“Get in the proper mood, mother,” he said. “Don’t expect anything at all, and enjoy what you get. Oh, what a ripping scene! And there’s Diana Coombe in khaki. Hi! Jim! Don’t you wish there were some Tommies like that in the regiment5?”
Jim gave a great shout of laughter by way of reply, for Arthur Angus, owner of the yacht with a crew of treble-voiced seamen6, fell flat down as he stepped ashore7, and without getting up began to sing.
“Oh, ripping!” said Jim. “Robin, there’s the dance coming now.”
Lady Grote was rather disappointed.
“Oh, have you been to it before?” she asked. “Why didn’t you tell me, and I would have got tickets for something else.”
Jim laughed.
“I’ve been eight times,” he said; “this makes the ninth. I’ve bet Robin five pounds that I shall go twenty{256} times before they pop me over to France. Wouldn’t it be putrid8 luck if I went nineteen times and then went out and got shot?”
For a moment both Jim and Robin grew stiff and wooden-faced, for a very mountainous female dressed in union Jacks9 sang something quite unspeakable about the heroes and the “boys” in khaki. Robin said “Good God!” under his breath once or twice, and the house, which contained a large number of soldiers, received her compliments in chilling silence, so that she was not encouraged to proceed with some encore verses.
“But do tell me why you like it so enormously?” said Helen, to distract Jim from this embarrassing lady.
“Oh, it’s the tunes10 a good deal, and then Arthur Angus is so awfully11 funny, and it’s all so muddled14 up and silly. It’s gay, you know, and when you’ve been superintending a lot of fellows digging trenches15 for practice all day in the rain, you want something that will take your mind off that devastating16 job.... Now there’s the dance.”
If Lady Grote had by some incalculable chance found herself alone at this preposterous17 revue nothing would have kept her in her seat for five minutes. But the infection of the two boys’ enjoyment18 took hold of her, and she found herself laughing because they laughed, and enjoying because they enjoyed. She even at Robin’s instigation tried to think the great Diana Coombe was an alluring19 and beautiful creature. Robin was clearly known to her, for she threw him discreet20 little smiles and glances (which quite accounted for his insistence21 that they should have seats in the front row). Presently she appeared to retire from the{257} army and came on again as a French marquise, which she resembled about as much as she resembled a soldier, with Arthur Angus as her marquis, receiving guests at the door of an outrageous22 drawing-room, and saying: “How do you portez-vous?”
But really the stage occupied her less than the two boys between whom she sat, both in khaki, both enjoying themselves enormously, both soon to face the peril23 in Flanders, and both completely normal. For them no chasm24 had opened, or, at any rate, it had been negotiated by that divine elasticity25 of youth which had made them spring from the peak of the old life, alighting unruffled and unamazed on the new. Until the beckoning27 finger signalled to them, they went on in their leisure hours with the old amusements and diversions, while for their employment they superintended the digging of trenches instead of attending lectures.
Till yesterday they had been high-spirited, unthinking, undisciplined boys, absorbed in games, tolerant of a small amount of work, and perhaps absorbed in each other more than in anything else; to-morrow, if need be, either or both of them would go out into that grim storm that raged from end to end of Europe with the same tranquillity28 as they would presently go out to find the motor that was to take all three of them to supper at the Ritz. It was true that she had noted29 an immense change in Robin, or thought she had done so; now she wondered whether she had not been completely wrong about that: whether it was not precisely30 the same Robin as she had always known, merely facing with precisely the same spirit as he had faced all his previous experiences this new adventure.
It was a man’s part he had to play now, but he played it with boyishness and with all his might, refusing point-blank to consider any scheme that might shield{258} him from the full deadliness of the blast. But now, at this absurd revue, he was exactly what he had always been. And though she had met Jim but a couple of times before, she divined that in him, too, there had been no radical31 change. They both just “took on” the new tremendous adventure with the same light-hearted seriousness as they had brought to their cricket....
She tried to imagine what either of them would have been like if, instead of volunteering for active service, they had preferred, as it was in their power to do, remaining up at Cambridge. But it was a perfectly32 useless attempt, for it was clear that neither of them would have borne the slightest resemblance to them as they actually now were; they would have been utterly34 different boys altogether. Robin would never have been Robin at all if he had done that, or if, indeed, as she saw more fully12 now, he had accepted instead of declining the staff appointment she had obtained for him. All his life he would have been an altogether different fellow, he would have been some slouching, timid, furtive-eyed boy ... she could not imagine Robin like that. If he had shirked now, he would have been a shirker for all the nineteen years of his rampageous existence.
