Istra had gone up to her room to sleep, bidding Mr. Wrenn do likewise and avoid the wrong bunch at the Caravanserai; for besides the wrong bunch of Interesting People there were, she explained, a right bunch, of working artists. But he wanted to get some new clothes, to replace his rain-wrinkled ready-mades. He was tottering8 through the common room, wondering whether he could find a clothing-shop in Aengusmere, when a shrill9 gurgle from a wing-chair by the rough-brick fireplace halted him.
“Oh-h-h-h, Mister Wrenn; Mr. Wrenn!“ There sat Mrs. Stettinius, the poet-lady of Olympia’s rooms on Great James Street.
“Oh-h-h-h, Mr. Wrenn, you bad man, do come sit down and tell me all about your wonderful trek10 with Istra Nash. I just met dear Istra in the upper hall. Poor dear, she was so crumpled11, but her hair was like a sunset over mountain peaks — you know, as Yeats says:
“A stormy sunset were her lips,
A stormy sunset on doomed12 ships,
only of course this was her hair and not her lips — and she told me that you had tramped all the way from London. I’ve never heard of anything so romantic — or no, I won’t say ‘romantic’— I do agree with dear Olympia — isn’t she a mag_nificent woman — so fearless and progressive — didn’t you adore meeting her? — she is our modern Joan of Arc — such a noble figure — I do agree with her that romantic love is passe, that we have entered the era of glorious companionship that regards varietism as exactly as romantic as monogamy. But — but — where was I? — I think your gipsying down from London was most exciting. Now do tell us all about it, Mr. Wrenn. First, I want you to meet Miss Saxonby and Mr. Gutch and dear Yilyena Dourschetsky and Mr. Howard Bancock Binch — of course you know his poetry.”
And then she drew a breath and flopped13 back into the wing-chair’s muffling14 depths.
During all this Mr. Wrenn had stood, frightened and unprotected and rain-wrinkled, before the gathering15 by the fireless fireplace, wondering how Mrs. Stettinius could get her nose so blue and yet so powdery. Despite her encouragement he gave no fuller account of the “gipsying” than, “Why — uh — we just tramped down,” till Russian–Jewish Yilyena rolled her ebony eyes at him and insisted, “Yez, you mus’ tale us about it.”
Now, Yilyena had a pretty neck, colored like a cigar of mild flavor, and a trick of smiling. She was accustomed to having men obey her. Mr. Wrenn stammered16:
“Why — uh — we just walked, and we got caught in the rain. Say, Miss Nash was a wonder. She never peeped when she got soaked through — she just laughed and beat it like everything. And we saw a lot of quaint17 English places along the road — got away from all them tourists — trippers — you know.”
A perfectly18 strange person, a heavy old man with horn spectacles and a soft shirt, who had joined the group unbidden, cleared his throat and interrupted:
“Is it not a strange paradox19 that in traveling, the most observant of all pursuits, one should have to encounter the eternal bourgeoisie!”
From the Cockney Greek chorus about the unlighted fire:
“Yes!”
“Everywhere.”
“Uh —” began Mr. Gutch. He apparently20 had something to say. But the chorus went on:
“And just as swelteringly monogamic in Port Said as in Brum.”
“Yes, that’s so.”
“Mr. Wr-r-renn,” thrilled Mrs. Stettinius, the lady poet, “didn’t you notice that they were perfectly oblivious21 of all economic movements; that their observations never post-dated ruins?”
“I guess they wanted to make sure they were admirin’ the right things,” ventured Mr. Wrenn, with secret terror.
“Yes, that’s so,” came so approvingly from the Greek chorus that the personal pupil of Mittyford, Ph.D., made his first epigram:
“It isn’t so much what you like as what you don’t like that shows if you’re wise.”
“Yes,” they gurgled; and Mr. Wrenn, much pleased with himself, smiled au prince upon his new friends.
Mrs. Stettinius was getting into her stride for a few remarks upon the poetry of industrialism when Mr. Gutch, who had been “Uh —“ing for some moments, trying to get in his remark, winked22 with sly rudeness at Miss Saxonby and observed:
“I fancy romance isn’t quite dead yet, y’ know. Our friends here seem to have had quite a ro-mantic little journey.” Then he winked again.
