These battlements, she thought, considering them, would have been a perfect place for her to pace up and down gently in moments when she least felt the need of her stick, or to sit in on the marble seat, having first put a cushion on it, if there had not unfortunately been a second glass door opening on to them, destroying their complete privacy, spoiling her feeling that the place was only for her. The second door belonged to the round drawing-room, which both she and Lady Caroline had rejected as too dark. That room would probably be sat in by the women from Hampstead, and she was afraid they would not confine themselves to sitting in it, but would come out through the glass door and invade her battlements. This would ruin the battlements. It would ruin them as far as she was concerned if they were to be overrun; or even if, not actually overrun, they were liable to be raked by the eyes of persons inside the room. No one could be perfectly8 at ease if they were being watched and knew it. What she wanted, what she surely had a right to, was privacy. She had no wish to intrude9 on the others; why then should they intrude on her? And she could always relax her privacy if, when she became better acquainted with her companions, she should think it worth while, but she doubted whether any of the three would so develop as to make her think it worth while.
Hardly anything was really worth while, reflected Mrs. Fisher, except the past. It was astonishing, it was simply amazing, the superiority of the past to the present. Those friends of hers in London, solid persons of her own age, knew the same past that she knew, could talk about it with her, could compare it as she did with the tinkling10 present, and in remembering great men forget for a moment the trivial and barren young people who still, in spite of the war, seemed to litter the world in such numbers. She had not come away from these friends, these conversable ripe friends, in order to spend her time in Italy chatting with three persons of another generation and defective11 experience; she had come away merely to avoid the treacheries of a London April. It was true what she had told the two who came to Prince of Wales Terrace, that all she wished to do at San Salvatore was to sit by herself in the sun and remember. They knew this, for she had told them. It had been plainly expressed and clearly understood. Therefore she had a right to expect them to stay inside the round drawing-room and not to emerge interruptingly on to her battlements.
But would they? The doubt spoilt her morning. It was only towards lunch-time that she saw a way to be quite safe, and ringing for Francesca, bade her, in slow and majestic12 Italian, shut the shutters13 of the glass door of the round drawing-room, and then, going with her into the room, which had become darker than ever in consequence, but also, Mrs. Fisher observed to Francesca, who was being voluble, would because of this very darkness remain agreeably cool, and after all there were the numerous slit-windows in the walls to let in light and it was nothing to do with her if they did not let it in, she directed the placing of a cabinet of curios across the door on its inside.
This would discourage egress14.
Then she rang for Domenico, and caused him to move one of the flower-filled sarcophagi across the door on its outside.
This would discourage ingress.
"No one," said Domenico, hesitating, "will be able to use the door."
"No one," said Mrs. Fisher firmly, "will wish to."
She then retired15 to her sitting-room1, and from a chair placed where she could look straight on to them, gazed at her battlements, secured to her now completely, with calm pleasure.
Being here, she reflected placidly16, was much cheaper than being in an hotel and, if she could keep off the others, immeasurably more agreeable. She was paying for her rooms—extremely pleasant rooms, now that she was arranged in them—￡3 a week, which came to about eight shillings a day, battlements, watch-tower and all. Where else abroad could she live as well for so little, and have as many baths as she like, for eight shillings a day? Of course she did not yet know what her food would cost, but she would insist on carefulness over that, though she would also insist on its being carefulness combined with excellence17. The two were perfectly compatible if the caterer18 took pains. The servants' wages, she had ascertained19, were negligible, owing to the advantageous20 exchange, so that there was only the food to cause her anxiety. If she saw signs of extravagance she would propose that they each hand over a reasonable sum every week to Lady Caroline which should cover the bills, any of it that was not used to be returned, and if it were exceeded the loss to be borne by the caterer.
Mrs. Fisher was well off and had the desire for comforts proper to her age, but she disliked expenses. So well off was she that, had she so chosen, she could have lived in an opulent part of London and driven from it and to it in a Rolls-Royce. She had no such wish. It needed more vitality21 than went with true comfort to deal with a house in an opulent spot and a Rolls-Royce. Worries attended such possessions, worries of every kind, crowned by bills. In the sober gloom of Prince of Wales Terrace she could obscurely enjoy inexpensive yet real comfort, without being snatched at by predatory men-servants or collectors for charities, and a taxi stand was at the end of the road. Her annual outlay22 was small. The house was inherited. Death had furnished it for her. She trod in the dining-room on the Turkey carpet of her fathers; she regulated her day by the excellent black marble clock on the mantelpiece which she remembered from childhood; her walls were entirely23 covered by the photographs her illustrious deceased friends had given either herself or her father, with their own handwriting across the lower parts of their bodies, and the windows, shrouded24 by the maroon25 curtains of all her life, were decorated besides with the selfsame aquariums26 to which she owed her first lessons in sealore, and in which still swam slowly the goldfishes of her youth.