They drove off when the revue was over and they had been fortunate enough to secure a few very special smiles from Miss Coombe, in the brougham that really only held two, but was triumphantly36 demonstrated by Robin to hold three, by process of his sitting on Jim’s knees and protruding37 other parts of himself out of the window. He seemed to occupy most of the rest of the brougham as well, and, as in a sort of cave made by Robin, the two others conversed38, or were silent.{259}
How well Helen remembered a drive back alone through the illuminated39 and crowded streets two months ago, on a night when she expected not to be alone! To-night the streets were much darker; it was impossible to see with any distinctness the walkers and the loiterers. They were still there, some peering, others peered at, but in this era of darkened lamps they were but shadows against the blacker shades of the houses. Some department had lately taken the question of the lighting26 of streets in hand; they had adopted a system of camouflage40, as if to make London look as unlike London as possible, so that air-craft of the hostile kind should not recognize it and drop bombs on it. Certainly they had succeeded in completely changing its aspect, for now instead of the brilliance41 of arclights and incandescent42 gas, that used to make Piccadilly far brighter by night than it had ordinarily been on the average London day, it had become a sort of dim-lit polychromatic pantomime. Some lights were quenched43 altogether; others had coats of blue, red or green paint applied44 to their panes45. Little fairy lamps bedecked the parks, in long double lines and clusters, simulating, so it must be supposed, streets and squares of the city, in the hope that Zeppelins and other intruders would mistake some empty or depopulated area for a busy thoroughfare, and drop their bombs on it to the great discomfort46 of plane-trees and sparrows.
Idle talk of this kind passed between Jim and Helen Grote; she bid him admire the twinkle of lights, waveringly reflected on the damp pavements, for a little rain had fallen earlier in the evening, and still made a mirror of clouded surface. And all the time she was seeing herself drive westwards alone from her rendez-vous at Covent Garden, claiming, or at least{260} acknowledging, kinship with the loitering and neglected. Yet, vivid though the memory was, it resembled rather the vividness of some arresting book that she had read, or of some enthralling48 play that she had seen acted. With her boy and his friend filling up the motor, these memories lacked the bite of personal experience. She remembered it, remembered with the intensest keenness, but remembered it as something apart from herself. Was it she, the body and bones of her, that had sat with a letter in her hands, which she had read once and did not need to read again? She could recall every word of that even now, she could have quoted from it, and yet it was all like something learned by heart, memorable49 only owing to some unforgettable style in its writing.
All went through her mind with the rapidity of some picture momentarily thrown on to it by a magic lantern. She made no effort to recollect50; the recollection was flashed on her from outside. Robin, fearing for the security of the carriage door, had just suggested his falling out into the roadway, and “the body of a well-nourished young man” being debated upon at the inquest next day, when, even as she laughed, the image of those happenings that had occurred to someone else made their instantaneous photograph.
Then Jim, merely by way of polite conversation, said to her:
“I suppose you’re awfully busy, aren’t you, with some sort of war-work?”
Upon which Robin stamped heavily and designedly on her foot, clearly under the impression that it was Jim’s.
And that was all, for the present. The moment afterwards they stopped at the door of the Ritz, where a low-bowing porter inserted her in a circular{261} cage that revolved51. But the fact that Robin meant to stamp on Jim’s foot by way of some kind of warning or silencer had the vividness of personal experience, which her recollections lacked.
The dining-room was already crowded with post-theatre suppers, but the head-waiter, clearly perjuring52 himself, gave her a table where chairs were already turned down in token of future occupation. There were a dozen people she knew, and her entrance with those two very smart young Guardsmen somehow pleased her enormously. Robin and Jim also threw greetings about; they were popular and well-looked-on in this new seething53 life which she had done her best to avoid. At this hour, in the house of refuge to which she had resorted only a week or two ago, Aline and Hermann would be playing a last rubber of Bridge, if they had guests, or would be refraining from rising to say good-night to Mr. and Mrs. Tempest, in case they were engaged on a game of picquet, which they played, so Aline told her, when they were alone and, presumably therefore, when there were guests who did not matter.
To-morrow Sir Hermann would go out shooting again or playing golf in his betasselled stockings, and Aline, in her sables54, would distribute rabbits to bereaved55 station masters. They would go up to bed in the lift that exuded56 German chorales, and no doubt by now Aline would have got a new nurse for her children, who would refrain from calling them Huns, while the children would have learned to refrain from singing the “Watch by the Rhine.” It was to that house she had gone to escape from evenings like this.... She could not help wondering what would have been the Gurtners’ attitude towards the bloody57 and glorious affair at Ypres.{262}
But Ypres and Aline were about equally remote from the spirit of the present moment. Robin, who scarcely knew claret from port, was, out of the depths of his wisdom, consulting the head-waiter as to the particular brand of champagne58 which would be suitable, and in the middle of his consultation59 he caught sight of someone entering, and trod, this time correctly, on Jim’s foot, to bid him observe the epiphany of Miss Diana Coombe, who swept into the room, and proceeded to occupy a table immediately adjoining theirs. There were two young men with her, both in civilian60 clothes, and a remarkable61 old lady whom she addressed as Mommer. When asked what she wanted to order, Mommer said in a strong American accent: “Just give us of your best, and be quick about it.” Round her neck, thin as that of a plucked bird, she wore a string of stones that rather resembled rubies62, from which depended a huge copper63 badge. Helen recognized that, for Gracie always wore one when she waded64 about among patched trousers.
