The tea-table had been planted in the shade of one of the little summer-houses, and the rest of the party was already assembled about it when Denis and Priscilla made their appearance. Henry Wimbush had begun to pour out the tea. He was one of those ageless, unchanging men on the farther side of fifty, who might be thirty, who might be anything. Denis had known him almost as long as he could remember. In all those years his pale, rather handsome face had never grown any older; it was like the pale grey bowler5 hat which he always wore, winter and summer—unageing, calm, serenely6 without expression.
Next him, but separated from him and from the rest of the world by the almost impenetrable barriers of her deafness, sat Jenny Mullion. She was perhaps thirty, had a tilted7 nose and a pink-and-white complexion8, and wore her brown hair plaited and coiled in two lateral9 buns over her ears. In the secret tower of her deafness she sat apart, looking down at the world through sharply piercing eyes. What did she think of men and women and things? That was something that Denis had never been able to discover. In her enigmatic remoteness Jenny was a little disquieting10. Even now some interior joke seemed to be amusing her, for she was smiling to herself, and her brown eyes were like very bright round marbles.
On his other side the serious, moonlike innocence11 of Mary Bracegirdle’s face shone pink and childish. She was nearly twenty-three, but one wouldn’t have guessed it. Her short hair, clipped like a page’s, hung in a bell of elastic12 gold about her cheeks. She had large blue china eyes, whose expression was one of ingenuous13 and often puzzled earnestness.
Next to Mary a small gaunt man was sitting, rigid14 and erect15 in his chair. In appearance Mr. Scogan was like one of those extinct bird-lizards of the Tertiary. His nose was beaked16, his dark eye had the shining quickness of a robin’s. But there was nothing soft or gracious or feathery about him. The skin of his wrinkled brown face had a dry and scaly17 look; his hands were the hands of a crocodile. His movements were marked by the lizard’s disconcertingly abrupt18 clockwork speed; his speech was thin, fluty, and dry. Henry Wimbush’s school-fellow and exact contemporary, Mr. Scogan looked far older and, at the same time, far more youthfully alive than did that gentle aristocrat19 with the face like a grey bowler.
Mr. Scogan might look like an extinct saurian, but Gombauld was altogether and essentially20 human. In the old-fashioned natural histories of the ‘thirties he might have figured in a steel engraving21 as a type of Homo Sapiens—an honour which at that time commonly fell to Lord Byron. Indeed, with more hair and less collar, Gombauld would have been completely Byronic—more than Byronic, even, for Gombauld was of Provencal descent, a black-haired young corsair of thirty, with flashing teeth and luminous22 large dark eyes. Denis looked at him enviously23. He was jealous of his talent: if only he wrote verse as well as Gombauld painted pictures! Still more, at the moment, he envied Gombauld his looks, his vitality24, his easy confidence of manner. Was it surprising that Anne should like him? Like him?—it might even be something worse, Denis reflected bitterly, as he walked at Priscilla’s side down the long grass terrace.
Between Gombauld and Mr. Scogan a very much lowered deck-chair presented its back to the new arrivals as they advanced towards the tea-table. Gombauld was leaning over it; his face moved vivaciously25; he smiled, he laughed, he made quick gestures with his hands. From the depths of the chair came up a sound of soft, lazy laughter. Denis started as he heard it. That laughter—how well he knew it! What emotions it evoked26 in him! He quickened his pace.
In her low deck-chair Anne was nearer to lying than to sitting. Her long, slender body reposed27 in an attitude of listless and indolent grace. Within its setting of light brown hair her face had a pretty regularity28 that was almost doll-like. And indeed there were moments when she seemed nothing more than a doll; when the oval face, with its long-lashed, pale blue eyes, expressed nothing; when it was no more than a lazy mask of wax. She was Henry Wimbush’s own niece; that bowler-like countenance29 was one of the Wimbush heirlooms; it ran in the family, appearing in its female members as a blank doll-face. But across this dollish mask, like a gay melody dancing over an unchanging fundamental bass30, passed Anne’s other inheritance—quick laughter, light ironic31 amusement, and the changing expressions of many moods. She was smiling now as Denis looked down at her: her cat’s smile, he called it, for no very good reason. The mouth was compressed, and on either side of it two tiny wrinkles had formed themselves in her cheeks. An infinity32 of slightly malicious33 amusement lurked34 in those little folds, in the puckers35 about the half-closed eyes, in the eyes themselves, bright and laughing between the narrowed lids.
