the sky which made it almost impossible for men and women to go about their business.
It was at ten o’clock on that evening that an English lady and gentleman arrived at the Grand H?tel on the Boulevard des Italiens. As I have reasons for concealing3 the names of this married couple, I will call them Mr. and Mrs. Brown. Now, I wish it to be understood that in all the general affairs of life this gentleman and this lady lived happily together, with all the amenities4 which should bind5 a husband and a wife. Mrs. Brown was one of a wealthy family, and Mr.{3} Brown, when he married her, had been relieved from the necessity of earning his bread. Nevertheless, she had at once yielded to him when he expressed a desire to spend the winters of their life in the South of France; and he, though he was by disposition6 somewhat idle, and but little prone7 to the energetic occupations of life, would generally allow himself, at other periods of the year, to be carried hither and thither8 by her, whose more robust9 nature delighted in the excitement of travelling. But on this occasion there had been a little difference between them.
Early in December an intimation had reached Mrs. Brown at Pau that on the coming Christmas there was to be a great gathering11 of all the Thompsons in the Thompson family hall at Stratford-le-Bow, and that she, who had been a Thompson, was desired to join the party with her husband. On this occasion her only sister was desirous of introducing to the family generally a most excellent young man to whom she had recently become engaged. The Thompsons—the real name, however, is in fact concealed—were a numerous and a thriving people. There were uncles and cousins and brothers who had all done well in the world, and who{4} were all likely to do better still. One had lately been returned to Parliament for the Essex Flats, and was at the time of which I am writing a conspicuous12 member of the gallant13 Conservative majority. It was partly in triumph at this success that the great Christmas gathering of the Thompsons was to be held, and an opinion had been expressed by the legislator himself that, should Mrs. Brown, with her husband, fail to join the family on this happy occasion, she and he would be regarded as being but fainéant Thompsons.
Since her marriage, which was an affair now nearly eight years old, Mrs. Brown had never passed a Christmas in England. The desirability of doing so had often been mooted14 by her. Her very soul craved15 the festivities of holly16 and mince-pies. There had ever been meetings of the Thompsons at Thompson Hall, though meetings not so significant, not so important to the family, as this one which was now to be collected. More than once had she expressed a wish to see old Christmas again in the old house among the old faces. But her husband had always pleaded a certain weakness about his throat and chest as a reason for remaining among the delights of Pau. Year{5} after year she had yielded, and now this loud summons had come.
It was not without considerable trouble that she had induced Mr. Brown to come as far as Paris. Most unwillingly17 had he left Pau; and then, twice on his journey—both at Bordeaux and Tours—he had made an attempt to return. From the first moment he had pleaded his throat, and when at last he had consented to make the journey, he had stipulated18 for sleeping at those two towns and at Paris. Mrs. Brown, who, with no slightest feeling of fatigue19, could have made the journey from Pau to Stratford without stopping, had assented20 to everything, so that they might be at Thompson Hall on Christmas-eve. When Mr. Brown uttered his unavailing complaints at the first two towns at which they stayed, she did not, perhaps, quite believe all that he said of his own condition. We know how prone the strong are to suspect the weakness of the weak—as the weak are to be disgusted by the strength of the strong. There were, perhaps, a few words between them on the journey, but the result had hitherto been in favor of the lady. She had succeeded in bringing Mr. Brown as far as Paris.
Had the occasion been less important, no{6} doubt she would have yielded. The weather had been bad even when they left Pau, but as they had made their way northward21 it had become worse and still worse. As they left Tours, Mr. Brown, in a hoarse22 whisper, had declared his conviction that the journey would kill him. Mrs. Brown, however, had unfortunately noticed half an hour before that he had scolded the waiter on the score of an over-charged franc or two with a loud and clear voice. Had she really believed that there was danger, or even suffering, she would have yielded; but no woman is satisfied in such a matter to be taken in by false pretences23. She observed that he ate a good dinner on his way to Paris, and that he took a small glass of cognac with complete relish24, which a man really suffering from bronchitis surely would not do. So she persevered25, and brought him into Paris, late in the evening, in the midst of all that slush and snow. Then, as they sat down to supper, she thought he did speak hoarsely26, and her loving feminine heart began to misgive27 her.
But this now was, at any rate, clear to her,—that he could not be worse off by going on to London than he would be should he remain in Paris. If a man is to be ill, he had better be ill{7} in the bosom28 of his family than at a hotel. What comfort could he have, what relief, in that huge barrack? As for the cruelty of the weather, London could not be worse than Paris, and then she thought she had heard that sea air is good for a sore throat. In that bedroom which had been allotted29 to them au quatrieme they could not even get a decent fire. It would in every way be wrong now to forego the great Christmas gathering when nothing could be gained by staying in Paris.