The two boys had to go back to barracks, when supper was over, and as they all stood together for a moment on the pavement outside, making plans for another theatre evening as soon as possible, a private, as he passed, saluted65, and most unmistakably grinned also.
“Lord, there’s Jelf,” said Robin. “Hi, Jelf!”
He turned and wheeled and saluted again.
“Mother, this is Mr. Jelf,” said Robin. “He’s doing the job thoroughly66, as I told you, not like Jim and me. How are you, old boy? Been lecturing about your love for the Huns lately? Do you remember that Sunday afternoon?”
Jelf laughed.
“Yes, when the Hun woman told us of the invincibility{263} of the German army. Wonder if she’s right. Lady Gurtner, wasn’t it?”
Lady Grote interrupted.
“Do come and see me, Mr. Jelf,” she said. “Come and dine to-morrow, won’t you? Robin, I must go; my motor is stopping the entire traffic. Good-night, darling, and thank you and Mr. Lethbridge for a lovely evening. I’ve enjoyed it immensely. Let’s have another very soon.”
“Rather. But aren’t you going down to Grote all October?”
“I’ve made no definite plan,” said she.
“Make a definite plan then to stop in town. You would be bored stiff down there.”
She slid off into the darkness, feeling more alive than she had felt for the many weeks past, during which she had tried to banish67 all thought of the war, and remove from her surroundings anything that might remind her of it. She had tried to get isolation68 in the country; she had sought out others who, like herself, wished to forget, yet into the shut room, through closed windows and well-fitting doors, the war, like the drift of some London fog, had always made its way, poisoning the ill-ventilated atmosphere that already had no briskness69 in it. But to-night, for the first time, she had left her stuffy70 room, and gone out and let fresh air, with whatever else it might be laden71, flow round her. She had expected to come home with an added pang72 of miserable73 presage74, with a heart that ached, and eyes that even more strenuously75 refused to look into the future. It was only in response to Robin’s urging that she had gone out at all, expecting at the best to see forced gaiety and sombre lapses76 from it on the part of him and his friend. Having settled to take them{264} to the theatre and sup with them, she had determined77 to do her best to “keep it up,” to pretend that everything was laughable and amusing. Instead, it was she who had been “kept up”; she had expected a trial of her fortitude78, and had been given the most tremendous tonic79 in place of that....
She had found herself encompassed80 by the New Spirit that possessed81 Robin and his friend and thousands like him. It had not changed him; it had merely brought out the light and the fire that was in him, even as under the wheel of the cutter and polisher the glory of the diamond is developed. The New Spirit was doing that for the whole nation, and for her now it was lambent through the darkness, and hung like a rainbow across the menace of the thunder-cloud.
The moment of illumination grew bright to blinding-point, then faded again, and she was like one on whom some great light has flashed but for a second, leaving her in darkness again with the phantom83 of the light still swimming on her retina. For an instant she had seen it, as across waste waters is seen the revolving84 beam of a lighthouse. But it had passed, and, between her and it, was the tempest bellowing85 across the windswept surges. All the youth and triumphant35 young manhood of England was being snatched away and shovelled86 into the burning Moloch across that sea.
As she stepped on to the pavement in front of her house, she found that her foot hurt her, and remembered that as they drove to the Ritz Robin had very heartily87 stamped on it. His design had clearly been to stamp on Jim’s foot, in order to stop him saying something, and in the sharp pain that came to her{265} now she wished that the darling had stamped on Jim’s foot and not on hers. She remembered also that this brutal88 caution was in the nature of locking the stable door after the steed had been stolen, for Jim had certainly already said that which Robin had wanted to stop him saying. His question had completely reached her; he had supposed that she was “awfully busy” doing some sort of war-work.
That was the topic that Robin had wanted to suppress. He knew that she was doing no sort of war-work, and either for himself he disliked that being alluded89 to, or he supposed that she would not like it. It was probable that both reasons were in his mind. As regards herself, she really did not care whether people knew she was very completely abstaining90 from war-work or not. She had tried to take a hand in it at Gracie’s ridiculous establishment, but she was not made for that sort of thing. She preferred to buy her scarves ready made, and no doubt the recipients91 would prefer that also. She was quite willing to spend freely for the sake of those who needed these and similar comforts; but to sit among pessimistic females and knit was alien to her.... And then some suppressed part of her mind insisted on asking her a rather inconvenient92 question: “Supposing Robin wanted a scarf, would you not prefer to suffer some sacrifice of your time or inclination93 in order to give it him, rather than give him something that cost you nothing?”
The question really needed no answer. It was so obvious that you must delight in giving something of yourself to those whom you loved. There was no joy in giving to the beloved a thing you could get in any shop. If you had to get it at a shop, love insisted that you should send some little message with it, in order{266} to give it the touch of the sender. And that was precisely what Gracie and her weary choir94 of elderly pessimists95 were doing. They were sending to strangers, to unknown men and boys, whom they had never seen, gifts that had the touch of the giver. It was precisely that which she was not doing.