“Say, what do you mean?” demanded Bill Wrenn, hot-eyed, fists clenched23, but very quiet.
“Oh, I’m not blaming you and Miss Nash — quite the reverse!” tittered the Gutch person, wagging his head sagely24.
Then Bill Wrenn, with his fist at Mr. Gutch’s nose, spoke25 his mind:
“Say, you white-faced unhealthy dirty-minded lump, I ain’t much of a fighter, but I’m going to muss you up so’s you can’t find your ears if you don’t apologize for those insinuations.”
“Oh, Mr. Wrenn —”
“He didn’t mean —”
“I didn’t mean —”
“He was just spoofing —”
“I was just spoofing —”
Bill Wrenn, watching the dramatization of himself as hero, was enjoying the drama. “You apologize, then?”
“Why certainly, Mr. Wrenn. Let me explain —”
“Oh, don’t explain,” snortled Miss Saxonby.
“Yes!” from Mr. Bancock Binch, “explanations are so conventional, old chap.”
Do you see them? — Mr. Wrenn, self-conscious and ready to turn into a blind belligerent26 Bill Wrenn at the first disrespect; the talkers sitting about and assassinating27 all the princes and proprieties28 and, poor things, taking Mr. Wrenn quite seriously because he had uncovered the great truth that the important thing in sight-seeing is not to see sights. He was most unhappy, Mr. Wrenn was, and wanted to be away from there. He darted29 as from a spring when he heard Istra’s voice, from the edge of the group, calling, “Come here a sec’, Billy.”
She was standing30 with a chair-back for support, tired but smiling.
“I can’t get to sleep yet. Don’t you want me to show you some of the buildings here?”
“Oh yes!”
“If Mrs. Stettinius can spare you!”
This by way of remarking on the fact that the female poet was staring volubly.
“G-g-g-g-g-g —” said Mrs. Stettinius, which seemed to imply perfect consent.
Istra took him to the belvedere on a little slope overlooking the lawns of Aengusmere, scattered31 with low bungalows32 and rose-gardens.
“It is beautiful, isn’t it? Perhaps one could be happy here — if one could kill all the people except the architect,” she mused33.
“Oh, it is,” he glowed.
Standing there beside her, happiness enveloping34 them, looking across the marvelous sward, Bill Wrenn was at the climax35 of his comedy of triumph. Admitted to a world of lawns and bungalows and big studio windows, standing in a belvedere beside Istra Nash as her friend —
“Mouse dear,” she said, hesitatingly, “the reason why I wanted to have you come out here, why I couldn’t sleep, I wanted to tell you how ashamed I am for having been peevish36, being petulant37, last night. I’m so sorry, because you were very patient with me, you were very good to me. I don’t want you to think of me just as a crochety woman who didn’t appreciate you. You are very kind, and when I hear that you’re married to some nice girl I’ll be as happy as can be.”
“Oh, Istra,” he cried, grasping her arm, “I don’t want any girl in the world — I mean — oh, I just want to be let go ‘round with you when you’ll let me —”
“No, no, dear. You must have seen last night; that’s impossible. Please don’t argue about it now; I’m too tired. I just wanted to tell you I appreciated — And when you get back to America you won’t be any the worse for playing around with poor Istra because she told you about different things from what you’ve played with, about rearing children as individuals and painting in tempera and all those things? And — and I don’t want you to get too fond of me, because we’re — different. . . . But we have had an adventure, even if it was a little moist.” She paused; then, cheerily: “Well, I’m going to beat it back and try to sleep again. Good-by, Mouse dear. No, don’t come back to the Cara-advanced-serai. Play around and see the animiles. G’-by.”
He watched her straight swaying figure swing across the lawn and up the steps of the half-timbered inn. He watched her enter the door before he hastened to the shops which clustered about the railway- station, outside of the poetic38 preserves of the colony proper.
