Here then was I (call me Mary Beton, Mary Seton, Mary Carmichael or by any name you please — it is not a matter of any importance) sitting on the banks of a river a week or two ago in fine October weather, lost in thought. That collar I have spoken of, women and fiction, the need of coming to some conclusion on a subject that raises all sorts of prejudices and passions, bowed my head to the ground. To the right and left bushes of some sort, golden and crimson8, glowed with the colour, even it seemed burnt with the heat, of fire. On the further bank the willows9 wept in perpetual lamentation10, their hair about their shoulders. The river reflected whatever it chose of sky and bridge and burning tree, and when the undergraduate had oared11 his boat through the reflections they closed again, completely, as if he had never been. There one might have sat the clock round lost in thought. Thought — to call it by a prouder name than it deserved — had let its line down into the stream. It swayed, minute after minute, hither and thither12 among the reflections and the weeds, letting the water lift it and sink it until — you know the little tug13 — the sudden conglomeration14 of an idea at the end of one’s line: and then the cautious hauling of it in, and the careful laying of it out? Alas15, laid on the grass how small, how insignificant16 this thought of mine looked; the sort of fish that a good fisherman puts back into the water so that it may grow fatter and be one day worth cooking and eating. I will not trouble you with that thought now, though if you look carefully you may find it for yourselves in the course of what I am going to say.
But however small it was, it had, nevertheless, the mysterious property of its kind — put back into the mind, it became at once very exciting, and important; and as it darted17 and sank, and flashed hither and thither, set up such a wash and tumult18 of ideas that it was impossible to sit still. It was thus that I found myself walking with extreme rapidity across a grass plot. Instantly a man’s figure rose to intercept19 me. Nor did I at first understand that the gesticulations of a curious-looking object, in a cut-away coat and evening shirt, were aimed at me. His face expressed horror and indignation. Instinct rather than reason came to my help, he was a Beadle; I was a woman. This was the turf; there was the path. Only the Fellows and Scholars are allowed here; the gravel20 is the place for me. Such thoughts were the work of a moment. As I regained21 the path the arms of the Beadle sank, his face assumed its usual repose22, and though turf is better walking than gravel, no very great harm was done. The only charge I could bring against the Fellows and Scholars of whatever the college might happen to be was that in protection of their turf, which has been rolled for 300 years in succession they had sent my little fish into hiding.
What idea it had been that had sent me so audaciously trespassing23 I could not now remember. The spirit of peace descended24 like a cloud from heaven, for if the spirit of peace dwells anywhere, it is in the courts and quadrangles of Oxbridge on a fine October morning. Strolling through those colleges past those ancient halls the roughness of the present seemed smoothed away; the body seemed contained in a miraculous25 glass cabinet through which no sound could penetrate26, and the mind, freed from any contact with facts (unless one trespassed27 on the turf again), was at liberty to settle down upon whatever meditation28 was in harmony with the moment. As chance would have it, some stray memory of some old essay about revisiting Oxbridge in the long vacation brought Charles Lamb to mind — Saint Charles, said Thackeray, putting a letter of Lamb’s to his forehead. Indeed, among all the dead (I give you my thoughts as they came to me), Lamb is one of the most congenial; one to whom one would have liked to say, Tell me then how you wrote your essays? For his essays are superior even to Max Beerbohm’s, I thought, with all their perfection, because of that wild flash of imagination, that lightning crack of genius in the middle of them which leaves them flawed and imperfect, but starred with poetry. Lamb then came to Oxbridge perhaps a hundred years ago. Certainly he wrote an essay — the name escapes me — about the manuscript of one of Milton’s poems which he saw here. It was Lycidas perhaps, and Lamb wrote how it shocked him to think it possible that any word in Lycidas could have been different from what it is. To think of Milton changing the words in that poem seemed to him a sort of sacrilege. This led me to remember what I could of Lycidas and to amuse myself with guessing which word it could have been that Milton had altered, and why. It then occurred to me that the very manuscript itself which Lamb had looked at was only a few hundred yards away, so that one could follow Lamb’s footsteps across the quadrangle to that famous library where the treasure is kept. Moreover, I recollected29, as I put this plan into execution, it is in this famous library that the manuscript of Thackeray’s Esmond is also preserved. The critics often say that Esmond is Thackeray’s most perfect novel. But the affectation of the style, with its imitation of the eighteenth century, hampers30 one, so far as I can remember; unless indeed the eighteenth-century style was natural to Thackeray — a fact that one might prove by looking at the manuscript and seeing whether the alterations31 were for the benefit of the style or of the sense. But then one would have to decide what is style and what is meaning, a question which — but here I was actually at the door which leads into the library itself. I must have opened it, for instantly there issued, like a guardian32 angel barring the way with a flutter of black gown instead of white wings, a deprecating, silvery, kindly33 gentleman, who regretted in a low voice as he waved me back that ladies are only admitted to the library if accompanied by a Fellow of the College or furnished with a letter of introduction.
