Peter knew himself and her pretty well, and with the admirable contributions she had made to their discussion there was little to puzzle out, but much to appraise8 and estimate. The notion that the news of her engagement had been a blow of any sharp or stunning10 quality could be at once dismissed, for never had he known so well, as when she, earlier in the day, had communicated the news of her engagement to him over the telephone (that was like her), how whole-heartedly he was not in love with her, and how unintelligibly11 alien to him, as she had pointed12 out, was that emotion. During the last year which had witnessed a very decent flowering of intimacy13 between him and her, there had never been, on either side,{22} the least attempt at love-making; their relations had been wholly free from sentiment, and not once had either of them tripped or stuttered over the foreign use of love-language. But in ways wholly unsentimental they had certainly arrived at some extremely close relation of intimacy; there had emphatically been a bond between them, which to his mind her engagement, if it did not actually loosen it, would shift, so to speak, on to a new place; the harness must be worn elsewhere. If it was to be maintained, he, at any rate, must accustom14 himself to its new adjustment. She had defined that comradeship this afternoon in a way that was rather surprising, for the ideal relation of him to her, apparently15, was that of a brother, or, with greater precision, that of a sister. That had not struck him before, but even when first presented, it did not in the least puzzle him. Indeed, it satisfactorily accounted for that elimination16 of sex which had always marked their intimacy. She had not sought the male element in him, nor he in her the female. So far he was in complete agreement with the casual conclusion they had jointly17 arrived at, but at that point Peter detected the presence of something that seemed to show a lurking18 fallacy somewhere. For he had no doubt that if he had been rich, he would before now have proposed to her, and in spite of her provision that, since riches were an attribute of a man and not an external accident, they turned him into a different person, and that thus she could not tell whether she would have accepted him or not, he did not, for himself, believe that she would have hesitated in doing so. Finally, as material to meditate19 upon, came her firm statement that though Peter did not want or intend to marry her, he objected to anybody else doing so. With the extreme frank{23}ness with which he habitually20 judged any criticism on himself, he instantly admitted that there was a great deal to be said for Nellie’s assertion. When it was stated brutally22 like that, he recognized the justice of her outline. She might have made a caricature of him, but her sketch23 contained salient features, the identity of which, as he contemplated24 this scribble25 of her inspired pencil, he could not disclaim26. Without doubt she had caught a likeness27; more tersely28 she had “got him.” Even as he acknowledged that, he felt a resentment29 that she had so unerringly comprehended him, and shown him to himself. He enjoyed, rather than otherwise, his own dissection30 of himself, without bias31 or malice32, but he felt less sure that when Nellie was the dissector33 he welcomed so deft34 an exposure.
The retrospect35 had been sufficiently absorbing to make him unaware36 that, somewhere in Knightsbridge, the top of the bus had become a strenuous37 goal for travellers. Every seat was occupied, and beside him a young man had planted himself in the vacant place and was talking to a girl who had plumped herself into a seat two tiers behind his. Peter instantly jumped up.
“Let me change places with your young lady,” he said, “and then you’ll be together and talk more conveniently.”
The change was made with a tribute of simpering gratitude38 on the part of the “young lady,” and Peter, with laurels39 of popularity round his straw hat, took the single place. He knew perfectly40 well that he had disturbed himself from no motive41 of kindliness42; he did not in the least want to please either the man or the girl. His motive had been only to appear pleasant, to obtain cheaply and fraudulently the certi{24}ficate of being a “kind gentleman.” For himself, he did not care two straws if the pair of sundered43 lovers bawled44 at each other from sundered seats....
And then as he took his new place it struck him that the quality which had prompted the transference of himself from one seat on the top of a bus to another, was precisely45 the same as had led him to resent Nellie’s dissection of him. In the one case his vanity was gratified, in the other his vanity was hurt.