Were they the same goldfish? She did not know. Perhaps, like carp, they outlived everybody. Perhaps, on the other hand, behind the deep-sea vegetation provided for them at the bottom, they had from time to time as the years went by withdrawn27 and replaced themselves. Were they or were they not, she sometimes wondered, contemplating28 them between the courses of her solitary29 means, the same goldfish that had that day been there when Carlyle—how well she remembered it—angrily strode up to them in the middle of some argument with her father that had grown heated, and striking the glass smartly with his fist had put them to flight, shouting as they fled, "Och, ye deaf devils! Och, ye lucky deaf devils! Ye can't hear anything of the blasted, blethering, doddering, glaikit fool-stuff yer maister talks, can ye?" Or words to that effect.
Dear, great-souled Carlyle. Such natural gushings forth30; such true freshness; such real grandeur31. Rugged32, if you will—yes, undoubtedly33 sometimes rugged, and startling in a drawing-room, but magnificent. Who was there now to put beside him? Who was there to mention in the same breath? Her father, than whom no one had had more flair34, said: "Thomas is immortal35." And here was this generation, this generation of puniness36, raising its little voice in doubts, or, still worse, not giving itself the trouble to raise it at all, not—it was incredible, but it had been thus reported to her—even reading him. Mrs. Fisher did not read him either, but that was different. She had read him; she had certainly read him. Of course she had read him. There was Teufelsdr?ck—she quite well remembered a tailor called Teufelsdr?ck. So like Carlyle to call him that. Yes, she must have read him, though naturally details escaped her.
The gong sounded. Lost in reminiscence Mrs. Fisher had forgotten time, and hastened to her bedroom to wash her hands and smoothe her hair. She did not wish to be late and set a bad example, and perhaps find her seat at the head of the table taken. One could put no trust in the manners of the younger generation; especially not in those of that Mrs. Wilkins.
She was, however, the first to arrive in the dining-room. Francesca in a white apron37 stood ready with an enormous dish of smoking hot, glistening38 macaroni, but nobody was there to eat it.
Mrs. Fisher sat down, looking stern. Lax, lax.
"Serve me," she said to Francesca, who showed a disposition39 to wait for the others.
Francesca served her. Of the party she liked Mrs. Fisher least, in fact she did not like her at all. She was the only one of the four ladies who had not yet smiled. True she was old, true she was unbeautiful, true she therefore had no reason to smile, but kind ladies smiled, reason or no. They smiled, not because they were happy but because they wished to make happy. This one of the four ladies could not then, Francesca decided40, be kind; so she handed her the macaroni, being unable to hide any of her feelings, morosely41.
It was very well cooked, but Mrs. Fisher had never cared for maccaroni, especially not this long, worm-shaped variety. She found it difficult to eat—slippery, wriggling42 off her fork, making her look, she felt, undignified when, having got it as she supposed into her mouth, ends of it yet hung out. Always, too, when she ate it she was reminded of Mr. Fisher. He had during their married life behaved very much like maccaroni. He had slipped, he had wriggled43, he had made her feel undignified, and when at last she had got him safe, as she thought, there had invariably been little bits of him that still, as it were, hung out.
Francesca from the sideboard watched Mrs. Fisher's way with macaroni gloomily, and her gloom deepened when she saw her at last take her knife to it and chop it small.
Mrs. Fisher really did not know how else to get hold of the stuff. She was aware that knives in this connection were improper44, but one did finally lose patience. Maccaroni was never allowed to appear on her table in London. Apart from its tiresomeness46 she did not even like it, and she would tell Lady Caroline not to order it again. Years of practice, reflected Mrs. Fisher, chopping it up, years of actual living in Italy, would be necessary to learn the exact trick. Browning managed maccaroni wonderfully. She remembered watching him one day when he came to lunch with her father, and a dish of it had been ordered as a compliment to his connection with Italy. Fascinating, the way it went in. No chasing round the plate, no slidings off the fork, no subsequent protrusions of loose ends—just one dig, one whisk, one thrust, one gulp47, and lo, yet another poet had been nourished.