That a famous library has been cursed by a woman is a matter of complete indifference34 to a famous library. Venerable and calm, with all its treasures safe locked within its breast, it sleeps complacently35 and will, so far as I am concerned, so sleep for ever. Never will I wake those echoes, never will I ask for that hospitality again, I vowed36 as I descended the steps in anger. Still an hour remained before luncheon37, and what was one to do? Stroll on the meadows? sit by the river? Certainly it was a lovely autumn morning; the leaves were fluttering red to the ground; there was no great hardship in doing either. But the sound of music reached my ear. Some service or celebration was going forward. The organ complained magnificently as I passed the chapel38 door. Even the sorrow of Christianity sounded in that serene39 air more like the recollection of sorrow than sorrow itself; even the groanings of the ancient organ seemed lapped in peace. I had no wish to enter had I the right, and this time the verger might have stopped me, demanding perhaps my baptismal certificate, or a letter of introduction from the Dean. But the outside of these magnificent buildings is often as beautiful as the inside. Moreover, it was amusing enough to watch the congregation assembling, coming in and going out again, busying themselves at the door of the chapel like bees at the mouth of a hive. Many were in cap and gown; some had tufts of fur on their shoulders; others were wheeled in bath-chairs; others, though not past middle age, seemed creased40 and crushed into shapes so singular that one was reminded of those giant crabs41 and crayfish who heave with difficulty across the sand of an aquarium42. As I leant against the wall the University indeed seemed a sanctuary43 in which are preserved rare types which would soon be obsolete44 if left to fight for existence on the pavement of the Strand45. Old stories of old deans and old dons came back to mind, but before I had summoned up courage to whistle — it used to be said that at the sound of a whistle old Professor —— instantly broke into a gallop46 — the venerable congregation had gone inside. The outside of the chapel remained. As you know, its high domes47 and pinnacles48 can be seen, like a sailing-ship always voyaging never arriving, lit up at night and visible for miles, far away across the hills. Once, presumably, this quadrangle with its smooth lawns, its massive buildings and the chapel itself was marsh49 too, where the grasses waved and the swine rootled. Teams of horses and oxen, I thought, must have hauled the stone in wagons50 from far countries, and then with infinite labour the grey blocks in whose shade I was now standing51 were poised52 in order one on top of another. and then the painters brought their glass for the windows, and the masons were busy for centuries up on that roof with putty and cement, spade and trowel. Every Saturday somebody must have poured gold and silver out of a leathern purse into their ancient fists, for they had their beer and skittles presumably of an evening. An unending stream of gold and silver, I thought, must have flowed into this court perpetually to keep the stones coming and the masons working; to level, to ditch, to dig and to drain. But it was then the age of faith, and money was poured liberally to set these stones on a deep foundation, and when the stones were raised, still more money was poured in from the coffers of kings and queens and great nobles to ensure that hymns53 should be sung here and scholars taught. Lands were granted; tithes54 were paid. And when the age of faith was over and the age of reason had come, still the same flow of gold and silver went on; fellowships were founded; lectureships endowed; only the gold and silver flowed now, not from the coffers of the king. but from the chests of merchants and manufacturers, from the purses of men who had made, say, a fortune from industry, and returned, in their wills, a bounteous55 share of it to endow more chairs, more lectureships, more fellowships in the university where they had learnt their craft. Hence the libraries and laboratories; the observatories56; the splendid equipment of costly57 and delicate instruments which now stands on glass shelves, where centuries ago the grasses waved and the swine rootled. Certainly, as I strolled round the court, the foundation of gold and silver seemed deep enough; the pavement laid solidly over the wild grasses. Men with trays on their heads went busily from staircase to staircase. Gaudy58 blossoms flowered in window-boxes. The strains of the gramophone blared out from the rooms within. It was impossible not to reflect — the reflection whatever it may have been was cut short. The clock struck. it was time to find one’s way to luncheon.