“That’s it,” he said to himself, and mentally he prinked, like a girl, in the glass that had so unerringly shown him to himself. Yet it did not show him an aspect of himself that was in any way surprising, either for pleasure or distaste, for he knew well how prolific46 a spring of native vanity was in him. He would always take an infinity47 of trouble in order to appear admirable, or, on the other hand, to conceal48 what was not so admirable. He would always inconvenience himself in order to appear kind, exert himself to appear amusing, bore himself, while preserving the brightness of an attentive49 and interested eye, in order to confirm his reputation for being sympathetic. But though vanity was the root of such efforts, there was, at any rate, no trace of it in his acknowledgment of it. He never deluded50 himself into thinking that he suffered fools gladly, because he liked them, or desired to secure for them a pleasant half-hour in which they could tediously inflict51 themselves on him; he suffered them with the show of gladness in order to be thought kind and agreeable in the abstract, and in the concrete to pick up the gleanings of welcome and entertainment which, for such as him, lie so thick on the fields of human intercourse52, when the great machines have gone by. He had no reason to complain of these{25} gleanings; there was no one among the youth of London who was more consistently in request, or who more merited his mild harvestings. In a rather fatigued53 and casual generation, tired with the strain of the last five years, and now suddenly brought to book after the irresponsibility of wartime, when for all young men each leave snatched from the scythe54 of the French front might easily be their last, there was a certain license55 given, Peter had always been a shining exception to such slack social conduct of life. He did not, as he had told Nellie, expect much from it, but as long as you were “on tap,” it was undeniably foolish not to present yourself presentably. Your quality was certainly enhanced by a little foam56, a little effervescence. “That nice Mr. Peter, always so polite and pleasant,” was his reward; and at this moment Nellie’s divination57 of his true attitude towards her engagement was his punishment.
The bus hummed and droned along the Brompton Road; there was still a solid stretch before it halted just opposite the side street which was his goal, and there was time to consider her further criticism that he went off, waving his tail, into the wet woods and saying nothing to anybody. What had she meant exactly by that? He had, at any rate, his own consciousness that she had hit on something extremely real and vitally characteristic of him. Surely she meant his aloofness58 from any intimate surrender of himself, the self-sufficiency that neither gave nor sought strong affection. He had acknowledged the vanity as of a be-ribanded cat, and now he added to that his desire for material comfort, a quiet, determined59 selfishness, and the reservation to himself of solitary60 expeditions in the wet woods with a waving tail. Probably she meant no more{26} than that, and though Peter quite acknowledged the justice of these definitions, he again felt a certain resentment against her clear-sightedness. She had a touch of these defects and qualities herself; it was that which made the bond between them.
Peter let himself into his father’s house in the grilling61, dusty street nearly opposite the Oratory62 with the anticipation63 of finding a speedy opportunity for a domestic exhibition of vanity, for he felt sure that something ludicrous or tiresome64 and uncomfortable would await him; something he would certainly tolerate with bland65 serenity66 and agreeableness. The house, the front of which had been baking in the sun all the afternoon, was intolerably hot and stuffy67; the door at the head of the kitchen stairs had, as generally happened, been left open, and the nature of the dinner which would presently ascend68 could be confidently predicted. Beyond, at the back of the hall, the door into his father’s studio was also open, and a languid, odorous tide of oil-paint and Virginian tobacco made a peculiarly deadly combination with kitchen-smells, and indicated that Mr. Mainwaring had been occupied with his audacious labours. Just now he was engaged on the perpetration of a series of cartoons (suitable or not for mural decoration). The practical difficulty, if these ever attained70 completion, would be the discovery of the wall that should be large enough to hold them; indeed, the great wall of China seemed the only destination which, though remote, was sufficiently spacious71. The subject of them was the European war from a psychic72 no less than from a sanguinary point of view, for the series (of which the sketches73 were complete) started with a prodigious74 cartoon which depicted75 Satan whispering odious76 counsels into the ear of the{27} Emperor William II, who wore a smile of bland imperial ambition at the very attractive prospects77 presented by the Father of Lies. In the background an army corps79 of the hosts of Hell stretched from side to side of the picture like some leering, malevolent80 flower-bed. Thereafter the series was to traverse the annals of all kinds of frightfulness81: Zeppelins dropped bombs on Sunday-schools, submarine crews, agape with laughter, shot down the survivors82 from torpedoed83 liners. All these existed only in sketches; the first, however, as Peter knew, was rapidly approaching completion on the monstrous84 scale, and took up the whole end of the studio. Neither Peter nor his mother had as yet been permitted a glimpse of it; the full blast of its withering85 force, so Mr. Mainwaring had planned, was, on completion, to smite86 and stun9 them.
He had heard Peter’s entrance into the house, for an outburst of jubilant yodelling came to the young man’s ears as he put down his hat.
“Tirra lirra, tirra lirra,” sang out the boisterous87 voice. “Is that my Peter? Ha-de-ah-de-ho!”
