“Small as it is, I shan’t get it,” he thought to himself. He began repeating this stupidly, and stuck at word “shan’t.” His brain and mouth clogged3 up, he stuttered thickly in his mind. He sprang up. But the slovenly4, hopeless quality of the bed clung to him. This was a frivolous5 demonstration6. He wandered to the window; stood staring out, nose flattened7 against the pane8.
The sudden quiet and idleness of his personality was an awakening9 after the little nightmare of Suzanne. But it was not a refreshing10 one.
His portmanteau had always received certain consideration, as being, next the dress-suit, the most dependable article among those beneath his sway—to come to his aid if their common existence were threatened. He had now thrown it under the bed with disgust. He and all his goods were rubbish for the streets.
He sauntered from the window to the bed and back. Whenever he liked, in a sense, he would open the door and go out; but still, until then (and when would he “like”?) he was a poor prisoner. Outside, he took some strength and importance from others. In here he touched bottom and realized what the Kreisler-self was, with four walls round it.
His muscles were still full. They symbolized11 his uselessness. The thought, so harsh and tyrannical,[104] of his once more going to the window and gazing down at the street beneath made him draw back his chair. He sat midway in the room, looking steadily12 out at the housetops. But, like his vigorous muscles and his deadness, there was the same contradiction; his mechanical obstinacy13 as regards Anastasya and his comic activity at present to get to a dance.
Comrades at painting school, nodding acquaintances, etc., were once more run through. None valued his acquaintance at more than thirty centimes, if that.
Perhaps Anastasya had left Paris? This solution, occurring sometimes, had only made his activity during the last few days more mad and mechanical—the pursuit of a shadow.
Ten minutes later, through a series of difficult clockwork-like actions, he had got once more to Lejeune’s to have lunch. With disgust he took what had been his usual seat latterly, at the table in the recess14; the one place, he was sure, Anastasya would never be found in again, wherever else she might be found.
Lunch nearly over, he caught sight of Lowndes. “Hi, Master Lowndes!” he called out—always assuming great bluffness15 and brutality16, as he called it, with English people, and laborious17 opposite to “stiffness.” “How do you do?”
The moment his eye had fallen on “Master” Lowndes this friend’s probable national opulence18 had occurred to him as a tantalizing19 fact. No gross decision could be come to in that moment. Lowndes was called to be kept there a little bit, while he turned things over and made up his mind. This was an acquaintance existing chiefly on chaff20 and national antithesis21. It meant nothing to him. What matter if he were refused? Lowndes not being a compatriot made it easier. Something must be sacrificed. Lowndes’ acquaintanceship was a possession something equivalent to a cheap ring, a souvenir. He must part with it, if necessary.
Lowndes grinned at sight of Kreisler. He had finished his own lunch and was just going off. He had almost forgotten his idea in coming to the[105] restaurant, that of seeing his German acquaintance. Swaying from side to side on his two superlatively elastic22 calves23, he sat down opposite the good Otto, who leered back, blinking. He spoke24 German better than Kreisler any other language, so they used that, after a little flourish of English.
“Well, what have you been doing? Working?”
“No,” replied Kreisler. “I’m giving up painting and becoming a business man. My father has offered me a position!”
This subject seemed no more important than his speech made it, and yet it filled his life. Lowndes smiled correctly, not suspecting realities.
“Have you seen Douglas?” This was a friend through whom they had known each other in Italy.
Why should this fellow lend him thirty francs? The grin would not be there, he felt, had he been conscious that the other was thinking of the contents of his pocket. Not humour, but a much colder stuff no doubt mounted guard over his pocket-book, guarantee of this easiness and health. Oh, the offensive prosperity of the English, smugness of middle-class affluence25! etc. etc.
Kreisler imagined the change that would come over this face when there was question of thirty francs. Estrangement26 set in on his side already, anger and humiliation27 at the imagined expression. This was of help. Here was his chance of borrowing that very insignificant28 but illusive29 sum. The man was already an enemy. He would willingly have knocked him on the head and taken his money had they been in a quiet place.