She began to wonder whether she would not prefer, as regards herself alone, that this should not be alluded to....
There was another possible reason for Robin’s belated and misdirected signal to Jim. It was possible that he did not want it alluded to. Was it an unpleasant topic for him, as well as her? Was he, perhaps, a little ashamed of her? Once, on the subject of his staff-appointment, they had talked about love implying respect. She could have instanced a sort of love which could despise and yet continue to exist, but that was the sort of love that wanted to take, and not to give. But was that love? Cynical96 philosophers held that the main ingredient in love was the sense of possession. She had never really believed that, and now, thinking just of Robin, she knew that not only was that incredible, but the truth lay somewhere in the region of its very opposite. The main ingredient in love did not consist in possessing, but in giving....
There were half a dozen letters waiting for her on the hall table, and with them unopened in her hand, she went upstairs. She had told her maid that she need not sit up for her, and as she unclasped her pearl collar, the image of Mommer with her great badge depending from her collar of impossible rubies, suddenly came into her mind. Mommer was engaged on some sort of charitable war-work, then. Would Miss Diana Coombe be ashamed of her, if she was not?{267}
Suddenly, and again without warning, the wave of utter loneliness swept over her, and her pearls fell rattling97 to the ground. Once before when it had risen and smothered98 her, she had thought to prevent a re-visitation of it by surrounding herself with diversion and interests, and above all, by shutting herself off from the thought of the war and the suffering that it brought, and the menace that it threatened her with. But the experiment had not been very successful. Not for an hour, perhaps, until this evening when she was sitting at that absurd revue, between those two gay boys, had the thought of it been entirely99 lifted off her. Had that happened because, being with them, their acceptation of it had infected her?
She heard her husband’s step along the passage outside. It paused opposite her door, and presently there came a discreet tap, sufficient to be audible to her, so she read his purpose, if she was awake, but not loud enough to disturb her if she was asleep. She hesitated a moment, and then answered. It was but seldom that he came to her room: she imagined he must have something to tell her.
“I’m not disturbing you?” he asked.
“No. I came in only a few minutes ago. Robin and his friend and I had supper after the theatre.”
“A pleasant evening?” he asked.
“Very. Was there anything particular you wanted to speak to me about?”
“Yes. There have been some rather unpleasant rumours100 about for a day or two, and in case you haven’t heard them, I made up my mind that I had better tell you.”
She bent82 down to pick up her pearls, and as she rose again, she noticed with a strange sense of detachment,{268} that they chinked and chattered101 together in her hand, and knew that it was trembling. Into her mind there started the image of Kuhlmann and herself standing102 together, and of Robin looking from the one to the other.
“Concerning me?” she said quietly.
He laughed.
“No, of course not,” he said. “Do you suppose that I should have heard rumours for a day or two concerning you, and not either taken the proper steps to stop them, or have told you?”
She gave one long sigh of relief, that for the life of her she could not repress.
“Concerning whom, then?” she asked.
“Concerning your friends the Gurtners. There is a general idea about that their sympathies are violently pro-German. As you had been there lately, I thought you might be able to give me some information about them.”
“I can,” she said. “I heard them both consistently express sentiments the very opposite of those which you say are attributed to them.”
He paused a moment.
“And there was nothing that led you to think that those sentiments were not quite sincere?” he asked.
She also paused over that question. The two were very good friends when they met, always polite, always anxious not to strain the cord of friendship. But she thought she might permit herself a further question in answer to that.
“And is your question quite sincere?” she said. “Is there not an irony103 behind it?”
He laughed.
“Robin always tells me you are so clever,” he said, “and I always agree. There is an irony. What I{269} mean is are you sufficiently104 intimate with Lady Gurtner to know if she is sincere or not when she professes106 these pro-English sentiments?”
Already in her mind were the countless107 little incidents which had puzzled her: there was the odd affair of the children getting into trouble because they sang the “Watch by the Rhine:” there was the incident only known to her to-night, of Private Jelf calling Aline a Hunnish woman: there was the incident of Simpson saying that they were in a Hun’s house: there was the incident of Aline’s great high spirits on the day of the Russian reverse, and in that regard Mr. Boyton’s very acid comments. More vivid than all these was her own psychological surprise at finding that Aline was so tremendously English, and her own registration108 of Aline as an acquaintance, and not a friend. On the other hand, she was sure that Aline regarded her as a friend.
Rapidly reviewed, this last consideration seemed to her to take precedence of all the others. She had to rank as a friend of Aline’s.
“I have no reasonable reason for distrusting what Aline tells me,” she said. “I have no real doubt in my mind as to her sincerity109.”
He thought over this a moment.
“You qualify what you say by saying ‘reasonable,’ and by saying ‘real,’” he said.
She looked at him, playing with her pearls. Her hand was quite steady now.
“Then I will leave out those words,” she said, “if you think they qualify my meaning. I have no intention of doubting the Gurtners’ sincerity.”