He noticed, as he went, that the men crossing the green were mostly clad in Norfolk jackets and knickers, so he purchased the first pair of unrespectable un-ankle-concealing trousers he had owned since small boyhood, and a jacket of rough serge, with a gaudy39 buckle40 on the belt. Also, he actually dared an orange tie!
He wanted something for Istra at dinner —“a s’prise,” he whispered under his breath, with fond babying. For the first time in his life he entered a florist’s shop. . . . Normally, you know, the poor of the city cannot afford flowers till they are dead, and then for but one day. . . . He came out with a bunch of orchids41, and remembered the days when he had envied the people he had seen in florists’ shops actually buying flowers. When he was almost at the Caravanserai he wanted to go back and change the orchids for simpler flowers, roses or carnations42, but he got himself not to.
The linen43 and glassware and silver of the Caravanserai were almost as coarse as those of a temperance hotel, for all the raftered ceiling and the etchings in the dining-room. Hunting up the stewardess44 of the inn, a bustling45 young woman who was reading Keats energetically at an office-like desk, Mr. Wrenn begged: “I wonder could I get some special cups and plates and stuff for high tea tonight. I got a kind of party —”
“How many?” The stewardess issued the words as though he had put a penny in the slot.
“Just two. Kind of a birthday party.” Mendacious46 Mr. Wrenn!
“Certainly. Of course there’s a small extra charge. I have a Royal Satsuma tea-service — practically Royal Satsuma, at least — and some special Limoges.”
“I think Royal Sats’ma would be nice. And some silverware?”
“Surely.”
“And could we get some special stuff to eat?”
“What would you like?”
“Why —”
Mendacious Mr. Wrenn! as we have commented. He put his head on one side, rubbed his chin with nice consideration, and condescended47, “What would you suggest?”
“For a party high tea? Why, perhaps consomme and omelet Bergerac and a salad and a sweet and cafe diable. We have a chef who does French eggs rather remarkably48. That would be simple, but —”
“Yes, that would be very good,” gravely granted the patron of cuisine49. “At six; for two.”
As he walked away he grinned within. “Gee! I talked to that omelet Berg’ rac like I’d known it all my life!”
Other s’prises for Istra’s party he sought. Let’s see; suppose it really were her birthday, wouldn’t she like to have a letter from some important guy? he queried50 of himself. He’d write her a make-b’lieve letter from a duke. Which he did. Purchasing a stamp, he humped over a desk in the common room and with infinite pains he inked the stamp in imitation of a postmark and addressed the letter to “Lady Istra Nash, Mouse Castle, Suffolk.”
Some one sat down at the desk opposite him, and he jealously carried the task upstairs to his room. He rang for pen and ink as regally as though he had never sat at the wrong end of a buzzer51. After half an hour of trying to visualize52 a duke writing a letter he produced this:
LADY ISTRA NASH,
Mouse Castle.
DEAR MADAM — We hear from our friend Sir William Wrenn that some folks are saying that to-day is not your birthday & want to stop your celebration, so if you should need somebody to make them believe to-day is your birthday we have sent our secretary, Sir Percival Montague. Sir William Wrenn will hide him behind his chair, and if they bother you just call for Sir Percival and he will tell them. Permit us, dear Lady Nash, to wish you all the greetings of the season, and in close we beg to remain, as ever,
Yours sincerely,
DUKE VERE DE VERE.
He was very tired. When he lay down for a minute, with a pillow tucked over his head, he was almost asleep in ten seconds. But he sprang up, washed his prickly eyes with cold water, and began to dress. He was shy of the knickers and golf-stockings, but it was the orange tie that gave him real alarm. He dared it, though, and went downstairs to make sure they were setting the table with glory befitting the party.
As he went through the common room he watched the three or four groups scattered through it. They seemed to take his clothes as a matter of course. He was glad. He wanted so much to be a credit to Istra.
Returning from the dining-room to the common room, he passed a group standing in a window recess53 and looking away from him. He overheard:
“Who is the remarkable54 new person with the orange tie and the rococo55 buckle on his jacket belt — the one that just went through? Did you ever see anything so funny! His collar didn’t come within an inch and a half of fitting his neck. He must be a poet. I wonder if his verses are as jerry-built as his garments!”