The preliminary greetings spoken, Denis found an empty chair between Gombauld and Jenny and sat down.
“How are you, Jenny?” he shouted to her.
Jenny nodded and smiled in mysterious silence, as though the subject of her health were a secret that could not be publicly divulged36.
“How’s London been since I went away?” Anne inquired from the depth of her chair.
The moment had come; the tremendously amusing narrative37 was waiting for utterance38. “Well,” said Denis, smiling happily, “to begin with...”
“Has Priscilla told you of our great antiquarian find?” Henry Wimbush leaned forward; the most promising39 of buds was nipped.
“To begin with,” said Denis desperately40, “there was the Ballet...”
“Last week,” Mr. Wimbush went on softly and implacably, “we dug up fifty yards of oaken drain-pipes; just tree trunks with a hole bored through the middle. Very interesting indeed. Whether they were laid down by the monks41 in the fifteenth century, or whether...”
Denis listened gloomily. “Extraordinary!” he said, when Mr. Wimbush had finished; “quite extraordinary!” He helped himself to another slice of cake. He didn’t even want to tell his tale about London now; he was damped.
For some time past Mary’s grave blue eyes had been fixed42 upon him. “What have you been writing lately?” she asked. It would be nice to have a little literary conversation.
“Oh, verse and prose,” said Denis—“just verse and prose.”
“Yes.”
“Not a novel?”
“Yes.”
“My poor Denis!” exclaimed Mr. Scogan. “What about?”
Denis felt rather uncomfortable. “Oh, about the usual things, you know.”
“Of course,” Mr. Scogan groaned44. “I’ll describe the plot for you. Little Percy, the hero, was never good at games, but he was always clever. He passes through the usual public school and the usual university and comes to London, where he lives among the artists. He is bowed down with melancholy45 thought; he carries the whole weight of the universe upon his shoulders. He writes a novel of dazzling brilliance46; he dabbles47 delicately in Amour and disappears, at the end of the book, into the luminous Future.”
Denis blushed scarlet48. Mr. Scogan had described the plan of his novel with an accuracy that was appalling49. He made an effort to laugh. “You’re entirely50 wrong,” he said. “My novel is not in the least like that.” It was a heroic lie. Luckily, he reflected, only two chapters were written. He would tear them up that very evening when he unpacked51.
Mr. Scogan paid no attention to his denial, but went on: “Why will you young men continue to write about things that are so entirely uninteresting as the mentality52 of adolescents and artists? Professional anthropologists might find it interesting to turn sometimes from the beliefs of the Blackfellow to the philosophical53 preoccupations of the undergraduate. But you can’t expect an ordinary adult man, like myself, to be much moved by the story of his spiritual troubles. And after all, even in England, even in Germany and Russia, there are more adults than adolescents. As for the artist, he is preoccupied54 with problems that are so utterly55 unlike those of the ordinary adult man—problems of pure aesthetics56 which don’t so much as present themselves to people like myself—that a description of his mental processes is as boring to the ordinary reader as a piece of pure mathematics. A serious book about artists regarded as artists is unreadable; and a book about artists regarded as lovers, husbands, dipsomaniacs, heroes, and the like is really not worth writing again. Jean-Christophe is the stock artist of literature, just as Professor Radium of ‘Comic Cuts’ is its stock man of science.”
“I’m sorry to hear I’m as uninteresting as all that,” said Gombauld.
“Not at all, my dear Gombauld,” Mr. Scogan hastened to explain. “As a lover or a dipsomaniac, I’ve no doubt of your being a most fascinating specimen57. But as a combiner of forms, you must honestly admit it, you’re a bore.”
“I entirely disagree with you,” exclaimed Mary. She was somehow always out of breath when she talked. And her speech was punctuated58 by little gasps59. “I’ve known a great many artists, and I’ve always found their mentality very interesting. Especially in Paris. Tschuplitski, for example—I saw a great deal of Tschuplitski in Paris this spring...”
“Ah, but then you’re an exception, Mary, you’re an exception,” said Mr. Scogan. “You are a femme superieure.”
A flush of pleasure turned Mary’s face into a harvest moon.
