Denis, in the course of his round, looked with curiosity at this crowd of suppliants13 before the shrine14 of the oracle. He had a great desire to see how Mr. Scogan played his part. The canvas booth was a rickety, ill-made structure. Between its walls and its sagging15 roof were long gaping16 chinks and crannies. Denis went to the tea-tent and borrowed a wooden bench and a small union Jack17. With these he hurried back to the booth of Sesostris. Setting down the bench at the back of the booth, he climbed up, and with a great air of busy efficiency began to tie the union Jack to the top of one of the tent-poles. Through the crannies in the canvas he could see almost the whole of the interior of the tent. Mr. Scogan’s bandana-covered head was just below him; his terrifying whispers came clearly up. Denis looked and listened while the witch prophesied18 financial losses, death by apoplexy, destruction by air-raids in the next war.
“Is there going to be another war?” asked the old lady to whom he had predicted this end.
“Very soon,” said Mr. Scogan, with an air of quiet confidence.
The old lady was succeeded by a girl dressed in white muslin, garnished19 with pink ribbons. She was wearing a broad hat, so that Denis could not see her face; but from her figure and the roundness of her bare arms he judged her young and pleasing. Mr. Scogan looked at her hand, then whispered, “You are still virtuous20.”
“But you will not remain so for long,” added Mr. Scogan sepulchrally22. The young lady giggled again. “Destiny, which interests itself in small things no less than in great, has announced the fact upon your hand.” Mr. Scogan took up the magnifying-glass and began once more to examine the white palm. “Very interesting,” he said, as though to himself—“very interesting. It’s as clear as day.” He was silent.
“What’s clear?” asked the girl.
“I don’t think I ought to tell you.” Mr. Scogan shook his head; the pendulous23 brass24 ear-rings which he had screwed on to his ears tinkled25.
The witch seemed to ignore her remark. “Afterwards, it’s not at all clear. The fates don’t say whether you will settle down to married life and have four children or whether you will try to go on the cinema and have none. They are only specific about this one rather crucial incident.”
“What is it? What is it? Oh, do tell me!”
The white muslin figure leant eagerly forward.
Mr. Scogan sighed. “Very well,” he said, “if you must know, you must know. But if anything untoward27 happens you must blame your own curiosity. Listen. Listen.” He lifted up a sharp, claw-nailed forefinger28. “This is what the fates have written. Next Sunday afternoon at six o’clock you will be sitting on the second stile on the footpath29 that leads from the church to the lower road. At that moment a man will appear walking along the footpath.” Mr. Scogan looked at her hand again as though to refresh his memory of the details of the scene. “A man,” he repeated—“a small man with a sharp nose, not exactly good looking nor precisely30 young, but fascinating.” He lingered hissingly over the word. “He will ask you, ‘Can you tell me the way to Paradise?’ and you will answer, ‘Yes, I’ll show you,’ and walk with him down towards the little hazel copse. I cannot read what will happen after that.” There was a silence.
“Is it really true?” asked white muslin.
The witch gave a shrug32 of the shoulders. “I merely tell you what I read in your hand. Good afternoon. That will be sixpence. Yes, I have change. Thank you. Good afternoon.”
Denis stepped down from the bench; tied insecurely and crookedly33 to the tentpole, the union Jack hung limp on the windless air. “If only I could do things like that!” he thought, as he carried the bench back to the tea-tent.
Anne was sitting behind a long table filling thick white cups from an urn34. A neat pile of printed sheets lay before her on the table. Denis took one of them and looked at it affectionately. It was his poem. They had printed five hundred copies, and very nice the quarto broadsheets looked.
“Have you sold many?” he asked in a casual tone.
Anne put her head on one side deprecatingly. “Only three so far, I’m afraid. But I’m giving a free copy to everyone who spends more than a shilling on his tea. So in any case it’s having a circulation.”