Peter’s eyebrows88 went up, his mouth slackened to a long sigh, and his slim shoulders shrugged89. But his voice—all of him that at present could convey his mood to his father—was brisk and cordial.
“Hallo, father,” he said. “Do you want me?”
“Yes, my dear; come in a moment. I have something to show you.”
Peter closed the door of the kitchen stairs and went into the studio. His father was standing90 high on a stepladder in front of his canvas, dashing the last opulent brushful of sombre colour on to the thundercloud which, portending91 war, formed so effective a background of Prussian blue to the Empero{28}r’s head. He painted with swoops92 and dashes; such things as “finish” were out of place in designs for the wall of China.... Even as Peter entered he skipped down from the steps of the ladder and laid aside his palette and brushes.
“Finito, e ben finito!” he cried. “Congratulate me, my Peter! I made the last stroke as you entered, an added horror—is it not so?—in that cloud. Ha! You have not seen it yet; sit down and drink it in for five minutes. Does it make you hot and miserable93 to look at? Yes, you’ll see more of that cloud and of what it holds for distracted Europe before I come to the end of my cartoons. Bombs and torpedoes94 are in that cloud, my Peter; devastation95 and destruction and damnation!”
He struck a splendid attitude in front of the tremendous canvas, and with a sweep of his hand caused his thick crop of long, grey hair to stand out in billows round his head. Physically96, as regards height and fineness of feature, Peter certainly owed a good deal to his father, for John Mainwaring’s head—with its waves of hair, its high colour, its rich exuberance97—was like some fine manuscript now enriched with gilt98 and florid illuminations, of which Peter was, so to speak, the neat, delicate text unadorned by these flamboyant100 additions. Peter’s vanity, doubtless, came from the same paternal101 strain, for never was there anyone more superbly conscious of his own supreme102 merits than his father. Highly ornamental103, he knew that his mission was not only to adorn99 the palace of art with his work, but to enlighten the dimness of the world with his blazing presence. Like most men who are possessed104 of extraordinary belief in themselves, of high colour and exuberant105 spirits, he was liable to accesses of profound gloom, when, with magnificent{29} gestures, he would strike his forehead and wail106 over his own wasted life and the futility107 of human endeavour. These attacks, which were very artistic108 and studied performances, chiefly assailed109 him when the Royal Academy had intimated that some stupendous canvas of his awaited removal before varnishing110 day. Then, with bewildering rapidity, his spirits would mount to unheard-of altitudes again, and, brush in hand, he would exclaim that he asked no more of the world than to allow him to pursue his art unrecognized and unhonoured, like Millet111 or Corot. His temperament112, in fact, was that of some boisterous spring day which, opening with bright sunshine, turns to snow in the middle of the afternoon, and draws to a close in lambent serenity; and whether exalted113, depressed114, or normal, he was simply, though slangily, the prince of “bounders.”
He clapped his hand on Peter’s shoulder.
“I need not point out to you the merits, or, indeed, the defects of my composition,” he said, “for my Peter inherits something of his father’s perceptions. Look at it then once more and tell me if my picture recalls to you the method, even, perhaps, the inspiration of any master not, like me, unknown to fame. Who, my boy, if we allow ourselves for a moment to believe in psychic possession, who, I ask you—or, rather, to cast my sentence differently—to whom do I owe the realization115 of terror, of menace, of spiritual horror, which, ever so faintly, smoulders in my canvas?”
He folded his arms, awaiting a reply, and Peter cudgelled his brains in order to make his answer as agreeable as possible. The name of Blake occurred to him, but he remembered that of late his father had been apt to decry116 this artist for poverty of de{30}sign and failure to render emotional vastness. Then, with great good luck, his eye fell on some photographic reproductions from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel117 that decorated the wall of the studio, and he felt he had guessed right.
“No one but Michael Angelo,” he said. “That’s all the influence I can see, father.”
Mr. Mainwaring rested his chin on his hand and was gazing at his work with frowning, seer-like scrutiny118. It was difficult to realize that it was he who had yodelled so jubilantly just now.
“Curious that you should have said that, Peter,” he said in a deep, dreamy voice. “For days past, as I worked, it has seemed to me that M.A.—Master of Art, as well as Michael Angelo, note you—that M.A. was standing by me. At times, indeed, it seemed that not I, but another, controlled my brush. I do not say he approved, no, no; that he was pleased with me; but he was there, my boy. So, if there is any merit in my work, I beseech119 you to attribute it not to me but to him. It was as if I was in a trance....”
