Matty Stiles, the caretaker, huddled18 in the basement of the house in Browne Street, looked up. There was a rattle19 of dust along the pavement. It worked its way under the doors, through the window frames; on to chests and dressers. But she didn’t care. She was one of the unlucky ones. She had been thinking it was a safe job, sure to last the summer out anyhow. The lady was dead; the gentleman too. She had got the job through her son the policeman. The house with its basement would never let this side of Christmas — so they told her. She had only to show parties round who came with orders to view from the agent. And she always mentioned the basement — how damp it was. “Look at that stain on the ceiling.” There it was, sure enough. All the same, the party from China took a fancy to it. It suited him, he said. He had business in the city. She was one of the unlucky ones — after three months to turn out and lodge20 with her son in Pimlico.
A bell rang. Let him ring, ring, ring, she growled21. She wasn’t going to open the door any more. There he was standing on the door-step. She could see a pair of legs against the railing. Let him ring as much as he liked. The house was sold. Couldn’t he see the notice on the board? Couldn’t he read it? Hadn’t he eyes? She huddled closer to the fire, which was covered with pale ash. She could see his legs there, standing on the door-step, between the canaries’ cage and the dirty linen22 which she had been going to wash, but this wind made her shoulder ache cruel. Let him ring the house down, for all she cared.
Martin was standing there.
“Sold” was written on a strip of bright red paper pasted across the house-agent’s board.
“Already!” said Martin. He had made a little circle to look at the house in Browne Street. And it was already sold. The red strip gave him a shock. It was sold already, and Digby had only been dead three months — Eugénie not much more than a year. He stood for a moment gazing at the black windows now grimed with dust. It was a house of character; built some time in the eighteenth century. Eugénie had been proud of it. And I used to like going there, he thought. But now an old newspaper was on the door-step; wisps of straw had caught in the railings; and he could see, for there were no blinds, into an empty room. A woman was peering up at him from behind the bars of a cage in the basement. It was no use ringing. He turned away. A feeling of something extinguished came over him as he went down the street.
It’s a grimy, it’s a sordid23 end, he thought; I used to enjoy going there. But he disliked brooding over unpleasant thoughts. What’s the good of it? he asked himself.
“The King of Spain’s daughter,” he hummed as he turned the corner, “came to visit me . . . ”
“And how much longer,” he asked himself, pressing the bell, as he stood on the door-step of the house in Abercorn Terrace, “is old Crosby going to keep me waiting?” The wind was very cold.
He stood there, looking at the buff-coloured front of the large, architecturally insignificant24, but no doubt convenient family mansion25 in which his father and sister still lived. “She takes her time nowadays,” he thought, shivering in the wind. But here the door opened, and Crosby appeared.
“Hullo, Crosby!” he said.
She beamed on him so that her gold tooth showed. He was always her favourite, they said, and the thought pleased him today.
“How’s the world treating you?” he asked, as he gave her his hat.
She was just the same — more shrivelled, more gnat-like, and her blue eyes were more prominent than ever.
“Feeling the rheumatics?” he asked, as she helped him off with his coat. She grinned, silently. He felt friendly; he was glad to find her much as usual. “And Miss Eleanor?” he asked, as he opened the drawing-room door. The room was empty. She was not there. But she had been there, for there was a book on the table. Nothing had been changed he was glad to see. He stood in front of the fire and looked at his mother’s picture. In the course of the past few years it had ceased to be his mother; it had become a work of art. But it was dirty.
There used to be a flower in the grass, he thought, peering into a dark corner: but now there was nothing but dirty brown paint. And what’s she been reading? he wondered. He took the book that was propped26 up against the teapot and looked at it. “Renan,” he read. “Why Renan?” he asked himself, beginning to read as he waited.
“Mr Martin, Miss,” said Crosby, opening the study door. Eleanor looked round. She was standing by her father’s chair with her hands full of long strips of newspaper cuttings, as if she had been reading them aloud. There was a chess-board in front of him; the chess-men were set out for a game; but he was lying back in his chair. He looked lethargic27, and rather gloomy.