"Shall I go and seek the young lady?" asked Francesca, unable any longer to look on a good maccaroni being cut with a knife.
Mrs. Fisher came out of her reminiscent reflections with difficulty. "She knows lunch is at half-past twelve," she said. "They all know."
"She may be asleep," said Francesca. "The other ladies are further away, but this one is not far away."
"Beat the gong again then," said Mrs. Fisher.
What manners, she thought; what, what manners. It was not an hotel, and considerations were due. She must say she was surprised at Mrs. Arbuthnot, who had not looked like somebody unpunctual. Lady Caroline, too—she had seemed amiable48 and courteous49, whatever else she might be. From the other one, of course, she expected nothing.
Francesca fetched the gong, and took it out into the garden and advanced, beating it as she advanced, close up to Lady Caroline, who, still stretched in her low chair, waited till she had done, and then turned her head and in the sweetest tones poured forth what appeared to be music but was really invective50.
Francesca did not recognize the liquid flow as invective; how was she to, when it came out sounding like that? And with her face all smiles, for she could not but smile when she looked at this young lady, she told her the maccaroni was getting cold.
"When I do not come to meals it is because I do not wish to come to meals," said the irritated Scrap51, "and you will not in future disturb me."
"Is she ill?" asked Francesca, sympathetic but unable to stop smiling. Never, never had she seen hair so beautiful. Like pure flax; like the hair of northern babes. On such a little head only blessing52 could rest, on such a little head the nimbus of the holiest saints could fitly be placed.
Scrap shut her eyes and refused to answer. In this she was injudicious, for its effect was to convince Francesca, who hurried away full of concern to tell Mrs. Fisher, that she was indisposed. And Mrs. Fisher, being prevented, she explained, from going out to Lady Caroline herself because of her stick, sent the two others instead, who had come in at that moment heated and breathless and full of excuses, while she herself proceeded to the next course, which was a very well-made omelette, bursting most agreeably at both its ends with young green peas.
"Serve me," she directed Francesca, who again showed a disposition to wait for the others.
"Oh, why won't they leave me alone?" Scrap asked herself when she heard more scrunchings on the little pebbles54 which took the place of grass, and therefore knew some one else was approaching.
She kept her eyes tight shut this time. Why should she go in to lunch if she didn't want to? This wasn't a private house; she was in no way tangled55 up in duties towards a tiresome45 hostess. For all practical purposes San Salvatore was an hotel, and she ought to be let alone to eat or not to eat exactly as if she really had been in an hotel.
But the unfortunate Scrap could not just sit still and close her eyes without rousing that desire to stroke and pet in her beholders with which she was only too familiar. Even the cook had patted her. And now a gentle hand—how well she knew and how much she dreaded56 gentle hands—was placed on her forehead.
"I'm afraid you're not well," said a voice that was not Mrs.
Fisher's, and therefore must belong to one of the originals.
"I have a headache," murmured Scrap. Perhaps it was best to say that; perhaps it was the shortest cut to peace.
"I'm so sorry," said Mrs. Arbuthnot softly, for it was her hand being gentle.
"And I," said Scrap to herself, "who thought if I came here I would escape mothers."
"Don't you think some tea would do you good?" asked Mrs.
Arbuthnot tenderly.
"Tea? The idea was abhorrent57 to Scrap. In this heat to be drinking tea in the middle of the day. . .
"No," she murmured.
"I expect what would really be best for her," said another voice, "is to be left quiet."
How sensible, thought Scrap; and raised the eye-lashes of one eye just enough to peep through and see who was speaking.
It was the freckled58 original. The dark one, then, was the one with the hand. The freckled one rose in her esteem59.
"But I can't bear to think of you with a headache and nothing being done for it," said Mrs. Arbuthnot. "Would a cup of strong black coffee—?"
Scrap said no more. She waited, motionless and dumb, till Mrs. Arbuthnot should remove her hand. After all, she couldn't stand there all day, and when she went away she would have to take her hand with her.