She had perceived that, as her husband became really ill, he became also more tractable30 and less disputatious. Immediately after that little glass of cognac he had declared that he would be —— if he would go beyond Paris, and she began to fear that, after all, everything would have been done in vain. But as they went down to supper between ten and eleven he was more subdued31, and merely remarked that this journey would, he was sure, be the death of him. It was half past eleven when they got back to their bedroom, and then he seemed to speak with good sense, and also with much real apprehension32. “If I can’t get something to relieve me, I know I shall never make my way on,” he said. It was intended{8} that they should leave the hotel at half past five the next morning, so as to arrive at Stratford, travelling by the tidal train, at half past seven on Christmas-eve. The early hour, the
long journey, the infamous33 weather, the prospect34 of that horrid35 gulf36 between Boulogne and Folkestone, would have been as nothing to Mrs. Brown, had it not been for that settled look of anguish37 which had now pervaded38 her husband’s face. “If you don’t find something to relieve me, I shall never live through it,” he said again, sinking back into the questionable39 comfort of a Parisian hotel arm-chair.
“But, my dear, what can I do?” she asked, almost in tears, standing40 over him and caressing41 him. He was a thin, genteel-looking man, with a fine long soft brown beard, a little bald at the top of the head, but certainly a genteel-looking man. She loved him dearly, and in her softer moods was apt to spoil him with her caresses42. “What can I do, my dearie? You know I would do anything if I could. Get into{9} bed, my pet, and be warm, and then to-morrow morning you will be all right.” At this moment he was preparing himself for his bed, and she was assisting him. Then she tied a piece of flannel43 round his throat, and kissed him, and put him in beneath the bedclothes.
“I’ll tell you what you can do,” he said, very hoarsely. His voice was so bad now that she could hardly hear him. So she crept close to him, and bent44 over him. She would do anything if he would only say what. Then he told her what was his plan. Down in the salon45 he had seen a large jar of mustard standing on a sideboard. As he left the room he had observed that this had not been withdrawn46 with the other appurtenances of the meal. If she could manage to find her way down there, taking with her a handkerchief folded for the purpose, and if she could then appropriate a part of the contents of that jar, and, returning with her prize, apply it to his throat, he thought that he could get some relief, so that he might be able to leave his bed the next morning at five. “But I am afraid it will be very disagreeable for you to go down all alone at this time of night,” he croaked47 out in a piteous whisper.
“Of course I’ll go,” said she. “I don’t mind{10} going in the least. Nobody will bite me”; and she at once began to fold a clean handkerchief. “I won’t be two minutes, my darling; and if there is a grain of mustard in the house, I’ll have it on your chest almost immediately.” She was a woman not easily cowed, and the journey down into the salon was nothing to her. Before she went she tucked the clothes carefully up to his ears, and then she started.
To run along the first corridor till she came to a flight of stairs was easy enough, and easy enough to descend48 them. Then there was another corridor and another flight, and a third corridor and a third flight, and she began to think that she was wrong. She found herself in a part of the hotel which she had not hitherto visited, and soon discovered by looking through an open door or two that she had found her way among a set of private sitting-rooms which she had not seen before. Then she tried to make her way back, up the same stairs and through the same passages, so that she might start again. She was beginning to think that she had lost herself altogether, and that she would be able to find neither the salon nor her bedroom, when she happily met the night porter. She was dressed in a loose white{11} dressing-gown, with a white net over her loose hair, and with white worsted slippers49. I ought, perhaps, to have described her personal appearance sooner. She was a large woman with a
commanding bust10, thought by some to be handsome, after the manner of Juno. But with strangers there was a certain severity of manner about her—a fortification, as it were, of her virtue50 against all possible attacks—a declared determination to maintain, at all points, the beautiful character of a British matron, which, much as it had been appreciated at Thompson Hall, had met with some ill-natured criticism among French men and women. At Pau she had been called La Fière{12} Anglaise. The name had reached her own ears and those of her husband. He had been much annoyed, but she had taken it in good part—had, indeed, been somewhat proud of the title—and had endeavored to live up to it. With her husband she could, on occasion, be soft, but she was of opinion that with other men a British matron should be stern. She was now greatly in want of assistance; but, nevertheless, when she met the porter she remembered her character. “I have lost my way wandering through these horrid passages,” she said in her severest tone. This was in answer to some question from him—some question to which her reply was given very slowly. Then, when he asked where madame wished to go, she paused, again thinking what destination she would announce. No doubt the man could take her back to her bedroom, but if so, the mustard must be renounced51, and with the mustard, as she now feared, all hope of reaching Thompson Hall on Christmas-eve. But she, though she was in many respects a brave woman, did not dare to tell the man that she was prowling about the hotel in order that she might make a midnight raid upon the mustard pot. She paused, therefore, for a moment,{13} that she might collect her thoughts, erecting52 her head as she did so in her best Juno fashion, till the porter was lost in admiration53. Thus she gained time to fabricate a tale. She had, she said, dropped her handkerchief under the supper-table; would he show her the way to the salon, in order that she might pick it up? But the porter did more than that, and accompanied her to the room in which she had supped.
Here, of course, there was a prolonged and, it need hardly be said, a vain search. The good-natured man insisted on emptying an enormous receptacle of soiled table napkins, and on turning them over one by one, in order that the lady’s property might be found. The lady stood by unhappy, but still patient, and as the man was stooping to his work, her eye was on the mustard pot. There it was, capable of containing enough to blister54 the throats of a score of sufferers. She edged off a little toward it while the man was busy, trying to persuade herself that he would surely forgive her if she took the mustard and told him her whole story. But the descent from her Juno bearing would have been so great! She must have owned, not only to the quest for mustard, but also to a{14} fib—and she could not do it. The porter was at last of opinion that madame must have made a mistake, and madame acknowledged that she was afraid it was so.