It is a curious fact that novelists have a way of making us believe that luncheon parties are invariably memorable59 for something very witty60 that was said, or for something very wise that was done. But they seldom spare a word for what was eaten. It is part of the novelist’s convention not to mention soup and salmon61 and ducklings, as if soup and salmon and ducklings were of no importance whatsoever62, as if nobody ever smoked a cigar or drank a glass of wine. Here, however, I shall take the liberty to defy that convention and to tell you that the lunch on this occasion began with soles, sunk in a deep dish, over which the college cook had spread a counterpane of the whitest cream, save that it was branded here and there with brown spots like the spots on the flanks of a doe. After that came the partridges, but if this suggests a couple of bald, brown birds on a plate you are mistaken. The partridges, many and various, came with all their retinue63 of sauces and salads, the sharp and the sweet, each in its order; their potatoes, thin as coins but not so hard; their sprouts64, foliated as rosebuds65 but more succulent. And no sooner had the roast and its retinue been done with than the silent servingman, the Beadle himself perhaps in a milder manifestation66, set before us, wreathed in napkins, a confection which rose all sugar from the waves. To call it pudding and so relate it to rice and tapioca would be an insult. Meanwhile the wineglasses had flushed yellow and flushed crimson; had been emptied; had been filled. And thus by degrees was lit, half-way down the spine67, which is the seat of the soul, not that hard little electric light which we call brilliance68, as it pops in and out upon our lips, but the more profound, subtle and subterranean69 glow which is the rich yellow flame of rational intercourse70. No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself. We are all going to heaven and Vandyck is of the company — in other words, how good life seemed, how sweet its rewards, how trivial this grudge71 or that grievance72, how admirable friendship and the society of one’s kind, as, lighting73 a good cigarette, one sunk among the cushions in the window-seat.
If by good luck there had been an ash-tray handy, if one had not knocked the ash out of the window in default, if things had been a little different from what they were, one would not have seen, presumably, a cat without a tail. The sight of that abrupt74 and truncated75 animal padding softly across the quadrangle changed by some fluke of the subconscious76 intelligence the emotional light for me. It was as if someone had let fall a shade. Perhaps the excellent hock was relinquishing77 its hold. Certainly, as I watched the Manx cat pause in the middle of the lawn as if it too questioned the universe, something seemed lacking, something seemed different. But what was lacking, what was different, I asked myself, listening to the talk? And to answer that question I had to think myself out of the room, back into the past, before the war indeed, and to set before my eyes the model of another luncheon party held in rooms not very far distant from these; but different. Everything was different. Meanwhile the talk went on among the guests, who were many and young, some of this sex, some of that; it went on swimmingly, it went on agreeably, freely, amusingly. And as it went on I set it against the background of that other talk, and as I matched the two together I had no doubt that one was the descendant, the legitimate78 heir of the other. Nothing was changed; nothing was different save only here I listened with all my ears not entirely79 to what was being said, but to the murmur80 or current behind it. Yes, that was it — the change was there. Before the war at a luncheon party like this people would have said precisely81 the same things but they would have sounded different, because in those days they were accompanied by a sort of humming noise, not articulate, but musical, exciting, which changed the value of the words themselves. Could one set that humming noise to words? Perhaps with the help of the poets one could.. A book lay beside me and, opening it, I turned casually82 enough to Tennyson. And here I found Tennyson was singing:
There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, ‘She is near, she is near’;
And the white rose weeps, ‘She is late’;
The larkspur listens, ‘I hear, I hear’;
And the lily whispers, ‘I wait.’
Was that what men hummed at luncheon parties before the war? And the women?
My heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a water’d shoot;
My heart is like an apple tree
Whose boughs83 are bent84 with thick-set fruit,
My heart is like a rainbow shell
That paddles in a halcyon85 sea;
My heart is gladder than all these
Because my love is come to me.
Was that what women hummed at luncheon parties before the war?
There was something so ludicrous in thinking of people humming such things even under their breath at luncheon parties before the war that I burst out laughing. and had to explain my laughter by pointing at the Manx cat, who did look a little absurd, poor beast, without a tail, in the middle of the lawn. Was he really born so, or had he lost his tail in an accident? The tailless cat, though some are said to exist in the Isle86 of Man, is rarer than one thinks. It is a queer animal, quaint87 rather than beautiful. It is strange what a difference a tail makes — you know the sort of things one says as a lunch party breaks up and people are finding their coats and hats.