The complacent30 health and humoristic phlegm with which he grinned and perambulated through life charged Kreisler with the contempt natural to his more stiff and human education. His relations with him hinging on mild racial differences, he saw behind him the long line of all the Englishmen he had ever known. “Useless swine,” he thought, “so pleased with his cursed English face, and mean as a peasant!”
“Oh, I was asked for my opinion on a certain[106] matter this morning. I was asked what I thought of German women!”
“What reply did you make, Mr. Lowndes?”
“I didn’t know what to say. I suggested that my friend should come along and get your opinion.”
“My opinion as an expert? My fees as an expert are heavy. I charge thirty francs a consultation31!”
“I’m sure he’d have paid that,” Lowndes laughed innocently. Kreisler surveyed him unsympathetically.
“What, then, is your opinion of our excellent females?” he asked.
“Oh, I have no opinion. I admire your ladies, especially the pure Prussians.”
Kreisler was thinking: “If I borrow the money, there must be some time mentioned for paying back—next week, say. He would be more likely to lend it if he knew where to find me. He must have my address.”
“Come and see me—some time,” he blinked. “52 Boulevard Pfeiffer, fourth floor, just beside the restaurant here. You see? Up there.”
“I will. I looked you up at your old address a month or so ago; they didn’t know where you’d gone.”
Kreisler stared fixedly32 at him—a way of covering discomfiture33 felt at this news. The old address reminded him of several little debts there. For this reason he had not told them where he was going. The concierge34 would complain of her old tenant35; probably, even, Lowndes might have been shown derelict tradesmen’s bills. Not much encouragement for his proposed victim!
Lowndes was writing on a piece of paper.
“There’s my address: Rue36 des Flammes.”
Kreisler looked at it rather fussily37 and said over: “5 Rue des Flammes. Lowndes.” He hesitated and repeated the name.
“R. W.—Robert Wooton. Here, I’ll write it down for you.”
“Are you in a hurry? Come and have a drink[107] at the Berne,” Kreisler suggested when he had made up his bill.
On the way Lowndes continued a discourse38.
“A novelist I knew told me he changed the names of the characters in a book several times in the course of writing it. It freshened them up, according to him. He said that the majority of people were killed by their names. I think a name is a man’s soul.”
Kreisler forged ahead, rhythmically39 and sullenly40.
“If we had numbers, for instance, instead of names, who would take the number thirteen?” Lowndes wondered in German.
“I,” said Kreisler.
“Would you?”
Every minute Kreisler delayed increased the difficulty. His energy was giving out. They were now sitting on the terrasse at the Berne. He had developed a particular antipathy41 to borrowing. An immense personal neurasthenia had grown up round this habit of his, owing to his late discomfitures. He already heard an awkward voice, saw awkward eyes. Then he suddenly concluded that the fact that Lowndes was not a German made it more difficult, instead of less so, as he had thought. Why could he not take?—why petition? He knew that if Lowndes refused he would break out; he nearly did so as it was. With disgust and fatigue42 he lay back in his chair, paying no attention to what Lowndes was saying. His mind was made up. He would not proceed with his designs on this dirty pocket. He became rough and monosyllabic. He wished to purify himself in rudeness of his preceding amiability43.
Lowndes had been looking at a newspaper. He put it down and said he must go back to “work.” His “morning” had, of course, been interrupted by Tarr!
Kreisler still saw the expression on the Englishman’s face he had imagined, and restrained with difficulty the desire to spit in it. The nearness they had been to this demand must have affected44, he thought, even his impervious45 companion. He had asked and been[108] refused, to all intents and purposes. He got up, left Lowndes standing46 there, and went into the lavatory47 at the side of the café, where he had a thorough wash in cold water.
Back at his table, he saw no sign of the Englishman, and sat down to finish his drink, considering what his next move should be.
Various pursuits suggested themselves. He might go and offer himself as model at some big private studios near the Observatoire. He could get a week’s money advanced him? He would dress as a woman and waylay48 somebody or other on the boulevards. He might steal some money. Volker was the last. He came just after murder. He would go to Ernst Volker—he with his little obstinate49 resolve in obscurity of his mind no longer to be Kreisler’s acquaintance. Obstinacy in people of weak character is the perfectly50 exasperating51 thing. They have no right to their resoluteness—appearing weaker and meaner than ever in anomalous52 tenacity53. Volker, naturally submissive, had broken away and was posing somewhere as a stranger. He felt physical disgust; this proceeding54 was indecent.