“Ah: intention,” he said.
That was another qualifying phrase, and she recognized it as such the moment she had uttered it.{270}
“Let us come to the point,” she said. “What is it you want me to do?”
“I want you to consider whether you had not better cease to have anything to do with the Gurtners,” he said. “There are ugly rumours, which don’t concern only their sympathies. It is supposed that he has made a good deal of money by transactions in Germany and here which would not be considered very creditable. I am told he had private information of some sort, a fortnight before the war broke out. He bought shares in Krupp’s; he sold English Consols. I needn’t bother you with details.”
As she walked up and down her bedroom, still chinking the pearls in her hand, she thought desperately110 about what had been said, just because it chimed in with certain private impressions of her own to which she refused the admittance into her mind. But they all weighed light against one other fact.
“As long as Aline Gurtner considers me a friend,” she said, “I must remain one.”
“I don’t think you are wise,” said he. “In fact, I go further, Helen. I ask you not to see either her or him.”
She shook her head.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” she said. “I am sorry, Grote, but I must do what I feel right about it.”
“You must not ask them here when I am at home, then,” said he.
“Of course I shall not. You need not have suggested that.”
“No: I retract111 that, if you will let me,” he said. “But I warn you that there is a good deal of talk.”
“I think I can disregard that. I don’t suppose that people will accuse me of pro-German sympathies because I refuse to turn my back on Aline.{271}”
He nodded.
“I don’t suggest that. I am sorry you do not see your way to doing what I want, but I believe, as a matter of fact, that if I were you, I should do as you are doing.”
She smiled.
“I am sure you would,” she said. “If people are going to be nasty to them, there is all the more reason why I shouldn’t be. I want to ask you one thing. Was Mr. Boyton your informant about this?”
“He spoke112 of it this evening at the club. In fact, he said he had been staying with the Gurtners when you were there, and his impressions did not agree with yours. He said that their pro-German sympathies were always cropping up.”
“Ah! If you ask me not to see Mr. Boyton again, I will promise not to. In fact, I will promise not to whether you ask me or not. Is that all, then?”
He glanced at the clock.
“If I am not keeping you up too late, there is something else I should like to speak about. It is this. Were you intending to be down at Grote this autumn?”
“I had been thinking of it. But only to-night I came to the conclusion that I should not. Why do you ask?”
“Because I feel that I ought to offer it to the Red Cross as a hospital. Several people have given their houses already, and I know that they are hard up for suitable accommodation. They want houses with big rooms for wards47. Of course you could keep two or three rooms there for yourself in case you wanted to go down.”
“Who would look after it?” she asked.
“Oh, they would have their own staff of nurses and doctors,” he said. “I should have to be there as{272} general superintendent-commandant, I think they call it. It will mean giving up my work at the Censor’s office, but that can’t be helped.”
“You would dislike that,” she said. “Your work interests you.”
“Yes, but one has to do what is wanted in these days,” said he.
“I should have thought you could have got some sort of experienced housekeeper113. It is more a woman’s work.”
Not until the words were actually spoken, did her mind make any suggestion to her. Then, all at once, that which had been seething and stirring in it all evening took form. The conclusion came suddenly, but it was but the moment of the crystallization of the forces that had been acting114 there.
“I will undertake it,” she said, “if you think I can manage it.”
He stared at her in blank surprise.
“My dear Helen, it is impossible for you,” he said. “It will mean being down there for weeks together, and giving your whole time to it. You would have no time to yourself at all. Besides, I know how you shun115 anything connected with the war. There it would be forced on your attention all day long.”
“I realize that,” she said.
She came a step forward towards him, and the humility116 which had always been as characteristic of her as her self-centredness and her splendour flooded her and these.
“I don’t want to have any time to myself,” she said. “I haven’t been successful in my use of it since this horrible catastrophe117 happened. And all my shunning118 of the war hasn’t enabled me to escape from it. I want to try another plan. I’ve known lately what it{273} means to feel utterly lonely. And there’s another thing.”
She cast down her eyes a moment; then raised them again.
“I have an idea that Robin is ashamed of my doing nothing for the war,” she said. “I only realized that to-night, and I did not like it. Do let me see whether I cannot manage this. If I find I cannot, if I make a muddle13 of it, I will promise to give it up. But I have had a good many years’ experience in running a big house. I think I could soon learn.”
“If you realize what it means, of course you shall try,” said he. “And as for your being able to do it, I don’t feel the slightest doubt about it. But it will be hard work.”
“That is exactly why I want to do it,” said she.
“I will make the offer, then, to the Red Cross in the morning,” said he. “Now I won’t keep you up longer.”
On his way to the door he paused.
“I wonder if Robin will be more pleased than me?” he said.
She had analysed her reasons for undertaking119 this work very sincerely. She was willing to be busy all day in order to escape from herself. She could not, for she had tried it without success, escape from the thought of the war, and it was no use persevering120 in so barren an attempt. She wanted her time taken up by some exigent pursuit, for she had failed to devise for herself any way of spending it that was profitable and yielded dividends121 of pleasure. That, and the intolerable suspicion that Robin was ashamed of her accounted in completeness for her motive122.