This one, thanks to the hospitality of the host, had lasted far into the afternoon. The beautiful October day was fading and the leaves were falling from the trees in the avenue as I walked through it. Gate after gate seemed to close with gentle finality behind me. Innumerable beadles were fitting innumerable keys into well-oiled locks; the treasure-house was being made secure for another night. After the avenue one comes out upon a road — I forget its name — which leads you, if you take the right turning, along to Fernham. But there was plenty of time. Dinner was not till half-past seven. One could almost do without dinner after such a luncheon. It is strange how a scrap88 of poetry works in the mind and makes the legs move in time to it along the road. Those words ——
There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear ——
sang in my blood as I stepped quickly along towards Headingley. And then, switching off into the other measure, I sang, where the waters are churned up by the weir89:
My heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a water’d shoot;
My heart is like an apple tree . . .
What poets, I cried aloud, as one does in the dusk, what poets they were!
In a sort of jealousy90, I suppose, for our own age, silly and absurd though these comparisons are, I went on to wonder if honestly one could name two living poets now as great as Tennyson and Christina Rossetti were then. Obviously it is impossible, I thought, looking into those foaming91 waters, to compare them. The very reason why that poetry excites one to such abandonment, such rapture92, is that it celebrates some feeling that one used to have (at luncheon parties before the war perhaps), so that one responds easily, familiarly, without troubling to check the feeling, or to compare it with any that one has now. But the living poets express a feeling that is actually being made and torn out of us at the moment. One does not recognize it in the first place; often for some reason one fears it; one watches it with keenness and compares it jealously and suspiciously with the old feeling that one knew. Hence the difficulty of modern poetry; and it is because of this difficulty that one cannot remember more than two consecutive93 lines of any good modern poet. For this reason — that my memory failed me — the argument flagged for want of material. But why, I continued, moving on towards Headingley, have we stopped humming under our breath at luncheon parties? Why has Alfred ceased to sing
She is coming, my dove, my dear.
Why has Christina ceased to respond
My heart is gladder than all these
Because my love is come to me?
Shall we lay the blame on the war? When the guns fired in August 1914, did the faces of men and women show so plain in each other’s eyes that romance was killed? Certainly it was a shock (to women in particular with their illusions about education, and so on) to see the faces of our rulers in the light of the shell-fire. So ugly they looked — German, English, French — so stupid. But lay the blame where one will, on whom one will, the illusion which inspired Tennyson and Christina Rossetti to sing so passionately94 about the coming of their loves is far rarer now than then. One has only to read, to look, to listen, to remember. But why say ‘blame’? Why, if it was an illusion, not praise the catastrophe95, whatever it was, that destroyed illusion and put truth in its place? For truth . . . those dots mark the spot where, in search of truth, I missed the turning up to Fernham. Yes indeed, which was truth and which was illusion? I asked myself. What was the truth about these houses, for example, dim and festive96 now with their red windows in the dusk, but raw and red and squalid, with their sweets and their bootlaces, at nine o’clock in the morning? And the willows and the river and the gardens that run down to the river, vague now with the mist stealing over them, but gold and red in the sunlight — which was the truth, which was the illusion about them? I spare you the twists and turns of my cogitations, for no conclusion was found on the road to Headingley, and I ask You to suppose that I soon found out my mistake about the turning and retraced97 my steps to Fernham.