With a longing55, lingering eye, with an eye turned back, oh! so sadly to the great jar, she left the room, the porter leading the way. She assured him that she would find it by herself, but he would not leave her till he had put her on to the proper passage. The journey seemed to be longer now even than before; but as she ascended56 the many stairs she swore to herself that she would not even yet be balked57 of her object. Should her husband want comfort for his poor throat, and the comfort be there within her reach, and he not have it? She counted every stair as she went up, and marked every turn well. She was sure now that she would know the way, and that she could return to the room without fault. She would go back to the salon. Even though the man should encounter her again, she would go boldly forward and seize the remedy which her poor husband so grievously required.
“Ah, yes,” she said, when the porter told her that her room, No. 333, was in the corridor which they had then reached, “I know it all{15} now. I am so much obliged. Do not come a step farther.” He was anxious to accompany her up to the very door, but she stood in the passage, and prevailed. He lingered awhile—naturally. Unluckily, she had brought no money with her, and could not give him the two-franc piece which he had earned. Nor could she fetch it from her room, feeling that, were she to return to her husband without the mustard, no second attempt would be possible. The disappointed man turned on his heel at last, and made his way down the stairs and along the passage. It seemed to her to be almost an eternity58 while she listened to his still audible footsteps. She had gone on, creeping noiselessly up to the very door of her room, and there she stood, shading the candle in her hand, till she thought that the man must have wandered away into some farthest corner of that endless building. Then she turned once more and retraced59 her steps.
There was no difficulty now as to the way. She knew it, every stair. At the head of each flight she stood and listened, but not a sound was to be heard, and then she went on again. Her heart beat high with anxious desire to achieve her object, and at the same{16} time with fear. What might
have been explained so easily at first would now be as difficult of explanation, At last she was in the great public vestibule, which she was now visiting for the third time, and of which, at her last visit, she had taken the bearings accurately60. The door was there—closed, indeed, but it opened f to the hand, the hall and on e stairs and o n g the passages there had been gas, but here there was no light beyond that given by the little taper61 which she carried. When accompanied by the{17} porter she had not feared the darkness, but now there was something in the obscurity which made her dread62 to walk the length of the room up to the mustard jar. She paused, and listened, and trembled. Then she thought of the glories of Thompson Hall, of the genial63 warmth of a British Christmas, of that proud legislator who was her first cousin, and with a rush she made good the distance, and laid her hand upon the copious64 delf. She looked round, but there was no one there; no sound was heard; not the distant creak of a shoe, not a rattle65 from one of those thousand doors. As she paused with her fair hand upon the top of the jar, while the other held the white cloth on which the medicinal compound was to be placed, she looked like Lady Macbeth as she listened at Duncan’s chamber66 door.
There was no doubt as to the sufficiency of the contents. The jar was full nearly up to the lips. The mixture was, no doubt, very different from that good, wholesome67 English mustard which your cook makes fresh for you, with a little water, in two minutes. It was impregnated with a sour odor, and was, to English eyes, unwholesome of color. But still it was mustard. She seized the horn spoon, and{18} without further delay spread an ample sufficiency on the folded square of the handkerchief. Then she commenced to hurry her return.
But still there was a difficulty, no thought of which had occurred to her before. The candle occupied one hand, so that she had but the other for the sustenance68 of her treasure. Had she brought a plate or saucer from the salon, it would have been all well. As it was, she was obliged to keep her eye intent on her right hand, and to proceed very slowly on her return journey. She was surprised to find what an aptitude69 the thing had to slip from her grasp. But still she progressed slowly, and was careful not to miss a turning. At last she was safe at her chamber door. There it was, No. 333.
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1
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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afflicting
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| 痛苦的 | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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amenities
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| n.令人愉快的事物；礼仪；礼节；便利设施；礼仪( amenity的名词复数 )；便利设施；（环境等的）舒适；（性情等的）愉快 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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prone
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| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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mooted
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| adj.未决定的，有争议的，有疑问的v.提出…供讨论( moot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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craved
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| 渴望，热望( crave的过去式 )； 恳求，请求 | |
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holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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stipulated
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| vt.& vi.规定；约定adj.[法]合同规定的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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pretences
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| n.假装( pretence的名词复数 )；作假；自命；自称 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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persevered
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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misgive
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tractable
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| adj.易驾驭的；温顺的 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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questionable
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| adj.可疑的，有问题的 | |
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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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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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croaked
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的过去式和过去分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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51
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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erecting
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| v.使直立，竖起( erect的现在分词 )；建立 | |
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53
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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blister
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| n.水疱；(油漆等的)气泡；v.(使)起泡 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
balked
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| v.畏缩不前，犹豫( balk的过去式和过去分词 )；（指马）不肯跑 | |
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58
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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66
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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68
sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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