He closed his eyes for a moment and bowed his head, and then, as if at the last “Amen” of some solemn service, he came out of the dim cathedral into sunlight.
“Your mother!” he said. “We must not forget her in this great moment. Is she in? Tirra lirra! Ha-de-ah-de-ho! My own!”
He pranced120 to the door, ringing the bell, as he passed, and repeated his yodelling cries. From upstairs a quiet, thin voice gave some flat echo of his salutation; from below a hot parlourmaid opened the door of the kitchen stairs and set free a fresh gale121 of roastings.{31}
“Three glasses,” he said to the latter. “Three glasses, please, and the decanter of port. Maria mia! Come down, my dear, and, if you love me, keep shut your lustrous122 eyes and take my hand, and I will guide you to the place I reserve for you. So! Eyes shut and no cheating!”
Mrs. Mainwaring, small in stature123, with a porcelain124 neatness about her as of a Dresden shepherdess, suffered herself to be led into the studio, preserving the scrupulous125 honesty of closed eyelids126. By her side her rococo127 husband looked more than ever like some preposterous128 dancing-master, and if it was correct to attribute to him Peter’s inherited vanity, it was equally right to derive129 from the young man’s mother that finish and precision which characterized his movements and his manners. Easily, too, though with a shade more subtlety130, a psychologist might have conjectured131 where Peter’s habit of walking in the wet woods and telling nobody was derived132 from, for it was not hard to guess that Mrs. Mainwaring’s tranquil133 self-possession, her smiling, serene134 indulgence of her husband’s whim135, was the result of a quality firm and deeply rooted. Self-repression had, perhaps, become a habit, for her conduct seemed quite effortless; but in that tight, thin-lipped mouth, gently smiling, there was something inscrutably independent. She was like that, secret and self-contained, because she chose to be like that; her serenity, her collectedness, were the mask she chose to wear. Thus, probably, Peter’s inheritance from her was of more durable136 stuff than the vanity he owed to his father, for how, if his mother had not been somehow adamantine, could she have lived for nearly a quarter of a century with this flamboyant partner, and yet have neither imbibed137 one bubble of his effer{32}vescence nor lost any grain of her own restraint? Indeed, she must have been like some piece of quartz138 for ever dashed along by the turbulence139 of his impetuous flood, and yet all the effect that this buffeting140 and bruising141 had produced on her had been but to polish and harden her. She went precisely where the current dashed her, but remained solid and small and impenetrable.
Such was her relation to the bounding extravagance of her husband; he swept her along, quite unresisting, but never parting from her self-contained integrity, and all his whirlings and waterfalls had never stripped one atom off her nor roughened her surface. To him she appeared transparently142 clear, though, as a matter of fact, not only had he never seen into her, but, actually, he had never seen her at all. He bounced her about, demanding now homage143, when the exuberance of creation was his, now sympathy when the rejection144 of a picture by the Royal Academy made him a despairing pessimist145; but she never varied146 with his feverish147 temperature, and on the surface, at any rate, remained of an unchangeable coolness. His trumpets148 never intoxicated149 her small, pink ear; his despair of himself and the world in general never came within measurable distance of sullying her serenity, any more than a thunderstorm disturbs the effulgence150 of a half-moon that neither waxes nor wanes151. She still continued calmly shining behind his clouds, as was obvious when those clouds had discharged their violence. John Mainwaring never dreamed of considering what, possibly, might lie below that finished surface; it was enough for him that she should always be ready to pay a scentless152 homage to his achievements, or sit quietly like a fixed153 star above the clouds of despair{33} that occasionally darkened his day. She was “Maria mia, my beloved,” when he was pleased with himself, and, when otherwise, it was enough that she should repeat at intervals154: “Fancy their rejecting your picture. I am sure there are hundreds in the exhibition not half so good.”