Denis made no reply, but walked slowly away. He looked at the broadsheet in his hand and read the lines to himself relishingly as he walked along:
“This day of roundabouts and swings,
Struck weights, shied cocoa-nuts, tossed rings,
Switchbacks, Aunt Sallies, and all such small
High jinks—you call it ferial?
A holiday? But paper noses
Of round Venetian cheeks through half
At things the naked face for shame
Would blush at—laugh and think no blame.
A holiday? But Galba showed
Elephants on an airy road;
And in the circus armed men
Stabbed home for sport and died to break
Those dull imperatives38 that make
A prison of every working day,
Sing Holiday! You do not know
How to be free. The Russian snow
Flowered with bright blood whose roses spread
That died into the snow again,
From all ancient bonds were freed.
Old right and wrong there bled to death;
The frozen air received their breath,
A little smoke that died away;
And round about them where they lay
The snow bloomed roses. Blood was there
A red gay flower and only fair.
Sing Holiday! Beneath the Tree
Paper Nose and Red Cockade
Dance within the magic shade
That makes them drunken, merry, and strong
To laugh and sing their ferial song:
‘Free, free...!’
But Echo answers
Faintly to the laughing dancers,
‘Free’—and faintly laughs, and still,
Within the hollows of the hill,
Faintlier laughs and whispers, ‘Free,’
Fadingly, diminishingly:
‘Free,’ and laughter faints away...
Sing Holiday! Sing Holiday!”
He folded the sheet carefully and put it in his pocket. The thing had its merits. Oh, decidedly, decidedly! But how unpleasant the crowd smelt44! He lit a cigarette. The smell of cows was preferable. He passed through the gate in the park wall into the garden. The swimming-pool was a centre of noise and activity.
“Second Heat in the Young Ladies’ Championship.” It was the polite voice of Henry Wimbush. A crowd of sleek45, seal-like figures in black bathing-dresses surrounded him. His grey bowler46 hat, smooth, round, and motionless in the midst of a moving sea, was an island of aristocratic calm.
Holding his tortoise-shell-rimmed pince-nez an inch or two in front of his eyes, he read out names from a list.
“Miss Dolly Miles, Miss Rebecca Balister, Miss Doris Gabell...”
Five young persons ranged themselves on the brink47. From their seats of honour at the other end of the pool, old Lord Moleyn and Mr. Callamay looked on with eager interest.
Henry Wimbush raised his hand. There was an expectant silence. “When I say ‘Go,’ go. Go!” he said. There was an almost simultaneous splash.
Denis pushed his way through the spectators. Somebody plucked him by the sleeve; he looked down. It was old Mrs. Budge48.
“Delighted to see you again, Mr. Stone,” she said in her rich, husky voice. She panted a little as she spoke49, like a short-winded lap-dog. It was Mrs. Budge who, having read in the “Daily Mirror” that the Government needed peach stones—what they needed them for she never knew—had made the collection of peach stones her peculiar50 “bit” of war work. She had thirty-six peach trees in her walled garden, as well as four hot-houses in which trees could be forced, so that she was able to eat peaches practically the whole year round. In 1916 she ate 4200 peaches, and sent the stones to the Government. In 1917 the military authorities called up three of her gardeners, and what with this and the fact that it was a bad year for wall fruit, she only managed to eat 2900 peaches during that crucial period of the national destinies. In 1918 she did rather better, for between January 1st and the date of the Armistice51 she ate 3300 peaches. Since the Armistice she had relaxed her efforts; now she did not eat more than two or three peaches a day. Her constitution, she complained, had suffered; but it had suffered for a good cause.
Denis answered her greeting by a vague and polite noise.
“So nice to see the young people enjoying themselves,” Mrs. Budge went on. “And the old people too, for that matter. Look at old Lord Moleyn and dear Mr. Callamay. Isn’t it delightful52 to see the way they enjoy themselves?”
Denis looked. He wasn’t sure whether it was so very delightful after all. Why didn’t they go and watch the sack races? The two old gentlemen were engaged at the moment in congratulating the winner of the race; it seemed an act of supererogatory graciousness; for, after all, she had only won a heat.
