“Private. Not to be opened,” was written in capital letters on the cover. He raised his eyebrows7. It was the sort of thing one wrote in one’s Latin Grammar while one was still at one’s preparatory school.
But blacker the thief who steals this book!”
It was curiously9 childish, he thought, and he smiled to himself. He opened the book. What he saw made him wince10 as though he had been struck.
Denis was his own severest critic; so, at least, he had always believed. He liked to think of himself as a merciless vivisector probing into the palpitating entrails of his own soul; he was Brown Dog to himself. His weaknesses, his absurdities—no one knew them better than he did. Indeed, in a vague way he imagined that nobody beside himself was aware of them at all. It seemed, somehow, inconceivable that he should appear to other people as they appeared to him; inconceivable that they ever spoke11 of him among themselves in that same freely critical and, to be quite honest, mildly malicious12 tone in which he was accustomed to talk of them. In his own eyes he had defects, but to see them was a privilege reserved to him alone. For the rest of the world he was surely an image of flawless crystal. It was almost axiomatic13.
On opening the red notebook that crystal image of himself crashed to the ground, and was irreparably shattered. He was not his own severest critic after all. The discovery was a painful one.
The fruit of Jenny’s unobtrusive scribbling lay before him. A caricature of himself, reading (the book was upside-down). In the background a dancing couple, recognisable as Gombauld and Anne. Beneath, the legend: “Fable of the Wallflower and the Sour Grapes.” Fascinated and horrified14, Denis pored over the drawing. It was masterful. A mute, inglorious Rouveyre appeared in every one of those cruelly clear lines. The expression of the face, an assumed aloofness15 and superiority tempered by a feeble envy; the attitude of the body and limbs, an attitude of studious and scholarly dignity, given away by the fidgety pose of the turned-in feet—these things were terrible. And, more terrible still, was the likeness16, was the magisterial17 certainty with which his physical peculiarities18 were all recorded and subtly exaggerated.
Denis looked deeper into the book. There were caricatures of other people: of Priscilla and Mr. Barbecue-Smith; of Henry Wimbush, of Anne and Gombauld; of Mr. Scogan, whom Jenny had represented in a light that was more than slightly sinister19, that was, indeed, diabolic; of Mary and Ivor. He scarcely glanced at them. A fearful desire to know the worst about himself possessed20 him. He turned over the leaves, lingering at nothing that was not his own image. Seven full pages were devoted21 to him.
“Private. Not to be opened.” He had disobeyed the injunction; he had only got what he deserved. Thoughtfully he closed the book, and slid the rubber band once more into its place. Sadder and wiser, he went out on to the terrace. And so this, he reflected, this was how Jenny employed the leisure hours in her ivory tower apart. And he had thought her a simple-minded, uncritical creature! It was he, it seemed, who was the fool. He felt no resentment23 towards Jenny. No, the distressing24 thing wasn’t Jenny herself; it was what she and the phenomenon of her red book represented, what they stood for and concretely symbolised. They represented all the vast conscious world of men outside himself; they symbolised something that in his studious solitariness25 he was apt not to believe in. He could stand at Piccadilly Circus, could watch the crowds shuffle26 past, and still imagine himself the one fully22 conscious, intelligent, individual being among all those thousands. It seemed, somehow, impossible that other people should be in their way as elaborate and complete as he in his. Impossible; and yet, periodically he would make some painful discovery about the external world and the horrible reality of its consciousness and its intelligence. The red notebook was one of these discoveries, a footprint in the sand. It put beyond a doubt the fact that the outer world really existed.
Sitting on the balustrade of the terrace, he ruminated27 this unpleasant truth for some time. Still chewing on it, he strolled pensively28 down towards the swimming-pool. A peacock and his hen trailed their shabby finery across the turf of the lower lawn. Odious29 birds! Their necks, thick and greedily fleshy at the roots, tapered30 up to the cruel inanity31 of their brainless heads, their flat eyes and piercing beaks32. The fabulists were right, he reflected, when they took beasts to illustrate33 their tractates of human morality. Animals resemble men with all the truthfulness34 of a caricature. (Oh, the red notebook!) He threw a piece of stick at the slowly pacing birds. They rushed towards it, thinking it was something to eat.
He walked on. The profound shade of a giant ilex tree engulfed35 him. Like a great wooden octopus36, it spread its long arms abroad.
“Under the spreading ilex tree...”
He tried to remember who the poem was by, but couldn’t.
With arms like rubber bands.”
Just like his; he would have to try and do his Muller exercises more regularly.
He emerged once more into the sunshine. The pool lay before him, reflecting in its bronze mirror the blue and various green of the summer day. Looking at it, he thought of Anne’s bare arms and seal-sleek bathing-dress, her moving knees and feet.
“And little Luce with the white legs,
And bouncing Barbary...”
Oh, these rags and tags of other people’s making! Would he ever be able to call his brain his own? Was there, indeed, anything in it that was truly his own, or was it simply an education?
He walked slowly round the water’s edge. In an embayed recess38 among the surrounding yew39 trees, leaning her back against the pedestal of a pleasantly comic version of the Medici Venus, executed by some nameless mason of the seicento, he saw Mary pensively sitting.
“Hullo!” he said, for he was passing so close to her that he had to say something.
Mary looked up. “Hullo!” she answered in a melancholy40, uninterested tone.
In this alcove41 hewed42 out of the dark trees, the atmosphere seemed to Denis agreeably elegiac. He sat down beside her under the shadow of the pudic goddess. There was a prolonged silence.