点击收听单词发音
1 graceful | |
adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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2 remarkably | |
ad.不同寻常地,相当地 | |
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3 yew | |
n.紫杉属树木 | |
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4 cultivation | |
n.耕作,培养,栽培(法),养成 | |
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5 bowler | |
n.打保龄球的人,(板球的)投(球)手 | |
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6 serenely | |
adv.安详地,宁静地,平静地 | |
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7 tilted | |
v. 倾斜的 | |
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8 complexion | |
n.肤色;情况,局面;气质,性格 | |
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9 lateral | |
adj.侧面的,旁边的 | |
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10 disquieting | |
adj.令人不安的,令人不平静的v.使不安,使忧虑,使烦恼( disquiet的现在分词 ) | |
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11 innocence | |
n.无罪;天真;无害 | |
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12 elastic | |
n.橡皮圈,松紧带;adj.有弹性的;灵活的 | |
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13 ingenuous | |
adj.纯朴的,单纯的;天真的;坦率的 | |
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14 rigid | |
adj.严格的,死板的;刚硬的,僵硬的 | |
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15 erect | |
n./v.树立,建立,使竖立;adj.直立的,垂直的 | |
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16 beaked | |
adj.有喙的,鸟嘴状的 | |
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17 scaly | |
adj.鱼鳞状的;干燥粗糙的 | |
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18 abrupt | |
adj.突然的,意外的;唐突的,鲁莽的 | |
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19 aristocrat | |
n.贵族,有贵族气派的人,上层人物 | |
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20 essentially | |
adv.本质上,实质上,基本上 | |
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21 engraving | |
n.版画;雕刻(作品);雕刻艺术;镌版术v.在(硬物)上雕刻(字,画等)( engrave的现在分词 );将某事物深深印在(记忆或头脑中) | |
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22 luminous | |
adj.发光的,发亮的;光明的;明白易懂的;有启发的 | |
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23 enviously | |
adv.满怀嫉妒地 | |
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24 vitality | |
n.活力,生命力,效力 | |
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25 vivaciously | |
adv.快活地;活泼地;愉快地 | |
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26 evoked | |
[医]诱发的 | |
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27 reposed | |
v.将(手臂等)靠在某人(某物)上( repose的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28 regularity | |
n.规律性,规则性;匀称,整齐 | |
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29 countenance | |
n.脸色,面容;面部表情;vt.支持,赞同 | |
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30 bass | |
n.男低音(歌手);低音乐器;低音大提琴 | |
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31 ironic | |
adj.讽刺的,有讽刺意味的,出乎意料的 | |
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32 infinity | |
n.无限,无穷,大量 | |
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33 malicious | |
adj.有恶意的,心怀恶意的 | |
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34 lurked | |
vi.潜伏,埋伏(lurk的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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35 puckers | |
v.(使某物)起褶子或皱纹( pucker的第三人称单数 ) | |
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36 divulged | |
v.吐露,泄露( divulge的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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37 narrative | |
n.叙述,故事;adj.叙事的,故事体的 | |
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38 utterance | |
n.用言语表达,话语,言语 | |
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39 promising | |
adj.有希望的,有前途的 | |
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40 desperately | |
adv.极度渴望地,绝望地,孤注一掷地 | |
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41 monks | |
n.修道士,僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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42 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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43 pounced | |
v.突然袭击( pounce的过去式和过去分词 );猛扑;一眼看出;抓住机会(进行抨击) | |
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44 groaned | |
v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 );发牢骚;抱怨;受苦 | |
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45 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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46 brilliance | |
n.光辉,辉煌,壮丽,(卓越的)才华,才智 | |
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47 dabbles | |
v.涉猎( dabble的第三人称单数 );涉足;浅尝;少量投资 | |
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48 scarlet | |
n.深红色,绯红色,红衣;adj.绯红色的 | |
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49 appalling | |
adj.骇人听闻的,令人震惊的,可怕的 | |
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50 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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51 unpacked | |
v.从(包裹等)中取出(所装的东西),打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 );拆包;解除…的负担;吐露(心事等) | |
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52 mentality | |
n.心理,思想,脑力 | |
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53 philosophical | |
adj.哲学家的,哲学上的,达观的 | |
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54 preoccupied | |
adj.全神贯注的,入神的;被抢先占有的;心事重重的v.占据(某人)思想,使对…全神贯注,使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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55 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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56 aesthetics | |
n.(尤指艺术方面之)美学,审美学 | |
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57 specimen | |
n.样本,标本 | |
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58 punctuated | |
v.(在文字中)加标点符号,加标点( punctuate的过去式和过去分词 );不时打断某事物 | |
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59 gasps | |
v.喘气( gasp的第三人称单数 );喘息;倒抽气;很想要 | |
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