“Put ’em away. . . . Keep ’em safe somewhere,” he said, jerking his thumb at the cuttings. That was a sign that he had grown very old, Eleanor thought — wanting newspaper cuttings kept. He had grown inert28 and ponderous29 after his stroke; there were red veins30 in his nose and in his cheeks. She too felt old, heavy and dull.
“Mr Martin’s called,” Crosby repeated.
“Martin’s come,” Eleanor said. Her father seemed not to hear. He sat still with his head sunk on his breast. “Martin,” Eleanor repeated. “Martin . . . ”
Did he want to see him or did he not want to see him? She waited as if for some sluggish31 thought to rise. At last he gave a little grunt32; but what it meant she was not certain.
“I’ll send him in after tea,” she said. She paused for a moment. He roused himself and began fumbling33 with his chess-men. He still had courage, she observed with pride. He still insisted upon doing things for himself.
She went into the drawing-room and found Martin standing in front of the placid34, smiling picture of their mother. He held a book in his hand.
“Why Renan?” he said as she came in. He shut the book and kissed her. “Why Renan?” he repeated. She flushed slightly. It made her shy, for some reason, that he had found the book there, open. She sat down and laid the press cuttings on the tea-table.
“How’s Papa?” he asked. She had lost something of her bright colour, he thought, glancing at her, and her hair had a tuft of grey in it.
“Rather gloomy,” she said, glancing at the press cuttings.
“I wonder,” she added, “who writes that sort of thing?”
“What sort of thing?” said Martin. He picked up one of the crinkled strips and began reading it: “’ . . . an exceptionally able public servant . . . a man of wide interests. . . . ’ Oh, Digby,” he said. “Obituaries. I passed the house this afternoon,” he added. “It’s sold.”
“Already?” said Eleanor.
“It looked very shut-up and desolate,” he added. “There was a dirty old woman in the basement.”
Eleanor took out a hair-pin and began fraying35 the wick of the kettle. Martin watched her for a moment in silence.
“I liked going there,” he said at length. “I liked Eugénie,” he added.
Eleanor paused.
“Yes . . . ” she said doubtfully. She had never felt at her ease with her. “She exaggerated,” she added.
“Well of course,” Martin laughed. He smiled, recalling some memory. “She had less sense of truth than . . . that’s no sort of use, Nell,” he broke off, irritated by her fumbling with the wick.
“Yes, yes,” she protested. “It boils in time.”
She paused. Stretching out towards the tea-caddy, she measured the tea. “One, two, three, four,” she counted.
She still used the nice old silver tea-caddy, he noticed, with the sliding lid. He watched her measuring the tea methodically — one, two, three, four. He was silent.
“We can’t tell a lie to save our souls,” he said abruptly36.
What makes him say that? Eleanor wondered.
“When I was with them in Italy — ” she said aloud. But here the door opened and Crosby came in carrying some sort of dish. She left the door ajar and a dog pushed in after her.
“I mean —” Eleanor added; but she could not say what she meant with Crosby in the room fidgeting about.
“It’s time Miss Eleanor got a new kettle,” said Martin, pointing to the old brass37 kettle, faintly engraved38 with a design of roses, which he had always hated.
“Crosby,” said Eleanor, still poking39 with her pin, “doesn’t hold with new inventions. Crosby won’t trust herself in the Tube, will you, Crosby?”
Crosby grinned. They always spoke40 to her in the third person, because she never answered but only grinned. The dog snuffed at the dish she had just put down. “Crosby’s letting that beast get much too fat,” said Martin, pointing at the dog.
“That’s what I’m always telling her,” said Eleanor.
“If I were you, Crosby,” said Martin, “I’d cut down his meals and take him for a brisk run round the park every morning.” Crosby opened her mouth wide.
“Oh, Mr Martin!” she protested, shocked by his brutality41 into speech.
The dog followed her out of the room.
“Crosby’s the same as ever,” said Martin.
Eleanor had lifted the lid of the kettle and was looking in. There were no bubbles on the water yet.
“Damn that kettle,” said Martin. He took up one of the newspaper cuttings and began to make it into a spill.
“No, no, Papa wants them kept,” said Eleanor. “But he wasn’t like that,” she said, laying her hand on the newspaper cuttings. “Not in the least.”
“What was he like?” Martin asked.