To Peter she was an enigma155 to which he never now attempted or desired to find the key. She seemed to him quite impervious156 to external influences behind that high wall of her reserve. Nothing, so far as he knew, roused emotion in her; nothing excited, nothing depressed her. Sometimes, when a boy, he had gone to her with a trouble to confide69, and she would say: “How tiresome for you, dear,” and perhaps suggest some sensible course of action. But neither his troubles nor her own (if she had any) seemed to touch her emotions; while, on the other hand, if there was something agreeable to communicate, if his father sold a picture, or Peter had the announcement of promotion157 in the Foreign Office, her sympathy and pleasure (if she felt any) were just as iced as her condolence had been. The event—to Peter’s apprehension—that most had power to move her was the fact that somebody had left open the door at the top of the kitchen stairs. When that was “quite shut,” and when all household cares had their sunset after dinner, her habitual21 mode of self-employment was to read a page or two of a novel (returning it to the library next day) and then to take some sort of railway guide and scan the advertisements of hotels situated158 in agreeable places on the south coast or among the Derbyshire Highlands. Often and often had Peter returned from dinner to find his mother thus employed. His father, when in the throes of creation, went early to bed in order to{34} be fresh and spry for the light of the morning hours; but she slept badly, and slept best if she went late to bed. There she would be then when Peter latch-keyed himself into the house on his return from dining out, or even, occasionally, when he returned far later from a dance, with the Bradshaw in her hand open among the advertisements of hotels. She would put a paper-knife in the leaves to keep her place while she exchanged a few words with him; then, when he went to bed, she would resume her reading. Quite naturally and warrantably he had always considered this a “sad narcotic159 exercise” on her part, producing, it was to be hoped, the drowsiness160 which she was wooing. A more promising161 device for dulling the activity of the brain, than reading about unknown hotels at unvisited places, could hardly be desired, and so reasonable a process provoked no curiosity on his part.
But the door at the top of the kitchen stairs was the most active of her interests, and took precedence in her mind of any mood of her husband’s. So when to-day he led her with a prancing162 processional movement to a throne of Spanish brocade at a suitable focusing distance from the finished cartoon, she, with nostrils163 open though with shut eyes, gave the door to the kitchen stairs the first claim on her attention.
“That door has been left open again,” she said. “How careless Burrows164 is! Please shut it, my dear. I will keep my eyes tightly shut.”
It struck Peter at this moment that both he and his mother treated his father as if he had been a child. They both played his games, treating them with due seriousness, lest they should damp the excited pleasure of the young. She was playing now{35} without collusion, for, led in as she had been, with closed eyes, she had no idea that Peter was present. Then, faintly up the kitchen stairs came the jingle165 of the glasses, and Burrows entered with the tray that had been ordered, once more leaving that fatal door agape. By some exercise of domestic intuition Mrs. Mainwaring divined the sort of thing going on round her, and with eyes still honourably166 closed said:
“Be sure you close the door at the top of the stairs, Burrows, when you go down again.”
John Mainwaring, with a wealth of gesticulation in order to enjoin167 silence on Peter, and with much stealthiness of action, completed his festive168 preparations. Demanding from his wife steadiness of hand and no questions, he thrust between her fingers a brimming glass of port, took one himself, and filled a third for Peter. In obedience169 to his pantomime Peter stood on one side of his enthroned mother and elevated his glass.
“Open your dear blue eyes, Maria mia!” exclaimed John Mainwaring, “and before you say a single word drink to your husband’s offering to Art!”
Mrs. Mainwaring opened her eyes, and found as she had already guessed from previous experience, her brimming glass.
“I couldn’t possibly drink all that, my dear,” she said, “but I will sip170 it with pleasure before I say anything. There! Dear me, what a fine great picture! All success to it! So that’s what has kept you so busy all these days when I wasn’t allowed to come into your studio. Oh, there’s Peter! Are you going to dine at home, dear? I thought you said you were going out.{36}”
“I’ve only come home to dress,” said he.
“I see. Now let me look at your father’s picture. Why, there’s the German Emperor! And what a quantity of other people. Dear me! And who is that whispering to the Emperor? What a horrid171 expression he has!”
The artist drank his glass of port at a gulp172, and at another the rest of hers.
“Horrid? I should think it was. If you had said devilish you would have been even more on the bullseye. Now you shall be our Molière’s housemaid. Speak, voice of the British public! Tell me and Peter what you see before you.”
Mrs. Mainwaring, with the aid of her glasses, and the slight hint already given, was perfectly certain that it must be Satan who was whispering to the Emperor, and that all those dreadful faces behind must have something to do with him. Then there was that huge dark cloud in the background.