The work was in no sense a work of love, and she did not for a moment pretend to herself that it was. Once,{274} only a few months ago, she had longed to be able to purchase the precious unattainable time that others, with no interest in the absorbing joys of life, found to hang heavy on their hands. But for these last two months she would have been willing to part with all the time that was hers for a very small consideration; indeed, she would have paid anybody to cast it away like rubbish, and apart from the sentimental123 motive connected with Robin, this work of running Grote as a hospital was little more than a means of getting rid of her time, and of losing consciousness of herself. She did not want to get rid of herself from any sense that it was a nobler way of life to devote herself to other people; it was simply due to the fact that she no longer seemed capable of amusing herself. The mainspring of her enjoyment of life had run down; it was no longer tightly coiled, and the key with which she had been wont124 to wind it up no longer fitted the keyhole. She was but trying another key.
A telephone message arrived next morning from Aline Gurtner, saying that she and the family had come up to town for the winter, and hoping that Helen could come and lunch with her that day. Helen found her alone and in one of her rather excited and very voluble moods, full of projects and grievances125 and egoisms.
“Dearest Helen, it’s delightful126 to see you,” she streamed out. “Let’s go in to lunch at once, for I am so hungry, and I said half-past one, didn’t I?—and it’s a quarter to two. Never mind, it doesn’t matter in the least. There’s no one else coming. Everyone seems so busy, for I asked half a dozen people to meet you, and they all had something to do. The children have got colds, poor darlings, and so they are having their dinner upstairs, and Hermann has gone down to Richmond to{275} play golf. He has just given another ten thousand pounds to the Red Cross. I think that is so noble of him, when you consider that it will all be spent on men who have been wounded in trying to kill Germans. Perhaps a lot of them have killed Germans: they may have killed relations and friends of Hermann. I think he is wonderful.”
Helen glanced hastily up. There was a butler and a couple of footmen in the room, and she saw one glance at the other and back again.
“And the children have got colds, do you say?” she asked, clutching wildly at some less impossible topic.
“Yes, and would you believe it, when I sent out for a clinical thermometer to see if Freddy was feverish127, there wasn’t one to be had at the chemist’s. They were all sold out, and they couldn’t get a fresh supply, because they were made in Germany. It seems to me that Germany has supplied us with everything we use. Dyes, hock—Hermann could not get any more hock, and his doctor forbids him to drink anything else. I don’t know what we shall all do if the war goes on. But don’t let us talk about it. It has become like a nightmare to me. That was partly why I came up to town. There is more going on here, one can go to theatres and have people to dinner. Oh, and a great plan. There are so many people in London that I am going to give a dance next week. A real big dance, a regular ball. I am going to send out invitations at once. People will be glad to have me back again, as there is so little entertaining going on on the big scale. I daresay I shall give more than one. You will help me, won’t you, Helen? Will you let me have your list? I want to ask all your friends, and give them all a good time.”
Helen was spared the embarrassment128 of discussing{276} this insane plan for the moment, for the door opened and Sir Hermann came in. Instantly Aline began talking to him in German.
“But how is it you are back, dearest?” she said. “What has happened? Why are you not playing golf?”
He frowned and shook his head at her.
“And why are you looking cross at me?” she said shrilly129. “Just because I talk German? I cannot always remember, Hermann, and just when I am fortunate enough to forget about the war, and fall into old ways, you bring me back again by being cross with me. I think you are very unkind. There! It does not matter. Sit down, if you have not had lunch, and tell me why you are not playing golf.”
“I found no one who wanted a game,” he said. “I only drove down on the chance.”
“But you often do that, and you always find someone else who wants a game. It is very odd that you should not be able to get a game. Was there nobody down there?”
“Ah, do not go on about it, dearest,” he said. “I could not get a game, and so I returned. What does it all matter? You are settled in town, Lady Grote?”
“Yes, and Helen is going to help me with my ball,” interrupted his wife. “I was telling her about that when you came in. But you ought to get some exercise, Hermann. Will you not drive down again after lunch, and see if you cannot find someone? Or why do you not ring up somebody in town, and take him down? Perhaps Lord Grote would have a game with you. What a pity you did not bring him to lunch, Helen.”
“Oh, there’s no golf for poor Grote,” said she. “He is at the Censor’s office every day till seven.”
“That is horrible work for a gentleman to do,{277}” said Aline violently. “It is opening private letters, is it not, and interning130 the writers, or shooting them as spies? There was a spy shot yesterday, I am told. It made me feel quite sick to think of it, and it may have been your husband, Helen, who opened a letter from him. I should feel like a murderer, if I had done that. I daresay his letters were quite innocent, really, but they read into them all sorts of things he hadn’t meant. Don’t let us talk about it: it is too horrible, and in a country that calls itself Christian131. I think——”
Her husband interrupted her.
