.恶臭 | |
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battalion
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| n.营；部队；大队(的人) | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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harried
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| v.使苦恼( harry的过去式和过去分词 )；不断烦扰；一再袭击；侵扰 | |
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recapitulate
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| v.节述要旨，择要说明 | |
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14
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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marital
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| adj.婚姻的，夫妻的 | |
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maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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18
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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canvassed
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| v.（在政治方面）游说( canvass的过去式和过去分词 )；调查（如选举前选民的）意见；为讨论而提出（意见等）；详细检查 | |
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unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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pyjamas
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| n.（宽大的）睡衣裤 | |
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sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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30
sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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32
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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35
tenuous
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| adj.细薄的，稀薄的，空洞的 | |
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lugubrious
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| adj.悲哀的，忧郁的 | |
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vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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proprietary
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| n.所有权，所有的；独占的；业主 | |
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40
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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41
tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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42
incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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43
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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44
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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47
entanglements
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| n.瓜葛( entanglement的名词复数 )；牵连；纠缠；缠住 | |
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48
detritus
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| n.碎石 | |
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hind
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| adj.后面的，后部的 | |
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aprons
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| 围裙( apron的名词复数 )； 停机坪，台口（舞台幕前的部份） | |
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51
landmarks
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| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
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52
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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55
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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56
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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57
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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59
inefficient
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| adj.效率低的，无效的 | |
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60
decorative
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| adj.装饰的，可作装饰的 | |
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61
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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62
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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63
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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67
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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banking
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| n.银行业，银行学，金融业 | |
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70
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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72
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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73
reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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76
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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manoeuvre
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| n.策略，调动；v.用策略，调动 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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illicit
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| adj.非法的，禁止的，不正当的 | |
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83
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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84
reiteration
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| n. 重覆, 反覆, 重说 | |
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85
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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86
octopus
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| n.章鱼 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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justifying
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| 证明…有理( justify的现在分词 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
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92
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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blatant
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| adj.厚颜无耻的；显眼的；炫耀的 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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mare
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| n.母马，母驴 | |
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condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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deluged
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| v.使淹没( deluge的过去式和过去分词 )；淹没；被洪水般涌来的事物所淹没；穷于应付 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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insufficiently
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| adv.不够地，不能胜任地 | |
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102
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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103
vicissitudes
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| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
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implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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107
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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predecessors
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| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
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hostilities
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| n.战争；敌意(hostility的复数)；敌对状态；战事 | |
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disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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civilians
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| 平民，百姓( civilian的名词复数 )； 老百姓 | |
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extravagantly
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| adv.挥霍无度地 | |
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113
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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114
fume
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| n.(usu pl.)(浓烈或难闻的)烟，气，汽 | |
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115
bleated
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| v.（羊，小牛）叫( bleat的过去式和过去分词 )；哭诉；发出羊叫似的声音；轻声诉说 | |
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116
tapestried
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| adj.饰挂绣帷的，织在绣帷上的v.用挂毯（或绣帷）装饰( tapestry的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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118
remiss
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| adj.不小心的，马虎 | |
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119
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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120
sentries
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| 哨兵，步兵( sentry的名词复数 ) | |
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121
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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122
sentry
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| n.哨兵，警卫 | |
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123
martial
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| adj.战争的，军事的，尚武的，威武的 | |
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124
anthem
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| n.圣歌，赞美诗，颂歌 | |
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125
corroborating
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| v.证实，支持（某种说法、信仰、理论等）( corroborate的现在分词 ) | |
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126
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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127
remonstrate
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| v.抗议，规劝 | |
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128
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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129
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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130
molesting
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| v.骚扰( molest的现在分词 )；干扰；调戏；猥亵 | |
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131
idyllic
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| adj.质朴宜人的，田园风光的 | |
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