As I have said already that it was an October day, I dare not forfeit98 your respect and imperil the fair name of fiction by changing the season and describing lilacs hanging over garden walls, crocuses, tulips and other flowers of spring. Fiction must stick to facts, and the truer the facts the better the fiction — so we are told. Therefore it was still autumn and the leaves were still yellow and falling, if anything, a little faster than before, because it was now evening (seven twenty-three to be precise) and a breeze (from the south-west to be exact) had risen. But for all that there was something odd at work:
My heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a water’d shoot;
My heart is like an apple tree
Whose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit —
perhaps the words of Christina Rossetti were partly responsible for the folly99 of the fancy — it was nothing of course but a fancy — that the lilac was shaking its flowers over the garden walls, and the brimstone butterflies were scudding100 hither and thither, and the dust of the pollen101 was in the air. A wind blew, from what quarter I know not, but it lifted the half-grown leaves so that there was a flash of silver grey in the air. It was the time between the lights when colours undergo their intensification102 and purples and golds burn in window-panes like the beat of an excitable heart; when for some reason the beauty of the world revealed and yet soon to perish (here I pushed into the garden, for, unwisely, the door was left open and no beadles seemed about), the beauty of the world which is so soon to perish, has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish103, cutting the heart asunder104. The gardens of Fernham lay before me in the spring twilight105, wild and open, and in the long grass, sprinkled and carelessly flung, were daffodils and bluebells106, not orderly perhaps at the best of times, and now wind-blown and waving as they tugged107 at their roots. The windows of the building, curved like ships’ windows among generous waves of red brick, changed from lemon to silver under the flight of the quick spring clouds. Somebody was in a hammock, somebody, but in this light they were phantoms108 only, half guessed, half seen, raced across the grass — would no one stop her? — and then on the terrace, as if popping out to breathe the air, to glance at the garden, came a bent figure, formidable yet humble109, with her great forehead and her shabby dress — could it be the famous scholar, could it be J—— H—— herself? All was dim, yet intense too, as if the scarf which the dusk had flung over the garden were torn asunder by star or sword — the gash110 of some terrible reality leaping, as its way is, out of the heart of the spring. For youth ——
Here was my soup. Dinner was being served in the great dining-hall. Far from being spring it was in fact an evening in October. Everybody was assembled in the big dining-room. Dinner was ready. Here was the soup. It was a plain gravy111 soup. There was nothing to stir the fancy in that. One could have seen through the transparent112 liquid any pattern that there might have been on the plate itself. But there was no pattern. The plate was plain. Next came beef with its attendant greens and potatoes — a homely113 trinity, suggesting the rumps of cattle in a muddy market, and sprouts curled and yellowed at the edge, and bargaining and cheapening and women with string bags on Monday morning. There was no reason to complain of human nature’s daily food, seeing that the supply was sufficient and coal-miners doubtless were sitting down to less. Prunes115 and custard followed. And if anyone complains that prunes, even when mitigated116 by custard, are an uncharitable vegetable (fruit they are not), stringy as a miser’s heart and exuding117 a fluid such as might run in misers’ veins118 who have denied themselves wine and warmth. for eighty years and yet not given to the poor, he should reflect that there are people whose charity embraces even the prune114. Biscuits and cheese came next, and here the water-jug was liberally passed round, for it is the nature of biscuits to be dry, and these were biscuits to the core. That was all. The meal was over. Everybody scraped their chairs back; the swing-doors swung violently to and fro; soon the hall was emptied of every sign of food and made ready no doubt for breakfast next morning. Down corridors and up staircases the youth of England went banging and singing. And was it for a guest, a stranger (for I had no more right here in Fernham than in Trinity or Somerville or Girton or Newnham or Christchurch), to say, ‘The dinner was not good,’ or to say (we were now, Mary Seton and I, in her sitting-room), ‘Could we not have dined up here alone?’ for if I had said anything of the kind I should have been prying119 and searching into the secret economies of a house which to the stranger wears so fine a front of gaiety and courage. No, one could say nothing of the sort. Indeed, conversation for a moment flagged. The human frame being what it is, heart, body and brain all mixed together, and not contained in separate compartments120 as they will be no doubt in another million years, a good dinner is of great importance to good talk. One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well. The lamp in the spine does not light on beef and prunes. We are all probably going to heaven, and Vandyck is, we hope, to meet us round the next corner — that is the dubious121 and qualifying state of mind that beef and prunes at the end of the day’s work breed between them. Happily my friend, who taught science, had a cupboard where there was a squat122 bottle and little glasses —(but there should have been sole and partridge to begin with)— so that we were able to draw up to the fire and repair some of the damages of the day’s living. In a minute or so we were slipping freely in and out among all those objects of curiosity and interest which form in the mind in the absence of a particular person, and are naturally to be discussed on coming together again — how somebody has married, another has not; one thinks this, another that; one has improved out of all knowledge, the other most amazingly gone to the bad — with all those speculations123 upon human nature and the character of the amazing world we live in which spring naturally from such beginnings. While these things were being said, however, I became shamefacedly aware of a current setting in of its own accord and carrying everything forward to an end of its own. One might be talking of Spain or Portugal, of book or racehorse, but the real interest of whatever was said was none of those things, but a scene of masons on a high roof some five centuries ago. Kings and nobles brought treasure in huge sacks and poured it under the earth. This scene was for ever coming alive in my mind and placing itself by another of lean cows and a muddy market and withered124 greens and the stringy hearts of old men — these two pictures, disjointed and disconnected and nonsensical as they were, were for ever coming together and combating each other and had me entirely at their mercy. The best course, unless the whole talk was to be distorted, was to expose what was in my mind to the air, when with good luck it would fade and crumble125 like the head of the dead king when they opened the coffin126 at Windsor. Briefly127, then, I told Miss Seton about the masons who had been all those years on the roof of the chapel, and about the kings and queens and nobles bearing sacks of gold and silver on their shoulders, which they shovelled128 into the earth; and then how the great financial magnates of our own time came and laid cheques and bonds, I suppose, where the others had laid ingots and rough lumps of gold. All that lies beneath the colleges down there, I said; but this college, where we are now sitting, what lies beneath its gallant129 red brick and the wild unkempt grasses of the garden? What force is behind that plain china off which we dined, and (here it popped out of my mouth before I could stop it) the beef, the custard and the prunes?