A spirit that has mingled55 with another, suddenly covering itself and wishing to regain56 its strangeness, can be as indecent as a strange being suddenly baring itself. A man’s being is never divined so completely and pungently57 as when his friendship cools and he becomes once more a stranger. This is one of the moments when the imagination, most awake, sees best.
This little rat’s instinctive58 haste to separate from him was an ill omen1: what did he care for omens59? he clamoured impatiently.
At this juncture60 in his reflections, from where he sat on the café terrace he saw Volker’s back, as he supposed, disappearing round a corner, as though trying to avoid a meeting. Blood came to his head with a shock. He nearly sprang forward in pursuit of this unsociable form. Rushing words of insult[109] rose to his lips, he fidgeted on his seat, gazed blankly at the spot where he had seen the figure. That it was no longer there exasperated61 him beyond measure. It was as though he considered that Ernst should have remained at the corner, immobile, with his back towards him, a visible mark and fuel for anger. He made a sign to the waiter, indicating that his drink would go into his “tick.” He then hurried off in the direction of Volker’s house—the direction also that the back had taken—determined to get something out of him. Kreisler, letting instinct guide his steps, took the wrong turning—following, in fact, his customary morning’s itinerary62. He found himself suddenly far beyond the street Volker lived in, near Juan Soler’s atelier. He gazed down the street towards the atelier, then took off his glasses and began carefully wiping them. While doing this he heard words of greeting and found Volker at his elbow.
“Hallo! You look pretty hot. You nearly knocked me over a minute ago in your haste,” he was saying.
Kreisler jumped—as the bravest might if, having stoutly63 confronted an apparition64, it suddenly became a man of flesh and blood. Had his glasses been firmly planted on his nose things might have gone differently. He frowned vacantly at Ernst and went on rubbing them.
Volker saw that something was wrong. It would have been to his advantage also to “have out” anything that was there and have done with it. But in his attitude German sluggishness65 seemed appealing to the same element in Kreisler’s nature, claiming its support and sympathy.
“It’s dreadfully hot!” he said uneasily, looking round as though examining the heat. He stepped up on to the pavement out of the way of a horse-meat cart. The large-panelled conveyance66, full of enormous outlandish red carcases, went rushing down the street, carrying an area of twenty yards of deafness with it. This explosion of sound had a pacifying67 effect on Kreisler; it made him smile for some reason or[110] other. Volker went on: “I don’t know whether I told you about my show.”
“What show?” Kreisler asked rudely.
“In Berlin, you know. It has not gone badly. Our compatriots improve. I’ve got a commission to paint the Countess Wort. What have you been doing lately?” There was a forbidding pause. “I’ve intended coming round to see you; but I’ve been sticking at home working. Have you been round at the Berne?” He spoke rapidly and confidentially68, as two business men meeting in the street and always in a hurry might try and compress into a few minutes, between two handshakes, a lot of personal news. He seemed to wish to combine conviction that he was very anxious to tell Kreisler all about himself and (by his hurried air) paralysis69 of the other’s intention to have an explanation.
“I am glad you are going to paint the Countess Wort. I congratulate you, Mr. Volker! I am in a hurry. Good day.”
Kreisler turned and walked towards the Atelier Juan Soler. For no reason (except that it was impossible) he could not get money from Volker. It was as though that money would not be real money at all. Supposing he got it; the first place he tried to pass it the man would say, “This is not money.” As for taking him to task, his red, correct face made it impossible; it had suddenly become a lesson and exercise that it would be ridiculous to repeat. He was not a schoolboy.
Volker walked away ruffled70. He was mortified71 that, by apprehension72 of a scene, he had been so friendly. The old Otto had scored. He, Volker, had humiliated73 himself needlessly, for it was evident Kreisler’s manner had been misinterpreted by him.