“Do not think at all, Aline,” he said, “if you can only think such nonsense. Do you wish spies to be allowed to write any information they choose to an enemy’s country? You are childish.”
“And you are very unkind,” said she. “Helen, I know, agrees with me. Is it not horrible to kill men in cold blood? I should never have a moment’s peace again, if I had opened a man’s private letter, and he got shot for what it contained. I am sure they don’t do such horrible things in Germany. It is barbarous. But don’t let us talk about it: I have asked you before, Hermann, not to talk about it. I want no more lunch now that we have introduced such terrible topics, and I was so hungry.”
Helen felt that she was listening to the ravings of an unsound mind. It was clear that poor Aline was in a whirlwind of nervous tumult132, and it required no great ingenuity133 to conjecture134 its origin. She had determined to profess105 the most English of attitudes, but at heart all her instincts were German, and they spouted135 and spirted like water through holes in a closed weir136 which had been shut against the force of the stream. She had suspected this down at Ashmore, though there Aline was able to keep a firmer hand on herself. Now,{278} it was evident, her self-control was in rags, and she pitifully tried still to drape it round herself. She made such an effort now, as they rose, leaving Sir Hermann to finish his lunch by himself.
“We will not talk about these dreadful things,” she said for the third time. “We will talk about my ball. When shall we have it? Quite soon, I think, next week, perhaps. Nobody seems to be entertaining at all: I should think any night would do. I will give a big dinner first, you and Lord Grote must both come. Do you remember my last big dinner when the Princess came and was so charming? What night shall I choose, Helen?”
Helen had been thinking what to say, should this very inconvenient topic come up again.
“Do you know, I don’t think I should give a ball, Aline, if I were you,” she said. “As you say, nobody is entertaining. People don’t feel like it: everything is too deadly and serious. Many of us have lost relations: we have all lost friends.”
“But what is the difference between going to a ball and going to the theatre?” said Aline. “You told me you went to the theatre last night.”
“There is a difference.”
Aline grew excited and voluble again.
“I do not see it. You go to the theatre to amuse yourself. It is just the English hypocrisy137 that draws a line between such things.”
Helen laid her hand on Aline’s arm.
“You really must not talk like that,” she said. “You are doing yourself a great deal of harm when you say such things. You said other things at lunch which were very ill-advised. My dear, don’t be impatient with me. I am speaking as a friend. I know that your sympathies are being dragged this way and that, but{279} if you want to keep your friends here, you must not talk about English hypocrisy, and English cruelty. People won’t stand it, you can’t expect them to. And for goodness’ sake don’t attempt to give a ball.”
“But I mean to. I feel sure you are wrong in your view. Everyone was glad enough to come to my house before, and I am sure they will be now. No one can have any doubt about my sympathies, or about Hermann’s either. Would he have given all those immense sums of money away to English charities, if he was not in sympathy with England? I think he has given too much: I think he ought, at any rate, to give to the German Red Cross too. It is horrible to think of English and Germans killing138 and wounding each other, and only helping139 the English. I did not think you would be so unkind and unfair, Helen. You used to be fond of Germans. You were devoted140 to Kuhlmann. Now I suppose you would turn your back on him, or on me, because I am partly German. If that is your idea of friendship, I am sorry for you. It is not mine. I would do anything for my friends.”
Helen had sufficient generosity141 to allow for this nerve-storm, to tell herself that it was not really Aline who spoke, but some tortured semblance33 of her.
“Well, do something for this friend of yours,” she said, “and don’t speak to me like that. I have no intention of turning my back on you, so long as you want my friendship. But you must be reasonable. I personally should not dream of giving a ball just now. People would be apt to say disagreeable things. And you must remember that they will say disagreeable things about you more readily than they would about me.”
“I do not see why. Has your husband given as generously as mine to English charities? There is a{280} proof of his loyalty142. And I am certainly going to do some war-work myself, now I am in town again.”
“It is not a question of money and war-work,” said Helen. “It is a question of your betraying your sympathies at every other sentence you speak. People won’t stand it: they will not come to your house if you talk to others as you have talked to me. Think: if I was to say to you about Germany what you have allowed yourself to say to me about England, you would very rightly deplore143 my ill manners. Now I hope you will take what I am saying in good part. I am speaking as a friend.”
Aline got up.
“I do not feel that you are being a friend to me,” she said. “You are not in sympathy with me. You find fault with all I say or do. It is not my fault if the English are not clever enough to make thermometers and dyes, and are cruel enough to read private letters and shoot the writer. Must I suddenly be convinced that the English are absolutely right and wise and perfect in all they do? I can’t do that: I see many faults in them. And it is not friendly of you not to sympathize with me.”
Helen got up also.
“I think you want to quarrel with me,” she said. “I should be very sorry if you did that. But just now I had better go away. Whenever you want to see me, I will always come. I am very sorry for you: I think you are in a cruel position and a difficult one. You must bring all your prudence144 and wisdom to bear on it.”