Mr. Wrenn stopped.
Another voice:
“And the beautiful lack of development of his legs! It’s like the good old cycling days, when every draper’s assistant went bank-holidaying. . . . I don’t know him, but I suppose he’s some tuppeny-ha’p’ny illustrator.”
“Or perhaps he has convictions about fried bananas, and dines on a bean saute. O Aengusmere! Shades of Aengus!”
“Not at all. When they look as gentle as he they always hate the capitalists as a militant56 hates a cabinet minister. He probably dines on the left ear of a South–African millionaire every evening before exercise at the barricades57. . . . I say, look over there; there’s a real artist going across the green. You can tell he’s a real artist because he’s dressed like a navvy and —”
Mr. Wrenn was walking away, across the common room, quite sure that every one was eying him with amusement. And it was too late to change his clothes. It was six already.
He stuck out his jaw58, and remembered that he had planned to hide the “letter from the duke” in Istra’s napkin that it might be the greater surprise. He sat down at their table. He tucked the letter into the napkin folds. He moved the vase of orchids nearer the center of the table, and the table nearer the open window giving on the green. He rebuked himself for not being able to think of something else to change. He forgot his clothes, and was happy.
At six-fifteen he summoned a boy and sent him up with a message that Mr. Wrenn was waiting and high tea ready.
The boy came back muttering, “Miss Nash left this note for you, sir, the stewardess says.”
Mr. Wrenn opened the green-and-white Caravanserai letter excitedly. Perhaps Istra, too, was dressing59 for the party! He loved all s’prises just then. He read:
Mouse dear, I’m sorrier than I can tell you, but you know I warrned you that bad Istra was a creature of moods, and just now my mood orders me to beat it for Paris, which I’m doing, on the 5.17 train. I won’t say good-by — I hate good-bys, they’re so stupid, don’t you think? Write me some time, better make it care Amer. Express Co., Paris, because I don’t know yet just where I’ll be. And please don’t look me up in Paris, because it’s always better to end up an affair without explanations, don’t you think? You have been wonderfully kind to me, and I’ll send you some good thought-forms, shall I?
I. N.
He walked to the office of the Caravanserai, blindly, quietly. He paid his bill, and found that he had only fifty dollars left. He could not get himself to eat the waiting high tea. There was a seven-fourteen train for London. He took it. Meantime he wrote out a cable to his New York bank for a hundred and fifty dollars. To keep from thinking in the train he talked gravely and gently to an old man about the brave days of England, when men threw quoits. He kept thinking over and over, to the tune60 set by the rattling61 of the train trucks: “Friends . . . I got to make friends, now I know what they are. . . . Funny some guys don’t make friends. Mustn’t forget. Got to make lots of ’em in New York. Learn how to make ’em.”
He arrived at his room on Tavistock Place about eleven, and tried to think for the rest of the night of how deeply he was missing Morton of the cattle-boat now that — now that he had no friend in all the hostile world.
In a London A. B. C. restaurant Mr. Wrenn was talking to an American who had a clipped mustache, brisk manners, a Knight-of-Pythias pin, and a mind for duck-shooting, hardware-selling, and cigars.
“No more England for mine,” the American snapped, good-humoredly. “I’m going to get out of this foggy hole and get back to God’s country just as soon as I can. I want to find out what’s doing at the store, and I want to sit down to a plate of flapjacks. I’m good and plenty sick of tea and marmalade. Why, I wouldn’t take this fool country for a gift. No, sir! Me for God’s country — Sleepy Eye, Brown County, Minnesota. You bet!”
“You don’t like England much, then?” Mr. Wrenn carefully reasoned.
“Like it? Like this damp crowded hole, where they can’t talk English, and have a fool coinage — Say, that’s a great system, that metric system they’ve got over in France, but here — why, they don’t know whether Kansas City is in Kansas or Missouri or both. . . . ‘Right as rain’— that’s what a fellow said to me for ‘all right’! Ever hear such nonsense?. . . . And tea for breakfast! Not for me! No, sir! I’m going to take the first steamer!”