Well, said Mary Seton, about the year 1860 — Oh, but you know the story, she said, bored, I suppose, by the recital130. And she told me — rooms were hired. Committees met. Envelopes were addressed. Circulars were drawn131 up. Meetings were held; letters were read out; so-and-so has promised so much; on the contrary, Mr —— won’t give a penny. The Saturday Review has been very rude. How can we raise a fund to pay for offices? Shall we hold a bazaar132? Can’t we find a pretty girl to sit in the front row? Let us look up what John Stuart Mill said on the subject. Can anyone persuade the editor of the —— to print a letter? Can we get Lady —— to sign it? Lady —— is out of town. That was the way it was done, presumably, sixty years ago, and it was a prodigious133 effort, and a great deal of time was spent on it. And it was only after a long struggle and with the utmost difficulty that they got thirty thousand pounds together.1 So obviously we cannot have wine and partridges and servants carrying tin dishes on their heads, she said. We cannot have sofas and separate rooms. ‘The amenities134,’ she said, quoting from some book or other, ‘will have to wait.’2
1 ‘We are told that we ought to ask for ￡30,000 at least. . . . It is not a large sum, considering that there is to be but one college of this sort for Great Britain, Ireland and the Colonies, and considering how easy it is to raise immense sums for boys’ schools. But considering how few people really wish women to be educated, it is a good deal.’— Lady Stephen, Emily Davies and Girton College.
2 Every penny which could he scraped together was set aside for building, and the amenities had to be postponed135. — R. Strachey, The Cause.
At the thought of all those women working year after year and finding it hard to get two thousand pounds together, and as much as they could do to get thirty thousand pounds, we burst out in scorn at the reprehensible136 poverty of our sex. What had our mothers been doing then that they had no wealth to leave us? Powdering their noses? Looking in at shop windows? Flaunting137 in the sun at Monte Carlo? There were some photographs on the mantelpiece. Mary’s mother — if that was her picture — may have been a wastrel138 in her spare time (she had thirteen children by a minister of the church), but if so her gay and dissipated life had left too few traces of its pleasures on her face. She was a homely body; an old lady in a plaid shawl which was fastened by a large cameo; and she sat in a basket-chair, encouraging a spaniel to look at the camera, with the amused, yet strained expression of one who is sure that the dog will move directly the bulb is pressed. Now if she had gone into business; had become a manufacturer of artificial silk or a magnate on the Stock Exchange; if she had left two or three hundred thousand pounds to Fernham, we could have been sitting at our ease to-night and the subject of our talk might have been archaeology139, botany, anthropology140, physics, the nature of the atom, mathematics, astronomy, relativity, geography. If only Mrs Seton and her mother and her mother before her had learnt the great art of making money and had left their money, like their fathers and their grandfathers before them, to found fellowships and lectureships and prizes and scholarships appropriated to the use of their own sex, we might have dined very tolerably up here alone off a bird and a bottle of wine; we might have looked forward without undue141 confidence to a pleasant and honourable142 lifetime spent in the shelter of one of the liberally endowed professions. We might have been exploring or writing; mooning about the venerable places of the earth; sitting contemplative on the steps of the Parthenon, or. going at ten to an office and coming home comfortably at half-past four to write a little poetry. Only, if Mrs Seton and her like had gone into business at the age of fifteen, there would have been — that was the snag in the argument — no Mary. What, I asked, did Mary think of t hat? There between the curtains was the October night, calm and lovely, with a star or two caught in the yellowing trees. Was she ready to resign her share of it and her memories (for they had been a happy family, though a large one) of games and quarrels up in Scotland, which she is never tired of praising for the fineness of its air and the quality of its cakes, in order that Fernham might have been endowed with fifty thousand pounds or so by a stroke of the pen? For, to endow a college would necessitate143 the suppression of families altogether. Making a fortune and bearing thirteen children — no