“Pretty little thing, isn’t she?” said Mrs. Budge huskily, and panted two or three times.
“Yes,” Denis nodded agreement. Sixteen, slender, but nubile53, he said to himself, and laid up the phrase in his memory as a happy one. Old Mr. Callamay had put on his spectacles to congratulate the victor, and Lord Moleyn, leaning forward over his walking-stick, showed his long ivory teeth, hungrily smiling.
“Capital performance, capital,” Mr. Callamay was saying in his deep voice.
The victor wriggled54 with embarrassment55. She stood with her hands behind her back, rubbing one foot nervously56 on the other. Her wet bathing-dress shone, a torso of black polished marble.
“Very good indeed,” said Lord Moleyn. His voice seemed to come from just behind his teeth, a toothy voice. It was as though a dog should suddenly begin to speak. He smiled again, Mr. Callamay readjusted his spectacles.
“When I say ‘Go,’ go. Go!”
Splash! The third heat had started.
“Do you know, I never could learn to swim,” said Mrs. Budge.
“Really?”
“But I used to be able to float.”
Denis imagined her floating—up and down, up and down on a great green swell57. A blown black bladder; no, that wasn’t good, that wasn’t good at all. A new winner was being congratulated. She was atrociously stubby and fat. The last one, long and harmoniously58, continuously curved from knee to breast, had been an Eve by Cranach; but this, this one was a bad Rubens.
“...go—go—go!” Henry Wimbush’s polite level voice once more pronounced the formula. Another batch59 of young ladies dived in.
Grown a little weary of sustaining a conversation with Mrs. Budge, Denis conveniently remembered that his duties as a steward60 called him elsewhere. He pushed out through the lines of spectators and made his way along the path left clear behind them. He was thinking again that his soul was a pale, tenuous61 membrane62, when he was startled by hearing a thin, sibilant voice, speaking apparently63 from just above his head, pronounce the single word “Disgusting!”
He looked up sharply. The path along which he was walking passed under the lee of a wall of clipped yew64. Behind the hedge the ground sloped steeply up towards the foot of the terrace and the house; for one standing65 on the higher ground it was easy to look over the dark barrier. Looking up, Denis saw two heads overtopping the hedge immediately above him. He recognised the iron mask of Mr. Bodiham and the pale, colourless face of his wife. They were looking over his head, over the heads of the spectators, at the swimmers in the pond.
The rector turned up his iron mask towards the solid cobalt of the sky. “How long?” he said, as though to himself; “how long?” He lowered his eyes again, and they fell on Denis’s upturned curious face. There was an abrupt66 movement, and Mr. and Mrs. Bodiham popped out of sight behind the hedge.
Denis continued his promenade67. He wandered past the merry-go-round, through the thronged68 streets of the canvas village; the membrane of his soul flapped tumultuously in the noise and laughter. In a roped-off space beyond, Mary was directing the children’s sports. Little creatures seethed69 round about her, making a shrill70, tinny clamour; others clustered about the skirts and trousers of their parents. Mary’s face was shining in the heat; with an immense output of energy she started a three-legged race. Denis looked on in admiration71.
“You’re wonderful,” he said, coming up behind her and touching72 her on the arm. “I’ve never seen such energy.”
She turned towards him a face, round, red, and honest as the setting sun; the golden bell of her hair swung silently as she moved her head and quivered to rest.
“Do you know, Denis,” she said, in a low, serious voice, gasping73 a little as she spoke—“do you know that there’s a woman here who has had three children in thirty-one months?”
“Really,” said Denis, making rapid mental calculations.
“It’s appalling. I’ve been telling her about the Malthusian League. One really ought...”
But a sudden violent renewal74 of the metallic75 yelling announced the fact that somebody had won the race. Mary became once more the centre of a dangerous vortex. It was time, Denis thought, to move on; he might be asked to do something if he stayed too long.