“The Emperor and Satan,” she said with a sort of placid173 excitement, like an adult trying to guess a child’s riddle174. “Now wait a minute, my dear. Yes, I’m sure that dreadful thundercloud behind is the war, and if the Emperor wouldn’t listen to Satan it would go away. But he’s looking pleased and proud; he is listening. I suspect that Satan is telling him that he will win the war and be Emperor of the earth, as you’ve always said he would have been if the Germans had won. Well, I do think it’s clever of you to have made me think of all that. Such a few weeks, too, to paint such a big picture! How well you kept your secret! You only told me that you were very busy, and that I mustn’t come into your studio. I never thought that when you allowed me in again I should see anything so{37} large and remarkable175. Most striking! Isn’t it, Peter?”
“Splendid!” said Peter. Then he wondered if he had put enough conviction into his voice to satisfy the gourmandise of his father.
“Quite splendid!” he said, rather louder.
Then it was Mrs. Mainwaring’s turn in this game.
“And it’s only the first of a series,” said she. “You must send it to some exhibition at once, John, in order to make room for the rest. So large, is it not? It fills up all the end of the studio. Such an important picture. Dear me, how wicked the Emperor looks! And what will the next picture be?”
“War. Picture of war. Allegorical. Shells bursting into shapes of devilish malignity176.”
He leaned on the back of the throne, regarding the picture intently.
“It will kill me, painting the rest of them,” he said with a fell intensity177. “I’ve got to go through the hell of it all myself before I can paint them.”
The calm of Mrs. Mainwaring’s voice was untouched by this gloomy prospect78.
“No, dear, it won’t kill you,” she said consolingly. “That’s your artistic temperament. You will have a good holiday afterwards. You must be sure to do that. I see; the other pictures will all come out of that dreadful thundercloud. Such a poetical178 idea! And I hope you’ll have a picture of Peace for the last one. Everything quite serene again, and the thundercloud vanished, and no Emperor at all, unless you paint a very little figure of him in the background to show how small he has become. Just him in the background, somewhere in Holland.”
John Mainwaring left his domestic position, lean{38}ing on the throne, and strode up and down the studio.
“Ah, that intolerable happy ending!” he said. “That’s the convention that spoils all art. Art’s a stern, bitter business; you mustn’t expect to find a bit of sugar at the bottom of your cup. Art, as the Greeks said, is meant to move pity and terror.”
Mrs. Mainwaring stepped from her throne.
“Well, I shall think of a peaceful picture for myself, then,” she said, “and when I have looked at all yours I shall imagine my own. After all, the war is over, and it’s had a happy ending for us, since the Germans have been beaten and Peter has come back from it all safe and sound. That’s my ending.”
He projected his fine grey hair again with a dexterous179 sweep of the hand.
“Well, well,” he said, as if he was an adult playing with a child, whereas certainly the relation was the other way about. “I will do my best for you, Maria. But I make no promise, mind. Remember that.”
As Peter started off again for the various entertainments of the evening he tried to imagine himself in serious sympathy with either of his parents, and ruinously failed. Beginning with his father, he surveyed with the critical clear-sightedness of his terribly sensible nature those hysterical180 daubings of paint, those mysteries as to what his father was engaged on, those prancing port wine ceremonies when his labour was finished, that crystal confidence, never clouded, in the worth of his fatuous181 achievements. Long ago it had soaked into his soul that his father was a magnificent buffoon182, who, decking himself in the habiliments of Hamlet, had no idea that instead{39} of being engaged in heroic drama, he was a figure in a farce183 so outrageous184 that you could not really laugh at him; you could only marvel185. Had his pictures, every one of them, been masterpieces, his own enthusiasm over them would have verged186 on the grotesque187. As it was they were preposterous and childish performances, inspiring the observer with pity and terror for the perpetrator rather than, in the sense of Aristotle, whom his father so often quoted, for the works themselves. How was it possible to feel sympathy with one whose impenetrable egoism burned radiantly unconsumed like that? Yet, while he rejected that possibility, Peter found himself somehow envying the temperament that transmuted188 life for its owner into an endless orgy and carouse189. Even the deepest despairs into which reaction plunged190 his father were psychical191 feasts to him, served up with the same sauce of transcendental egoism as were his raptures192. That was like some pungent193 essential oil of so ammoniacal an aroma194 that it pervaded195 its whole accessible atmosphere. No neutral quality on the part of others, no individual indifference196 was permitted to exist, or, if it existed, it was either wholly unnoticed or, if noticed, sublimely197 pitied. Peter’s father, so it struck the young man, galloped198 through life “like a ramping199 and a roaring lion,” the king of the beasts.