human being could stand it. Consider the facts, we said. First there are nine months before the baby is born. Then the baby is born. Then there are three or four months spent in feeding the baby. After the baby is fed there are certainly five years spent in playing with the baby. You cannot, it seems, let children run about the streets. People who have seen them running wild in Russia say that the sight is not a pleasant one. People say, too, that human nature takes its shape in the years between one and five. If Mrs Seton, I said, had been making money, what sort of memories would you have had of games and quarrels? What would you have known of Scotland, and its fine air and cakes and all the rest of it? But it is useless to ask these questions, because you would never have come into existence at all. Moreover, it is equally useless to ask what might have happened if Mrs Seton and her mother and her mother before her had amassed144 great wealth and laid it under the foundations of college and library, because, in the first place, to earn money was impossible for them, and in the second, had it been possible, the law denied them the right to possess what money they earned. It is only for the last forty-eight years that Mrs Seton has had a penny of her own. For all the centuries before that it would have been her husband’s property — a thought which, perhaps, may have had its share in keeping Mrs Seton and her mothers off the Stock Exchange. Every penny I earn, they may have said, will be taken from me and disposed of according to my husband’s wisdom — perhaps to found a scholarship or to endow a fellowship in Balliol or Kings, so that to earn money, even if I could earn money, is not a matter that interests me very greatly. I had better leave it to my husband.
At any rate, whether or not the blame rested on the old lady who was looking at the spaniel, there could be no doubt that for some reason or other our mothers had mismanaged their affairs very gravely. Not a penny could be spared for ‘amenities’; for partridges and wine, beadles and turf, books and cigars, libraries and leisure. To raise bare walls out of bare earth was the utmost they could do.
So we talked standing at the window and looking, as so many thousands look every night, down on the domes and towers of the famous city beneath us. It was very beautiful, very mysterious in the autumn moonlight. The old stone looked very white and venerable. One thought of all the books that were assembled down there; of the pictures of old prelates and worthies145 hanging in the panelled rooms; of the painted windows that would be throwing strange globes and crescents on the pavement; of the tablets and memorials and inscriptions146; of the fountains and the grass; of the quiet rooms looking across the quiet quadrangles. And (pardon me the thought) I thought, too, of the admirable smoke and drink and the deep armchairs and the pleasant carpets: of the urbanity, the geniality147, the dignity which are the offspring of luxury and privacy and space. Certainly our mothers had not provided us with any thing comparable to all this — our mothers who found it difficult to scrape together thirty thousand pounds, our mothers who bore thirteen children to ministers of religion at St Andrews.
So I went back to my inn, and as I walked through the dark streets I pondered this and that, as one does at the end of the day’s work. I pondered why it was that Mrs Seton had no money to leave us; and what effect poverty has on the mind; and what effect wealth has on the mind; and I thought of the queer old gentlemen I had seen that morning with tufts of fur upon their shoulders; and I remembered how if one whistled one of them ran; and I thought of the organ booming in the chapel and of the shut doors of the library; and I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse perhaps to be locked in; and, thinking of the safety and prosperity of the one sex and of the poverty and insecurity of the other and of the effect of tradition and of the lack of tradition upon the mind of a writer, I thought at last that it was time to roll up the crumpled148 skin of the day, with its arguments and its impressions and its anger and its laughter, and cast it into the hedge. A thousand stars were flashing across the blue wastes of the sky. One seemed alone with an inscrutable society. All human beings were laid asleep — prone149, horizontal, dumb. Nobody seemed stirring in the streets of Oxbridge. Even the door of the hotel sprang open at the touch of an invisible hand — not a boots was sitting up to light me to bed, it was so late.