He turned back towards the canvas village. The thought of tea was making itself insistent76 in his mind. Tea, tea, tea. But the tea-tent was horribly thronged. Anne, with an unusual expression of grimness on her flushed face, was furiously working the handle of the urn; the brown liquid spurted77 incessantly78 into the proffered79 cups. Portentous80, in the farther corner of the tent, Priscilla, in her royal toque, was encouraging the villagers. In a momentary81 lull82 Denis could hear her deep, jovial83 laughter and her manly84 voice. Clearly, he told himself, this was no place for one who wanted tea. He stood irresolute85 at the entrance to the tent. A beautiful thought suddenly came to him; if he went back to the house, went unobtrusively, without being observed, if he tiptoed into the dining-room and noiselessly opened the little doors of the sideboard—ah, then! In the cool recess86 within he would find bottles and a siphon; a bottle of crystal gin and a quart of soda87 water, and then for the cups that inebriate88 as well as cheer...
A minute later he was walking briskly up the shady yew-tree walk. Within the house it was deliciously quiet and cool. Carrying his well-filled tumbler with care, he went into the library. There, the glass on the corner of the table beside him, he settled into a chair with a volume of Sainte-Beuve. There was nothing, he found, like a Causerie du Lundi for settling and soothing89 the troubled spirits. That tenuous membrane of his had been too rudely buffeted90 by the afternoon’s emotions; it required a rest.
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1
wig
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| n.假发 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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sketching
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| n.草图 | |
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oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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horrifying
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| a.令人震惊的，使人毛骨悚然的 | |
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bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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9
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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10
divulge
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| v.泄漏(秘密等)；宣布，公布 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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12
envisaged
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| 想像，设想( envisage的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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13
suppliants
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| n.恳求者，哀求者( suppliant的名词复数 ) | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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15
sagging
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| 下垂[沉，陷]，松垂，垂度 | |
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gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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17
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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18
prophesied
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| v.预告，预言( prophesy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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19
garnished
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| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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20
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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21
giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sepulchrally
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| 坟墓的； 丧葬的； 阴森森的； 阴沉的 | |
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pendulous
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| adj.下垂的；摆动的 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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25
tinkled
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| （使）发出丁当声，（使）发铃铃声( tinkle的过去式和过去分词 )； 叮当响着发出，铃铃响着报出 | |
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implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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27
untoward
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| adj.不利的，不幸的，困难重重的 | |
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28
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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31
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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32
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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crookedly
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| adv. 弯曲地，不诚实地 | |
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urn
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| n.（有座脚的）瓮；坟墓；骨灰瓮 | |
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sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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tightrope
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| n.绷紧的绳索或钢丝 | |
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imperatives
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| n.必要的事( imperative的名词复数 )；祈使语气；必须履行的责任 | |
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drudge
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| n.劳碌的人；v.做苦工，操劳 | |
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petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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45
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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46
bowler
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| n.打保龄球的人，（板球的）投（球）手 | |
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47
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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48
budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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49
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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50
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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51
armistice
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| n.休战，停战协定 | |
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52
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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53
nubile
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| adj.结婚期的 | |
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54
wriggled
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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55
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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56
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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57
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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58
harmoniously
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| 和谐地，调和地 | |
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59
batch
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| n.一批(组，群)；一批生产量 | |
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steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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61
tenuous
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| adj.细薄的，稀薄的，空洞的 | |
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membrane
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| n.薄膜，膜皮，羊皮纸 | |
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63
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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64
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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65
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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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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67
promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
seethed
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| （液体）沸腾( seethe的过去式和过去分词 )； 激动，大怒； 强压怒火； 生闷气(~with sth|~ at sth) | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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72
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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spurted
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| （液体，火焰等）喷出，（使）涌出( spurt的过去式和过去分词 )； （短暂地）加速前进，冲刺 | |
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incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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82
lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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85
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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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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87
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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88
inebriate
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| v.使醉 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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90
buffeted
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| 反复敲打( buffet的过去式和过去分词 )； 连续猛击； 打来打去； 推来搡去 | |
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