It was no manner of good to attempt to sympathize with so predatory an animal, and from the thought of his father Peter switched off to the thought of his mother, who was the habitual prey200. There he was confronted with the mild enigma, of which he had not the faintest comprehension, and for the hundredth time, guessing out of a dubious201, incurious twilight202, he wondered if there was, could be, any{40}thing to comprehend. He tried to sum up his knowledge of her. She ordered dinner, she wore day and night some family inheritance of her own of splendid pearls, she read advertisements in railway guides of hotels on Cornish Rivieras and Derbyshire Switzerlands. That she should order dinner and wear her own pearls was an accidental happening, because she was mistress of a house and had some pearls, but beyond that she receded2, as far as Peter was concerned, into a dreamland without logic203. Indeed, as he devoted204 his mind to her now, the most illogical thing about her was that for twenty-three years she had contrived205 to live with his father, and had preserved a certain personality of her own. It seemed frankly206 impossible that anyone who had lived so long with that maniacal207 egoist should not have been in any way affected208 by him. But there she was. His father had neither crushed her nor vitalized her, and whatever her real personality might be, Peter felt sure that the ramping and the roaring lion had not invaded an atom of it. If his father sustained himself on the flamboyance209 of his own existence, she, none the less, was self-sufficient, demanding neither sympathy nor comprehension from others. The chasm210 that yawned between himself and his father was a mere211 rabbit-scrape compared to the abyss on the other side of which there sat his mother, delicate and immovable, covered with hoar frost and decked with her pearls, and reading her railway guide.
Peter owed that deep-seated vanity of his to his father; to his mother he owed that aloofness which was no less characteristic of him. But to himself he seemed to have nothing to do with either of them; they both appeared to him to be distant and ancient{41} phenomena212, and he waved a mild salutation to them as acknowledgment of the debt of his own existence. Between them they had projected him, but his own individuality swamped that as completely as his father’s egoism drowned all other flavours. Was it always like that nowadays? Were all the last generation so far sundered from the adolescent present as he from his father and mother?... Was there a new plan of life, a new outlook, a new everything?
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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receded
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的过去式和过去分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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4
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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5
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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6
alacrity
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| n.敏捷，轻快，乐意 | |
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7
meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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8
appraise
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| v.估价，评价，鉴定 | |
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9
stun
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| vt.打昏，使昏迷，使震惊，使惊叹 | |
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10
stunning
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| adj.极好的；使人晕倒的 | |
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11
unintelligibly
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| 难以理解地 | |
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12
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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13
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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14
accustom
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| vt.使适应，使习惯 | |
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15
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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16
elimination
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| n.排除，消除，消灭 | |
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17
jointly
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| ad.联合地，共同地 | |
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18
lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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19
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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20
habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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21
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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22
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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23
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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24
contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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25
scribble
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| v.潦草地书写，乱写，滥写；n.潦草的写法，潦草写成的东西，杂文 | |
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26
disclaim
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| v.放弃权利，拒绝承认 | |
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27
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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28
tersely
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| adv. 简捷地, 简要地 | |
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29
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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30
dissection
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| n.分析；解剖 | |
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31
bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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32
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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33
dissector
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| n.解剖者，解剖学家，解剖器 | |
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34
deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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35
retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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36
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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37
strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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38
gratitude
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|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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39
laurels
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| n.桂冠，荣誉 | |
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40
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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41
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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42
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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43
sundered
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| v.隔开，分开( sunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
bawled
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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45
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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46
prolific
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| adj.丰富的，大量的；多产的，富有创造力的 | |
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47
infinity
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| n.无限，无穷，大量 | |
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48
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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49
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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50
deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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52
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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53
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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54
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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55
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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56
foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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57
divination
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| n.占卜，预测 | |
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58
aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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59
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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60
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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61
grilling
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| v.烧烤( grill的现在分词 )；拷问，盘问 | |
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62
oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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63
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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64
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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65
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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66
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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67
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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68
ascend
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|
| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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69
confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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70
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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71
spacious
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|
| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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72
psychic
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| n.对超自然力敏感的人；adj.有超自然力的 | |
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73
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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74
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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75
depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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76
odious
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|
| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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77
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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78
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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79
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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80
malevolent
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|
| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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81
frightfulness
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| 可怕； 丑恶； 讨厌； 恐怖政策 | |
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82
survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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83
torpedoed
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| 用鱼雷袭击（torpedo的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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84
monstrous
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|
| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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85
withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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86
smite
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| v.重击；彻底击败；n.打；尝试；一点儿 | |
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87
boisterous
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|
| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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88
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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89
shrugged
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|
| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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90
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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91
portending
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| v.预示( portend的现在分词 )；预兆；给…以警告；预告 | |
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92
swoops
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| 猛扑，突然下降( swoop的名词复数 ) | |
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93
miserable
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|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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94
torpedoes
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| 鱼雷( torpedo的名词复数 )； 油井爆破筒； 刺客； 掼炮 | |
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95
devastation
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| n.毁坏；荒废；极度震惊或悲伤 | |