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1
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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witticisms
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| n.妙语，俏皮话( witticism的名词复数 ) | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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10
lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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oared
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| adj.有桨的v.划（行）( oar的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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12
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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13
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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14
conglomeration
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| n.团块，聚集，混合物 | |
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15
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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16
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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17
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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18
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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19
intercept
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| vt.拦截，截住，截击 | |
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20
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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21
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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22
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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23
trespassing
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| [法]非法入侵 | |
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24
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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25
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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26
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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27
trespassed
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| （trespass的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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28
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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29
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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30
hampers
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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31
alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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32
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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33
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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34
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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35
complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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36
vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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37
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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38
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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39
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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40
creased
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的过去式和过去分词 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹； 皱皱巴巴 | |
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41
crabs
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| n.蟹( crab的名词复数 )；阴虱寄生病；蟹肉v.捕蟹( crab的第三人称单数 ) | |
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42
aquarium
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| n.水族馆，养鱼池，玻璃缸 | |
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43
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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44
obsolete
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| adj.已废弃的，过时的 | |
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45
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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46
gallop
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| v./n.(马或骑马等)飞奔；飞速发展 | |
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47
domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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48
pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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49
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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50
wagons
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| n.四轮的运货马车( wagon的名词复数 )；铁路货车；小手推车 | |
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51
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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52
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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53
hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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54
tithes
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| n.（宗教捐税）什一税，什一的教区税，小部分( tithe的名词复数 ) | |
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55
bounteous
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| adj.丰富的 | |
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56
observatories
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| n.天文台，气象台( observatory的名词复数 ) | |
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57
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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58
gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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59
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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60
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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61
salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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62
whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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63
retinue
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| n.侍从；随员 | |
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64
sprouts
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| n.新芽，嫩枝( sprout的名词复数 )v.发芽( sprout的第三人称单数 )；抽芽；出现；（使）涌现出 | |
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65
rosebuds
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| 蔷薇花蕾，妙龄少女，初入社交界的少女( rosebud的名词复数 ) | |
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66
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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67
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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68
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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69
subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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70
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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71
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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72
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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73
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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74
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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75
truncated
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| adj.切去顶端的，缩短了的，被删节的v.截面的( truncate的过去式和过去分词 )；截头的；缩短了的；截去顶端或末端 | |
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76
subconscious
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| n./adj.潜意识(的)，下意识(的) | |
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77
relinquishing
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的现在分词 )； 放弃 | |
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78
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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79
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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80
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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81
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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82
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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83
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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84
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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85
halcyon
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| n.平静的，愉快的 | |
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86
isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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87
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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88
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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89
weir
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| n.堰堤，拦河坝 | |
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90
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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91
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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92
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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93
consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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94
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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95
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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96
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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97
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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98
forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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99
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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100
scudding
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| n.刮面v.（尤指船、舰或云彩）笔直、高速而平稳地移动( scud的现在分词 ) | |
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101
pollen
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| n.[植]花粉 | |
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102
intensification
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| n.激烈化，增强明暗度；加厚 | |
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103
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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104
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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105
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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106
bluebells
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| n.圆叶风铃草( bluebell的名词复数 ) | |
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107
tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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108
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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109
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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110
gash
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| v.深切，划开；n.(深长的)切(伤)口；裂缝 | |
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111
gravy
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| n.肉汁；轻易得来的钱，外快 | |
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112
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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113
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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114
prune
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| n.酶干；vt.修剪，砍掉，削减；vi.删除 | |
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115
prunes
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| n.西梅脯，西梅干( prune的名词复数 )v.修剪（树木等）( prune的第三人称单数 )；精简某事物，除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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116
mitigated
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| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
exuding
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| v.缓慢流出，渗出，分泌出( exude的现在分词 )；流露出对（某物）的神态或感情 | |
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118
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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119
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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120
compartments
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| n.间隔( compartment的名词复数 )；（列车车厢的）隔间；（家具或设备等的）分隔间；隔层 | |
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121
dubious
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| adj.怀疑的，无把握的；有问题的，靠不住的 | |
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122
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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123
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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124
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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125
crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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126
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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127
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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128
shovelled
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| v.铲子( shovel的过去式和过去分词 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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129
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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130
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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131
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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132
bazaar
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| n.集市，商店集中区 | |
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133
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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134
amenities
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| n.令人愉快的事物；礼仪；礼节；便利设施；礼仪( amenity的名词复数 )；便利设施；（环境等的）舒适；（性情等的）愉快 | |
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135
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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136
reprehensible
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| adj.该受责备的 | |
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137
flaunting
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| adj.招摇的，扬扬得意的，夸耀的v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的现在分词 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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138
wastrel
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| n.浪费者；废物 | |
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139
archaeology
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| n.考古学 | |
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140
anthropology
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| n.人类学 | |
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141
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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142
honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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143
necessitate
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| v.使成为必要，需要 | |
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144
amassed
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| v.积累，积聚( amass的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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145
worthies
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| 应得某事物( worthy的名词复数 )； 值得做某事； 可尊敬的； 有（某人或事物）的典型特征 | |
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146
inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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147
geniality
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| n.和蔼，诚恳；愉快 | |
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148
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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149
prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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