"I do think," said the freckled one, "that she wants nothing except quiet."
And perhaps the freckled one pulled the one with the hand by the sleeve, for the hold on Scrap's forehead relaxed, and after a minute's silence, during which no doubt she was being contemplated—she was always being contemplated—the footsteps began to scrunch53 the pebbles again, and grew fainter, and were gone.
"Lady Caroline has a headache," said Mrs. Arbuthnot, re-entering the dining-room and sitting down in her place next to Mrs. Fisher. "I can't persuade her to have even a little tea, or some black coffee. Do you know what aspirin60 is in Italian?"
"The proper remedy for headaches," said Mrs. Fisher firmly, "is castor oil."
"But she hasn't got a headache," said Mrs. Wilkins.
"Carlyle," said Mrs. Fisher, who had finished her omelette and had leisure, while she waited for the next course, to talk, "suffered at one period terribly from headaches, and he constantly took castor oil as a remedy. He took it, I should say, almost to excess, and called it, I remember, in his interesting way the oil of sorrow. My father said it coloured for a time his whole attitude to life, his whole philosophy. But that was because he took too much. What Lady Caroline wants is one dose, and one only. It is a mistake to keep on taking castor oil."
"Do you know the Italian for it?" asked Mrs. Arbuthnot.
"Ah, that I'm afraid I don't. However, she would know. You can ask her."
"But she hasn't got a headache," repeated Mrs. Wilkins, who was struggling with the maccaroni. "She only wants to be let alone."
They both looked at her. The word shovel61 crossed Mrs. Fisher's mind in connection with Mrs. Wilkins's actions at that moment.
"Then why should she say she has?" asked Mrs. Arbuthnot.
"Because she is still trying to be polite. Soon she won't try, when the place has got more into her—she'll really be it. Without trying. Naturally."
"Lotty, you see," explained Mrs. Arbuthnot, smiling to Mrs. Fisher, who sat waiting with a stony62 patience for her next course, delayed because Mrs. Wilkins would go on trying to eat the maccaroni, which must be less worth eating than ever now that it was cold; "Lotty, you see, has a theory about this place—"
But Mrs. Fisher had no wish to hear any theory of Mrs. Wilkins's.
"I am sure I don't know," she interrupted, looking severely63 at Mrs. Wilkins, "why you should assume Lady Caroline is not telling the truth."
"I don't assume—I know." said Mrs. Wilkins.
"And pray how do you know?" asked Mrs. Fisher icily, for Mrs. Wilkins was actually helping64 herself to more maccaroni, offered her officiously and unnecessarily a second time by Francesca.
"When I was out there just now I saw inside her."
Well, Mrs. Fisher wasn't going to say anything to that; she wasn't going to trouble to reply to downright idiocy65. Instead she sharply rapped the little table-gong by her side, though there was Francesca standing66 at the sideboard, and said, for she would wait no longer for her next course, "Serve me."
And Francesca—it must have been wilful—offered her the maccaroni again.
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收听单词发音
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1
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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amber
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| n.琥珀；琥珀色；adj.琥珀制的 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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7
turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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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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intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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tinkling
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| n.丁当作响声 | |
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defective
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| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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14
egress
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| n.出去；出口 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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caterer
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| n. 备办食物者，备办宴席者 | |
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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outlay
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| n.费用，经费，支出；v.花费 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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maroon
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| v.困住，使（人）处于孤独无助之境；n.逃亡黑奴；孤立的人；酱紫色，褐红色；adj.酱紫色的，褐红色的 | |
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aquariums
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| n.养鱼缸，水族馆( aquarium的名词复数 ) | |
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27
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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flair
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| n.天赋，本领，才华；洞察力 | |
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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puniness
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| n.微小，弱小 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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morosely
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| adv.愁眉苦脸地，忧郁地 | |
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wriggling
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的现在分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等）；蠕蠕 | |
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43
wriggled
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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tiresomeness
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gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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50
invective
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| n.痛骂，恶意抨击 | |
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51
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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52
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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53
scrunch
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| v.压，挤压；扭曲（面部） | |
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54
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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55
tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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57
abhorrent
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| adj.可恶的，可恨的，讨厌的 | |
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58
freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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60
aspirin
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| n.阿司匹林 | |
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61
shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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62
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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64
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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idiocy
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| n.愚蠢 | |
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66
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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