With a gigantic smoke-puff of disgust the man from Sleepy Eye stalked out, jingling62 the keys in his trousers pocket, cocking up his cigar, and looking as though he owned the restaurant.
Mr. Wrenn, picturing him greeting the Singer Tower from an incoming steamer, longed to see the tower.
“Gee! I’ll do it!”
He rose and, from that table in the basement of an A. B. C. restaurant, he fled to America.
He dashed up-stairs, fidgeted while the cashier made his change, rang for a bus, whisked into his room, slammed his things into his suit-case, announced to it wildly that they were going home, and scampered63 to the Northwestem Station. He walked nervously64 up and down till the Liverpool train departed. “Suppose Istra wanted to make up, and came back to London?” was a terrifying thought that hounded him. He dashed into the waiting-room and wrote to her, on a souvenir post-card showing the Abbey: “Called back to America — will write. Address care of Souvenir Company, Twenty-eighth Street.” But he didn’t mail the card.
Once settled in a second-class compartment65, with the train in motion, he seemed already much nearer America, and, humming, to the great annoyance66 of a lady with bangs, he planned his new great work — the making of friends; the discovery, some day, if Istra should not relent, of “somebody to go home to.” There was no end to the “societies and lodges67 and stuff” he was going to join directly he landed.
At Liverpool he suddenly stopped at a post-box and mailed his card to Istra. That ended his debate. Of course after that he had to go back to America.
He sailed exultantly68, one month and seventeen days after leaving Portland.
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收听单词发音
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1
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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2
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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3
rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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4
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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5
stencils
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| n.蜡纸( stencil的名词复数 )；（有图案或文字的）模板；刻蜡纸者；用模板印出的文字或图案v.用模板印（文字或图案）( stencil的第三人称单数 ) | |
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6
brasses
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| n.黄铜( brass的名词复数 )；铜管乐器；钱；黄铜饰品（尤指马挽具上的黄铜圆片） | |
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7
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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8
tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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9
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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trek
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| vi.作长途艰辛的旅行；n.长途艰苦的旅行 | |
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11
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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12
doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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13
flopped
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| v.（指书、戏剧等）彻底失败( flop的过去式和过去分词 )；（因疲惫而）猛然坐下；（笨拙地、不由自主地或松弛地）移动或落下；砸锅 | |
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14
muffling
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| v.压抑，捂住( muffle的现在分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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15
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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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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paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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22
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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23
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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24
sagely
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| adv. 贤能地，贤明地 | |
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25
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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26
belligerent
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| adj.好战的，挑起战争的；n.交战国，交战者 | |
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assassinating
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| v.暗杀( assassinate的现在分词 )；中伤；诋毁；破坏 | |
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proprieties
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| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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bungalows
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| n.平房( bungalow的名词复数 )；单层小屋，多于一层的小屋 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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enveloping
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的现在分词 ) | |
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35
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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36
peevish
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| adj.易怒的，坏脾气的 | |
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petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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38
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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40
buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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41
orchids
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| n.兰花( orchid的名词复数 ) | |
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42
carnations
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| n.麝香石竹，康乃馨( carnation的名词复数 ) | |
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43
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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stewardess
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| n.空中小姐，女乘务员 | |
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bustling
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| adj.喧闹的 | |
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46
mendacious
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| adj.不真的，撒谎的 | |
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condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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cuisine
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| n.烹调，烹饪法 | |
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50
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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51
buzzer
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| n.蜂鸣器；汽笛 | |
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52
visualize
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| vt.使看得见，使具体化，想象，设想 | |
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53
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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54
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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55
rococo
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| n.洛可可；adj.过分修饰的 | |
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56
militant
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| adj.激进的，好斗的；n.激进分子，斗士 | |
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barricades
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| 路障，障碍物( barricade的名词复数 ) | |
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58
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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59
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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62
jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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63
scampered
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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65
compartment
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| n.卧车包房，隔间；分隔的空间 | |
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66
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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67
lodges
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| v.存放( lodge的第三人称单数 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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exultantly
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| adv.狂欢地，欢欣鼓舞地 | |
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