Eleanor paused. She could see her uncle clearly in her mind’s eye; he held his top-hat in his hand; he laid his hand on her shoulder as they stopped in front of some picture. But how could she describe him?
“He used to take me to the National Gallery,” she said.
“Very cultivated, of course,” said Martin. “But he was such a damned snob42.”
“Only on the surface,” said Eleanor.
“And always finding fault with Eugénie about little things,” Martin added.
“But think of living with her,” said Eleanor.
“That manner —” She threw her hand out; but not as Eugénie threw her hand out, Martin thought.
“I liked her,” he said. “I liked going there.” He saw the untidy room; the piano open; the window open; a wind blowing the curtains, and his aunt coming forward with her arms open. “What a pleasure, Martin! what a pleasure!” she would say. What had her private life been, he wondered — her love affairs? She must have had them — obviously, obviously.
“Wasn’t there some story,” he began, “about a letter?” He wanted to say, Didn’t she have an affair with somebody? But it was more difficult to be open with his sister than with other women, because she treated him as if he were a small boy still. Had Eleanor ever been in love, he wondered, looking at her.
“Yes,” she said. “There was a story —”
But here the electric bell rang sharply. She stopped.
“Papa,” she said. She half rose.
“No,” said Martin. “I’ll go.” He got up. “I promised him a game of chess.”
“Thanks, Martin. He’ll enjoy that,” said Eleanor with relief as he left the room, and she found herself alone.
She leant back in her chair. How terrible old age was, she thought; shearing43 off all one’s faculties44, one by one, but leaving something alive in the centre: leaving — she swept up the press cuttings — a game of chess, a drive in the park, and a visit from old General Arbuthnot in the evening.
It was better to die, like Eugénie and Digby, in the prime of life with all one’s faculties about one. But he wasn’t like that, she thought, glancing at the press cuttings. “A man of singularly handsome presence . . . shot, fished, and played golf.” No, not like that in the least. He had been a curious man; weak; sensitive; liking45 titles; liking pictures; and often depressed46, she guessed, by his wife’s exuberance47. She pushed the cuttings away and took up her book. It was odd how different the same person seemed to two different people, she thought. There was Martin, liking Eugénie; and she, liking Digby. She began to read.
She had always wanted to know about Christianity — how it began; what it meant, originally. God is love, The kingdom of Heaven is within us, sayings like that she thought, turning over the pages, what did they mean? The actual words were very beautiful. But who said them — when? Then the spout48 of the tea-kettle puffed49 steam at her and she moved it away. The wind was rattling50 the windows in the back room; it was bending the little bushes; they still had no leaves on them. It was what a man said under a fig51 tree, on a hill, she thought. And then another man wrote it down. But suppose that what that man says is just as false as what this man — she touched the press cuttings with her spoon — says about Digby? And here am I, she thought, looking at the china in the Dutch cabinet, in this drawing-room, getting a little spark from what someone said all those years ago — here it comes (the china was changing from blue to livid) skipping over all those mountains, all those seas. She found her place and began to read.
But a sound in the hall interrupted her. Was someone coming in? She listened. No, it was the wind. The wind was terrific. It pressed on the house; gripped it tight, then let it fall apart. Upstairs a door slammed; a window must be open in the bedroom above. A blind was tapping. It was difficult to fix her mind on Renan. She liked it, though. French she could read easily of course; and Italian; and a little German. But what vast gaps there were, what blank spaces, she thought leaning back in her chair, in her knowledge! How little she knew about anything. Take this cup for instance; she held it out in front of her. What was it made of? Atoms? And what were atoms, and how did they stick together? The smooth hard surface of the china with its red flowers seemed to her for a second a marvellous mystery. But there was another sound in the hall. It was the wind, but it was also a voice, talking. It must be Martin. But who could he be talking to, she wondered? She listened, but she could not hear what he was saying because of the wind. And why, she asked herself, did he say We can’t tell a lie to save our souls? He was thinking about himself; one always knew when people were thinking about themselves by their tone of voice. Perhaps he was justifying52 himself for having left the Army. That had been courageous53, she thought; but isn’t it odd, she mused54, listening to the voices, that he should be such a dandy too? He was wearing a new blue suit with white stripes on it. And he had shaved off his moustache. He ought never to have been a soldier, she thought; he was much too pugnacious55. . . . They were still talking. She could not hear what he was saying, but from the sound of his voice it came over her that he must have a great many love affairs. Yes — it became perfectly56 obvious to her, listening to his voice through the door, that he had a great many love affairs. But who with? and why do men think love affairs so important? she asked as the door opened.
