It was that there was nothing there. If there had been anything, reading so attentively1, such an odd subject as Spanish literature, she would have gathered some sort of vague impression. But in all the close pages of cramped2 cruel pointed3 handwriting she had gleaned4 nothing at all. Not a single fact or idea; only Mr. Lahitte; a voice like an empty balloon...... The lecture was a fraud. He was. How far did he know this? Thinking of the audience, those few who could learn quickly enough to follow his voice, waiting and waiting for something but strings5 of superlatives, the same ones again and again, until the large hall became a prison and the defiant6 yellow-grey form a tormenter, and their impatience7 and
restlessness turned to hatred8 and despair, she pitied him. Perhaps he had not read Spanish literature. But he must have consulted numbers of books about it, and that was much more than most people did. But what could she do? She glanced at her little page of notes.... Break up sentences. Use participles instead of which. Vary adjectives. Have gaps and pauses here and there. Sometimes begin further off. What is picaresque? They had been written enthusiastically, seeming like inspirations, in the first pages, before she had discovered the whole of the nothingness. Now they were only alterations9 that were not worth making; helping10 an imposition and being paid for it......
Stopford Brooke ... lecturing on Browning ... blissful moonface with a fringe of white hair, talking and talking, like song and prayer and politics, the past and the present showing together, Browning at the centre of life and outside it all over the world, and seeing forward to the future. Perfect quotations11, short and long, and the end with the long description of Pompilia ...... rising and spreading and ceasing, not ending ... standing12 out alive in the midst of a world still shaped by the same truths going on and on. “A marvellous piece of analysis.” He had been waiting to say that to the other young man.
Introduce their philosophies of life, if any, she wrote; introduce quotations. But there was no time; quotations would have to be translated. Nothing could be done. The disaster was completely arranged. There was no responsibility.
She gathered the accepted pages neatly14 together and began pencilling in improvements.
...... The pencilled sentences made a pleasant wandering decoration. The earlier ones were forgotten and unfamiliar15. Re-read now, they surprised her. How had she thought of them? She had not thought of them. She had been closely following something, and they had come, quietly, in the midst of engrossment; but they were like a photograph, funny in their absurd likeness16, set there side by side with the photograph of Mr. Lahitte. They were alive, gravely, after the manner of her graver self. It was a curious marvel13, a revelation irrevocably put down, reflecting a certain sort of character ..... more oneself than anything that could be done socially, together with others, and yet not herself at all, but something mysterious, drawn17 uncalculatingly from some fund of common consent, part of a separate impersonal18 life she had now unconsciously confessed herself as sharing. She remained bent19 motionless in the attitude of writing, to discover the quality of her strange state. The morning was raw with dense20 fog; at her Wimpole Street ledgers21 she would by this time have been cramped with cold; but she felt warm and tingling22 with life as if she had been dancing, or for a long while in happy social contact; yet so differently; deeply and serenely23 alive and without the blank anxious looking for the continuance of social excitement. This something would continue, it was in herself, independently. It was as if there were someone with her in the room, peopling her solitude24 and bringing close
around her all her past solitudes25, as if it were their secret. They greeted her; justified26. Never again, so long as she could sit at work and lose herself to awake with the season forgotten and all the circumstances of her life coming back fresh leaping, as if narrated27 from the fascinating life of someone else, would they puzzle or reproach her.
She drew her first page of general suggestions written so long ago that they already seemed to belong to some younger self, and copied them in ink. The sound of the pen shattered the silence like sudden speech. She listened entranced. The little strange sound was the living voice of the brooding presence. She copied each phrase in a shape that set them like a poem in the middle of the page, with even spaces between a wide uniform margin28; not quite in the middle; the lower margin was wider than the upper; the poem wanted another line. She turned to the manuscript listening intently to the voice of Mr. Lahitte pouring forth29 his sentences, and with a joyous30 rush penetrated31 the secret of its style. It was artificial. There was the last line of the poem summing up all the rest. Avoid, she wrote, searching; some word was coming; it was in her mind, muffled32, almost clear; avoid—it flashed through and away, just missed. She recalled sentences that had filled her with hopeless fury, examining them curiously33, without anger. Avoid ornate alias34. So that was it! Just those few minutes glancing through the pages standing by the table while the patient talked about her jolly, noisy, healthy, thoroughly35 wicked little kid, and now remembering every point
he had made ..... extraordinary. But this was life! These strange unconsciously noticed things, living on in one, coming together at the right moment, part of a reality.
Rising from the table she found her room strange, the new room she had entered on the day of her arrival. She remembered drawing the cover from the table by the window and finding the ink-stains. There they were in the warm bright circle of mid-morning lamplight, showing between the scattered36 papers. The years that had passed were a single short interval37 leading to the restoration of that first moment. Everything they contained centred there; her passage through them, the desperate graspings and droppings, had been a coming back. Nothing would matter now that the paper-scattered lamp-lit circle was established as the centre of life. Everything would be an everlastingly38 various joyful39 coming back. Held up by this secret place, drawing her energy from it, any sort of life would do that left this room and its little table free and untouched.
点击收听单词发音
1 attentively | |
adv.聚精会神地;周到地;谛;凝神 | |
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2 cramped | |
a.狭窄的 | |
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3 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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4 gleaned | |
v.一点点地收集(资料、事实)( glean的过去式和过去分词 );(收割后)拾穗 | |
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5 strings | |
n.弦 | |
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6 defiant | |
adj.无礼的,挑战的 | |
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7 impatience | |
n.不耐烦,急躁 | |
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8 hatred | |
n.憎恶,憎恨,仇恨 | |
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9 alterations | |
n.改动( alteration的名词复数 );更改;变化;改变 | |
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10 helping | |
n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的,辅助的 | |
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11 quotations | |
n.引用( quotation的名词复数 );[商业]行情(报告);(货物或股票的)市价;时价 | |
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12 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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13 marvel | |
vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异;n.令人惊异的事 | |
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14 neatly | |
adv.整洁地,干净地,灵巧地,熟练地 | |
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15 unfamiliar | |
adj.陌生的,不熟悉的 | |
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16 likeness | |
n.相像,相似(之处) | |
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17 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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18 impersonal | |
adj.无个人感情的,与个人无关的,非人称的 | |
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19 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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20 dense | |
a.密集的,稠密的,浓密的;密度大的 | |
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21 ledgers | |
n.分类账( ledger的名词复数 ) | |
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22 tingling | |
v.有刺痛感( tingle的现在分词 ) | |
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23 serenely | |
adv.安详地,宁静地,平静地 | |
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24 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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25 solitudes | |
n.独居( solitude的名词复数 );孤独;荒僻的地方;人迹罕至的地方 | |
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26 justified | |
a.正当的,有理的 | |
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27 narrated | |
v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28 margin | |
n.页边空白;差额;余地,余裕;边,边缘 | |
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29 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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30 joyous | |
adj.充满快乐的;令人高兴的 | |
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31 penetrated | |
adj. 击穿的,鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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32 muffled | |
adj.(声音)被隔的;听不太清的;(衣服)裹严的;蒙住的v.压抑,捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 );用厚厚的衣帽包着(自己) | |
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33 curiously | |
adv.有求知欲地;好问地;奇特地 | |
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34 alias | |
n.化名;别名;adv.又名 | |
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35 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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36 scattered | |
adj.分散的,稀疏的;散步的;疏疏落落的 | |
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37 interval | |
n.间隔,间距;幕间休息,中场休息 | |
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38 everlastingly | |
永久地,持久地 | |
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39 joyful | |
adj.欢乐的,令人欢欣的 | |
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