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96
physically
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|
| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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97
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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98
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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99
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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100
flamboyant
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| adj.火焰般的，华丽的，炫耀的 | |
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101
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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102
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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103
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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104
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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105
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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106
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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107
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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108
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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109
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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110
varnishing
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| 在（某物）上涂清漆( varnish的现在分词 ) | |
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111
millet
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| n.小米，谷子 | |
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112
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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113
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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114
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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115
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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116
decry
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| v.危难，谴责 | |
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117
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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118
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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119
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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120
pranced
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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122
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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123
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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124
porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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125
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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126
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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127
rococo
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| n.洛可可；adj.过分修饰的 | |
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128
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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129
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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130
subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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131
conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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132
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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133
tranquil
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|
| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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134
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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135
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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136
durable
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| adj.持久的，耐久的 | |
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137
imbibed
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| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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138
quartz
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| n.石英 | |
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139
turbulence
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| n.喧嚣，狂暴，骚乱，湍流 | |
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140
buffeting
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| 振动 | |
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141
bruising
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| adj.殊死的；十分激烈的v.擦伤(bruise的现在分词形式) | |
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142
transparently
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| 明亮地，显然地，易觉察地 | |
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143
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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144
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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145
pessimist
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| n.悲观者；悲观主义者；厌世 | |
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146
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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147
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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148
trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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149
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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150
effulgence
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| n.光辉 | |
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151
wanes
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| v.衰落( wane的第三人称单数 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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152
scentless
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| adj.无气味的，遗臭已消失的 | |
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153
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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154
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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155
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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156
impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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157
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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158
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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159
narcotic
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| n.麻醉药，镇静剂；adj.麻醉的，催眠的 | |
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160
drowsiness
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| n.睡意；嗜睡 | |
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161
promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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162
prancing
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| v.（马）腾跃( prance的现在分词 ) | |
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163
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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164
burrows
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| n.地洞( burrow的名词复数 )v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的第三人称单数 )；翻寻 | |
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165
jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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166
honourably
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| adv.可尊敬地，光荣地，体面地 | |
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167
enjoin
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| v.命令；吩咐；禁止 | |
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168
festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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169
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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170
sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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171
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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172
gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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173
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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174
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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175
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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176
malignity
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| n.极度的恶意，恶毒；（病的）恶性 | |
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177
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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178
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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179
dexterous
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| adj.灵敏的；灵巧的 | |
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180
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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181
fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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182
buffoon
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| n.演出时的丑角 | |
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183
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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184
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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185
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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186
verged
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| 接近，逼近（verge的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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187
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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188
transmuted
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| v.使变形，使变质，把…变成…( transmute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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189
carouse
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| v.狂欢；痛饮；n.狂饮的宴会 | |
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190
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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191
psychical
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| adj.有关特异功能现象的；有关特异功能官能的；灵魂的；心灵的 | |
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192
raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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193
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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194
aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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195
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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196
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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197
sublimely
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| 高尚地，卓越地 | |
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198
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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199
ramping
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| 土堤斜坡( ramp的现在分词 )； 斜道； 斜路； （装车或上下飞机的）活动梯 | |
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200
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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201
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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202
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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203
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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204
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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205
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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206
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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207
maniacal
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| adj.发疯的 | |
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208
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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209
flamboyance
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| n.火红；艳丽；炫耀 | |
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210
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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211
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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212
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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