At breakfast that morning Mary had found on her plate a picture postcard of Gobley Great Park. A stately Georgian pile, with a facade43 sixteen windows wide; parterres in the foreground; huge, smooth lawns receding44 out of the picture to right and left. Ten years more of the hard times and Gobley, with all its peers, will be deserted and decaying. Fifty years, and the countryside will know the old landmarks45 no more. They will have vanished as the monasteries46 vanished before them. At the moment, however, Mary’s mind was not moved by these considerations.
On the back of the postcard, next to the address, was written, in Ivor’s bold, large hand, a single quatrain.
“Hail, maid of moonlight! Bride of the sun, farewell!
There sleep within my heart’s most mystic cell
Memories of morning, memories of the night.”
There followed a postscript48 of three lines: “Would you mind asking one of the housemaids to forward the packet of safety-razor blades I left in the drawer of my washstand. Thanks.—Ivor.”
Seated under the Venus’s immemorial gesture, Mary considered life and love. The abolition49 of her repressions50, so far from bringing the expected peace of mind, had brought nothing but disquiet51, a new and hitherto unexperienced misery52. Ivor, Ivor...She couldn’t do without him now. It was evident, on the other hand, from the poem on the back of the picture postcard, that Ivor could very well do without her. He was at Gobley now, so was Zenobia. Mary knew Zenobia. She thought of the last verse of the song he had sung that night in the garden.
Aurait donne moutons et chien
Pour un baiser que le volage
A Lisette donnait pour rien.”
Mary shed tears at the memory; she had never been so unhappy in all her life before.
It was Denis who first broke the silence. “The individual,” he began in a soft and sadly philosophical54 tone, “is not a self-supporting universe. There are times when he comes into contact with other individuals, when he is forced to take cognisance of the existence of other universes besides himself.”
He had contrived55 this highly abstract generalisation as a preliminary to a personal confidence. It was the first gambit in a conversation that was to lead up to Jenny’s caricatures.
“True,” said Mary; and, generalising for herself, she added, “When one individual comes into intimate contact with another, she—or he, of course, as the case may be—must almost inevitably56 receive or inflict57 suffering.”
“One is apt,” Denis went on, “to be so spellbound by the spectacle of one’s own personality that one forgets that the spectacle presents itself to other people as well as to oneself.”
Mary was not listening. “The difficulty,” she said, “makes itself acutely felt in matters of sex. If one individual seeks intimate contact with another individual in the natural way, she is certain to receive or inflict suffering. If on the other hand, she avoids contacts, she risks the equally grave sufferings that follow on unnatural58 repressions. As you see, it’s a dilemma59.”
“When I think of my own case,” said Denis, making a more decided60 move in the desired direction, “I am amazed how ignorant I am of other people’s mentality61 in general, and above all and in particular, of their opinions about myself. Our minds are sealed books only occasionally opened to the outside world.” He made a gesture that was faintly suggestive of the drawing off of a rubber band.
“It’s an awful problem,” said Mary thoughtfully. “One has to have had personal experience to realise quite how awful it is.”
“Exactly.” Denis nodded. “One has to have had first-hand experience.” He leaned towards her and slightly lowered his voice. “This very morning, for example...” he began, but his confidences were cut short. The deep voice of the gong, tempered by distance to a pleasant booming, floated down from the house. It was lunch-time. Mechanically Mary rose to her feet, and Denis, a little hurt that she should exhibit such a desperate anxiety for her food and so slight an interest in his spiritual experiences, followed her. They made their way up to the house without speaking.
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1
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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4
scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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5
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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raven
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| n.渡鸟，乌鸦；adj.乌亮的 | |
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9
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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10
wince
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| n.畏缩，退避，（因痛苦，苦恼等)面部肌肉抽动；v.畏缩，退缩，退避 | |
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11
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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12
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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13
axiomatic
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| adj.不需证明的，不言自明的 | |
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14
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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15
aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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magisterial
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| adj.威风的，有权威的；adv.威严地 | |
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peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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20
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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21
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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24
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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solitariness
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| n.隐居；单独 | |
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26
shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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27
ruminated
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| v.沉思( ruminate的过去式和过去分词 )；反复考虑；反刍；倒嚼 | |
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28
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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29
odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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30
tapered
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| adj. 锥形的，尖削的，楔形的，渐缩的，斜的 动词taper的过去式和过去分词 | |
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31
inanity
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| n.无意义，无聊 | |
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32
beaks
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| n.鸟嘴( beak的名词复数 )；鹰钩嘴；尖鼻子；掌权者 | |
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33
illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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34
truthfulness
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| n. 符合实际 | |
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35
engulfed
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| v.吞没，包住( engulf的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
octopus
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| n.章鱼 | |
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brawny
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| adj.强壮的 | |
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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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yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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40
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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41
alcove
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| n.凹室 | |
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42
hewed
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| v.（用斧、刀等）砍、劈( hew的过去式和过去分词 )；砍成；劈出；开辟 | |
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43
facade
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| n.(建筑物的)正面，临街正面；外表 | |
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44
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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45
landmarks
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| n.陆标( landmark的名词复数 )；目标；（标志重要阶段的）里程碑 ~ (in sth)；有历史意义的建筑物（或遗址） | |
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46
monasteries
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| 修道院( monastery的名词复数 ) | |
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47
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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48
postscript
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| n.附言，又及；(正文后的)补充说明 | |
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49
abolition
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| n.废除，取消 | |
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50
repressions
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| n.压抑( repression的名词复数 )；约束；抑制；镇压 | |
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51
disquiet
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| n.担心，焦虑 | |
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52
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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53
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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54
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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55
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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56
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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57
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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58
unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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59
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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60
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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61
mentality
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| n.心理，思想，脑力 | |
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