Kreisler had not intended going to Soler’s that day. Yet there he was, presumably got there now to avoid Ernst Volker. He saw himself starting up from the Berne a quarter of an hour before, steaming away in pursuit of a skulking74 friend—impetus of angry thought carrying him far beyond his destination;[111] then Volker comes along and runs him into the painting school. He compared himself to one of those little steam toys that go straight ahead without stopping; that any one can take up and send puffing75 away in the opposite direction. Humouring this fancy, he entered the studio with the gaze a man might wear who had fallen through a ceiling and found himself in a strange room in midst of a family circle. The irresponsible, resigned, and listless air signified whimsical expectancy76. Some other figure would rise up, no doubt, and turn him streetwards again?
A member of the race which has learnt to sleep standing up posed on the throne. He had suddenly come amongst brothers. He was as torpid77 as she, as indifferent as these mechanical students. The clock struck. With a glance at the massier, the model slowly and rhythmically abandoned her rigid78 attitude, coming to life as living statues do in ballets; reached stiffly for her chemise. The dozen other figures, who had been slowly pulsing—advancing or retreating, suspended around her yellowness—now laboriously79 moved, relapsing aimlessly here and there, chiefly against walls.
He had been considering a fat back and especially a parting carried half-way down the back of the head. Why should not its owner, and gardener, he had reflected, continue it the whole distance down, dividing his head in half with a line of white scalp? This man now turned on him sudden, unsurprised, placid80 eyes. Had he eyes, as well as a parting, at the back of his head? Kreisler felt on the verge81 of courteous82 discussion as to whether that parting should or should not be gone on with till it reached the neck.
Three had struck. He left and returned to the neighbourhood of the Berne by the same and longest route, as though to efface83 in some way his previous foolish journey.
Every three or four hours vague hope recurred84 of the delayed letter, like hunger recurring85 at the hour[112] of meals. He went up to the loge of his house and knocked.
“Il n’y a rien pour vous!”
Four hours remained. The German party was to meet at Fr?ulein Lipmann’s after dinner.
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1
omen
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| n.征兆，预兆；vt.预示 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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clogged
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| （使）阻碍( clog的过去式和过去分词 )； 淤滞 | |
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slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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flattened
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| [医]（水）平扁的，弄平的 | |
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pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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symbolized
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| v.象征，作为…的象征( symbolize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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15
bluffness
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| 率直，坦率，直峭 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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17
laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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19
tantalizing
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| adj.逗人的；惹弄人的；撩人的；煽情的v.逗弄，引诱，折磨( tantalize的现在分词 ) | |
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20
chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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antithesis
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| n.对立；相对 | |
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elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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24
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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affluence
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| n.充裕，富足 | |
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estrangement
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| n.疏远，失和，不和 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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illusive
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| adj.迷惑人的，错觉的 | |
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complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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concierge
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| n.管理员；门房 | |
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tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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fussily
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| adv.无事空扰地，大惊小怪地，小题大做地 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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rhythmically
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| adv.有节奏地 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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41
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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43
amiability
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| n.和蔼可亲的，亲切的，友善的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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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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lavatory
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| n.盥洗室，厕所 | |
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48
waylay
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| v.埋伏，伏击 | |
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49
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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51
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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52
anomalous
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| adj.反常的；不规则的 | |
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53
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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54
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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55
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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56
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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57
pungently
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| adv.苦痛地，尖锐地 | |
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58
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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59
omens
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| n.前兆，预兆( omen的名词复数 ) | |
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60
juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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61
exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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62
itinerary
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| n.行程表，旅行路线；旅行计划 | |
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stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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sluggishness
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| 不振，萧条，呆滞；惰性；滞性；惯性 | |
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66
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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67
pacifying
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| 使（某人）安静( pacify的现在分词 )； 息怒； 抚慰； 在（有战争的地区、国家等）实现和平 | |
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68
confidentially
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| ad.秘密地，悄悄地 | |
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69
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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70
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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71
mortified
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| v.使受辱( mortify的过去式和过去分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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72
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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73
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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74
skulking
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| v.潜伏，偷偷摸摸地走动，鬼鬼祟祟地活动( skulk的现在分词 ) | |
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75
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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76
expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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77
torpid
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| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
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78
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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79
laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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80
placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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81
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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82
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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83
efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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84
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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85
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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