“Hullo, Rose!” she exclaimed, surprised to see her sister come in too. “I thought you were in Northumberland!”
“You thought I was in Northumberland!” Rose laughed, kissing her. “But why? I said the eighteenth.”
“But isn’t today the eleventh?” said Eleanor.
“You’re only a week behind the times, Nell,” said Martin.
“Then I must have dated all my letters wrong!” Eleanor exclaimed. She glanced apprehensively57 at her writing-table. The walrus58, with a worn patch in its bristles59, no longer stood there.
“Tea, Rose?” she asked.
“No. It’s a bath I want,” said Rose. She threw off her hat and ran her fingers through her hair.
“You’re looking very well,” said Eleanor, thinking how handsome she looked. But she had a scratch on her chin.
“A positive beauty, isn’t she?” Martin laughed at her.
Rose threw her head up rather like a horse. They always bickered60, Eleanor thought — Martin and Rose. Rose was handsome, but she wished she dressed better. She was dressed in a green hairy coat and skirt with leather buttons, and she carried a shiny bag. She had been holding meetings in the North.
“I want a bath,” Rose repeated. “I’m dirty. And what’s all this?” she said, pointing to the press cuttings on the table. “Oh, Uncle Digby,” she added casually61, pushing them away. He had been dead some months now; they were already yellowish and curled.
“Martin says the house has been sold,” said Eleanor.
“Has it?” she said indifferently. She broke off a piece of cake and began munching62 it. “Spoiling my dinner,” she said. “But I had no time for lunch.”
“What a woman of action she is!” Martin chaffed her.
“And the meetings?” Eleanor asked.
“Yes. What about the North?” said Martin.
They began to discuss politics. She had been speaking at a by- election. A stone had been thrown at her; she put her hand to her chin. But she had enjoyed it.
“I think we gave ’em something to think about,” she said, breaking off another piece of cake.
She ought to have been the soldier, Eleanor thought. She was exactly like the picture of old Uncle Pargiter of Pargiter’s Horse. Martin, now that he had shaved his moustache off and showed his lips, ought to have been — what? Perhaps an architect, she thought. He’s so — she looked up. Now it was hailing. White rods came across the window in the back room. There was a great gust63 of wind; the little bushes blanched64 and bent65 under it. And a window banged upstairs in her mother’s bedroom. Perhaps I ought to go and shut it, she thought. The rain must be coming in.
“Eleanor —“said Rose. “Eleanor”— she repeated.
Eleanor started.
“Eleanor’s broody,” said Martin.
“No, not at all — not at all,” she protested. “What are you talking about?”
“I was asking you,” said Rose. “Do you remember that row when the microscope was broken? Well, I met that boy — that horrid66, ferret- faced boy — Erridge — up in the North.”
“He wasn’t horrid,” said Martin.
“He was,” Rose persisted. “A horrid little sneak67. He pretended that it was I who broke the microscope and it was he who broke it. . . . D’you remember that row?” She turned to Eleanor.
“I don’t remember that row,” said Eleanor. “There were so many,” she added.
“That was one of the worst,” said Martin.
“It was,” said Rose. She pursed her lips together. Some memory seemed to have come back to her. “And after it was over,” she said, turning to Martin, “you came up into the nursery and asked me to go beetling68 with you in the Round Pond. D’you remember?”
She paused. There was something queer about the memory, Eleanor could see. She spoke with a curious intensity69.
“And you said, ‘I’ll ask you three times; and if you don’t answer the third time, I’ll go alone.’ And I swore, ‘I’ll let him go alone.’” Her blue eyes blazed.
“I can see you,” said Martin. “Wearing a pink frock, with a knife in your hand.”
“And you went,” Rose said; she spoke with suppressed vehemence70. “And I dashed into the bathroom and cut this gash”— she held out her wrist. Eleanor looked at it. There was a thin white scar just above the wrist joint71.