Aline hesitated a moment. At all times she considered any criticism of her own conduct that attributed to it the smallest lack in perfection, an unfriendly act, and now her nerves were utterly on edge.
“I’m sure I do not want to quarrel,” she said. “It is you who are quarrelling with me. I am the most generous woman, as Hermann often tells me, and the moment anyone is sorry I forgive her completely.”
The egoism of this was nearly incredible. Helen found herself doubting her ears.
“Come, Aline,” she said, “don’t behave like that.”
“The moment you are sorry it will be all over,” said Aline stupendously.
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收听单词发音
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1
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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2
monarchy
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| n.君主，最高统治者；君主政体，君主国 | |
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3
coherence
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| n.紧凑；连贯；一致性 | |
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4
tack
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| n.大头钉；假缝，粗缝 | |
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5
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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6
seamen
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| n.海员 | |
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7
ashore
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| adv.在(向)岸上，上岸 | |
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8
putrid
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| adj.腐臭的；有毒的；已腐烂的；卑劣的 | |
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9
jacks
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| n.抓子游戏；千斤顶( jack的名词复数 )；（电）插孔；[电子学]插座；放弃 | |
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10
tunes
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| n.曲调，曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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11
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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12
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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13
muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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14
muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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15
trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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16
devastating
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| adj.毁灭性的，令人震惊的，强有力的 | |
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17
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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18
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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19
alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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20
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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21
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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22
outrageous
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| adj.无理的，令人不能容忍的 | |
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23
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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24
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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25
elasticity
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| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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26
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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27
beckoning
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| adj.引诱人的，令人心动的v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的现在分词 ) | |
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28
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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29
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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30
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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31
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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32
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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33
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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34
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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35
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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37
protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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40
camouflage
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| n./v.掩饰，伪装 | |
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41
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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42
incandescent
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| adj.遇热发光的， 白炽的，感情强烈的 | |
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43
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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44
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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45
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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46
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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47
wards
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| 区( ward的名词复数 )； 病房； 受监护的未成年者； 被人照顾或控制的状态 | |
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48
enthralling
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| 迷人的 | |
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49
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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50
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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51
revolved
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| v.（使）旋转( revolve的过去式和过去分词 )；细想 | |
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52
perjuring
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| v.发假誓，作伪证( perjure的现在分词 ) | |
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53
seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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54
sables
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| n.紫貂( sable的名词复数 )；紫貂皮；阴暗的；暗夜 | |
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55
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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56
exuded
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| v.缓慢流出，渗出，分泌出( exude的过去式和过去分词 )；流露出对（某物）的神态或感情 | |
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57
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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58
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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59
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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60
civilian
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| adj.平民的，民用的，民众的 | |
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61
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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62
rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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63
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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64
waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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66
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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67
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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68
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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69
briskness
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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70
stuffy
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| adj.不透气的，闷热的 | |
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71
laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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72
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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73
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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74
presage
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| n.预感，不祥感；v.预示 | |
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75
strenuously
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| adv.奋发地，费力地 | |
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76
lapses
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| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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77
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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78
fortitude
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| n.坚忍不拔；刚毅 | |
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79
tonic
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| n./adj.滋补品，补药，强身的，健体的 | |
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80
encompassed
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| v.围绕( encompass的过去式和过去分词 )；包围；包含；包括 | |
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81
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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82
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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83
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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84
revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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85
bellowing
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的现在分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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86
shovelled
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| v.铲子( shovel的过去式和过去分词 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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87
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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88
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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89
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
abstaining
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| 戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的现在分词 )； 弃权（不投票） | |
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91
recipients
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| adj.接受的；受领的；容纳的；愿意接受的n.收件人；接受者；受领者；接受器 | |
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92
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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93
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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94
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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95
pessimists
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| n.悲观主义者( pessimist的名词复数 ) | |
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96
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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97
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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98
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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99
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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100
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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101
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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102
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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103
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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104
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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105
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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106
professes
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| 声称( profess的第三人称单数 )； 宣称； 公开表明； 信奉 | |
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107
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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108
registration
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| n.登记，注册，挂号 | |
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109
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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110
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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111
retract
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| vt.缩回，撤回收回，取消 | |
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112
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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113
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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114
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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115
shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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116
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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117
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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118
shunning
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的现在分词 ) | |
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119
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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120
persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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121
dividends
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| 红利( dividend的名词复数 )； 股息； 被除数； （足球彩票的）彩金 | |
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122
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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123
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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124
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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125
grievances
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| n.委屈( grievance的名词复数 )；苦衷；不满；牢骚 | |
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126
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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127
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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128
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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129
shrilly
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| 尖声的； 光亮的，耀眼的 | |
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130
interning
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| v.拘留，关押( intern的现在分词 ) | |
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131
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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132
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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133
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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134
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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135
spouted
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| adj.装有嘴的v.（指液体）喷出( spout的过去式和过去分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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136
weir
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| n.堰堤，拦河坝 | |
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137
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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138
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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139
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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140
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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141
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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142
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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143
deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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144
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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