When did she do that? Eleanor thought. She could not remember. Rose had locked herself into the bathroom with a knife and cut her wrist. She had known nothing about it. She looked at the white mark. It must have bled.
“Oh, Rose always was a firebrand!” said Martin. He got up. “She always had the devil’s own temper,” he added. He stood for a moment looking round the drawing-room, cluttered72 up with several hideous73 pieces of furniture that he would have got rid of had be been Eleanor, he thought, and forced to live there. But perhaps she did not mind things like that.
“Dining out?” she said. He dined out every night. She would like to have asked him where he was dining.
He nodded without saying anything. He met all sorts of people she did not know, she reflected; and he did not want to talk about them. He had turned to the fireplace.
“That picture wants cleaning,” he said, pointing to the picture of their mother.
“It’s a nice picture,” he added, looking at it critically. “But usen’t there to be a flower in the grass?”
Eleanor looked at it. She had not looked at it, so as to see it, for many years.
“Was there?” she said.
“Yes. A little blue flower,” said Martin. “I can remember it when I was a child. . . . ”
He turned. Some memory from his childhood came over him as he saw Rose sitting there at the tea table with her fist still clenched74. He saw her standing with her back to the school-room door; very red in the face, with her lips tight shut as they were now. She had wanted him to do something. And he had crumpled75 a ball of paper in his hand and shied it at her.
“What awful lives children live!” he said, waving his hand at her as he crossed the room. “Don’t they, Rose?”
“Yes,” said Rose. “And they can’t tell anybody,” she added.
There was another gust and the sound of glass crashing.
“Miss Pym’s conservatory76?” said Martin, pausing with his hand on the door.
“Miss Pym?” said Eleanor. “She’s been dead these twenty years!”
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1
scourging
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| 鞭打( scourge的现在分词 )； 惩罚，压迫 | |
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bleach
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| vt.使漂白；vi.变白；n.漂白剂 | |
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scythe
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| n. 长柄的大镰刀，战车镰； v. 以大镰刀割 | |
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revelling
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| v.作乐( revel的现在分词 )；狂欢；着迷；陶醉 | |
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sterility
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| n.不生育，不结果，贫瘠，消毒，无菌 | |
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ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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isle
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| n.小岛，岛 | |
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derided
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| v.取笑，嘲笑( deride的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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tassels
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| n.穗( tassel的名词复数 )；流苏状物；（植物的）穗；玉蜀黍的穗状雄花v.抽穗， （玉米）长穗须( tassel的第三人称单数 )；使抽穗， （为了使作物茁壮生长）摘去穗状雄花；用流苏装饰 | |
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smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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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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smeared
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| 弄脏； 玷污； 涂抹； 擦上 | |
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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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frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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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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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lethargic
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| adj.昏睡的，懒洋洋的 | |
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inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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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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sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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fraying
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| v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的现在分词 ) | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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engraved
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| v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的过去式和过去分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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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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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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snob
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| n.势利小人，自以为高雅、有学问的人 | |
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43
shearing
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| n.剪羊毛，剪取的羊毛v.剪羊毛( shear的现在分词 )；切断；剪切 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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spout
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| v.喷出，涌出；滔滔不绝地讲；n.喷管；水柱 | |
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puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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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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fig
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| n.无花果(树) | |
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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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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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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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pugnacious
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| adj.好斗的 | |
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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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apprehensively
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| adv.担心地 | |
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walrus
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| n.海象 | |
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bristles
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| 短而硬的毛发，刷子毛( bristle的名词复数 ) | |
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bickered
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| v.争吵( bicker的过去式和过去分词 )；口角；（水等）作潺潺声；闪烁 | |
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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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munching
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的现在分词 ) | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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sneak
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| vt.潜行(隐藏,填石缝)；偷偷摸摸做；n.潜行；adj.暗中进行 | |
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beetling
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| adj.突出的，悬垂的v.快速移动( beetle的现在分词 ) | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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cluttered
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| v.杂物，零乱的东西零乱vt.( clutter的过去式和过去分词 )；乱糟糟地堆满，把…弄得很乱；（以…） 塞满… | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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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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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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conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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