Denis stood by the entrance of the enclosure, watching the swaying, shuffling4 crowd. The slow vortex brought the couples round and round again before him, as though he were passing them in review. There was Priscilla, still wearing her queenly toque, still encouraging the villagers—this time by dancing with one of the tenant5 farmers. There was Lord Moleyn, who had stayed on to the disorganised, passoverish meal that took the place of dinner on this festal day; he one-stepped shamblingly, his bent6 knees more precariously7 wobbly than ever, with a terrified village beauty. Mr. Scogan trotted8 round with another. Mary was in the embrace of a young farmer of heroic proportions; she was looking up at him, talking, as Denis could see, very seriously. What about? he wondered. The Malthusian League, perhaps. Seated in the corner among the band, Jenny was performing wonders of virtuosity9 upon the drums. Her eyes shone, she smiled to herself. A whole subterranean10 life seemed to be expressing itself in those loud rat-tats, those long rolls and flourishes of drumming. Looking at her, Denis ruefully remembered the red notebook; he wondered what sort of a figure he was cutting now. But the sight of Anne and Gombauld swimming past—Anne with her eyes almost shut and sleeping, as it were, on the sustaining wings of movement and music—dissipated these preoccupations. Male and female created He them...There they were, Anne and Gombauld, and a hundred couples more—all stepping harmoniously11 together to the old tune12 of Male and Female created He them. But Denis sat apart; he alone lacked his complementary opposite. They were all coupled but he; all but he...
Somebody touched him on the shoulder and he looked up. It was Henry Wimbush.
“I never showed you our oaken drainpipes,” he said. “Some of the ones we dug up are lying quite close to here. Would you like to come and see them?”
Denis got up, and they walked off together into the darkness. The music grew fainter behind them. Some of the higher notes faded out altogether. Jenny’s drumming and the steady sawing of the bass13 throbbed14 on, tuneless and meaningless in their ears. Henry Wimbush halted.
“Here we are,” he said, and, taking an electric torch out of his pocket, he cast a dim beam over two or three blackened sections of tree trunk, scooped15 out into the semblance16 of pipes, which were lying forlornly in a little depression in the ground.
They sat down on the grass. A faint white glare, rising from behind a belt of trees, indicated the position of the dancing-floor. The music was nothing but a muffled18 rhythmic19 pulse.
“I shall be glad,” said Henry Wimbush, “when this function comes at last to an end.”
“I can believe it.”
“I do not know how it is,” Mr. Wimbush continued, “but the spectacle of numbers of my fellow-creatures in a state of agitation20 moves in me a certain weariness, rather than any gaiety or excitement. The fact is, they don’t very much interest me. They’re aren’t in my line. You follow me? I could never take much interest, for example, in a collection of postage stamps. Primitives21 or seventeenth-century books—yes. They are my line. But stamps, no. I don’t know anything about them; they’re not my line. They don’t interest me, they give me no emotion. It’s rather the same with people, I’m afraid. I’m more at home with these pipes.” He jerked his head sideways towards the hollowed logs. “The trouble with the people and events of the present is that you never know anything about them. What do I know of contemporary politics? Nothing. What do I know of the people I see round about me? Nothing. What they think of me or of anything else in the world, what they will do in five minutes’ time, are things I can’t guess at. For all I know, you may suddenly jump up and try to murder me in a moment’s time.”
“Come, come,” said Denis.
“True,” Mr. Wimbush continued, “the little I know about your past is certainly reassuring22. But I know nothing of your present, and neither you nor I know anything of your future. It’s appalling23; in living people, one is dealing24 with unknown and unknowable quantities. One can only hope to find out anything about them by a long series of the most disagreeable and boring human contacts, involving a terrible expense of time. It’s the same with current events; how can I find out anything about them except by devoting years to the most exhausting first-hand study, involving once more an endless number of the most unpleasant contacts? No, give me the past. It doesn’t change; it’s all there in black and white, and you can get to know about it comfortably and decorously and, above all, privately—by reading. By reading I know a great deal of Caesar Borgia, of St. Francis, of Dr. Johnson; a few weeks have made me thoroughly25 acquainted with these interesting characters, and I have been spared the tedious and revolting process of getting to know them by personal contact, which I should have to do if they were living now. How gay and delightful26 life would be if one could get rid of all the human contacts! Perhaps, in the future, when machines have attained27 to a state of perfection—for I confess that I am, like Godwin and Shelley, a believer in perfectibility, the perfectibility of machinery—then, perhaps, it will be possible for those who, like myself, desire it, to live in a dignified28 seclusion29, surrounded by the delicate attentions of silent and graceful30 machines, and entirely31 secure from any human intrusion. It is a beautiful thought.”
“Beautiful,” Denis agreed. “But what about the desirable human contacts, like love and friendship?”
The black silhouette32 against the darkness shook its head. “The pleasures even of these contacts are much exaggerated,” said the polite level voice. “It seems to me doubtful whether they are equal to the pleasures of private reading and contemplation. Human contacts have been so highly valued in the past only because reading was not a common accomplishment33 and because books were scarce and difficult to reproduce. The world, you must remember, is only just becoming literate34. As reading becomes more and more habitual35 and widespread, an ever-increasing number of people will discover that books will give them all the pleasures of social life and none of its intolerable tedium36. At present people in search of pleasure naturally tend to congregate37 in large herds38 and to make a noise; in future their natural tendency will be to seek solitude39 and quiet. The proper study of mankind is books.”
“I sometimes think that it may be,” said Denis; he was wondering if Anne and Gombauld were still dancing together.
“Instead of which,” said Mr. Wimbush, with a sigh, “I must go and see if all is well on the dancing-floor.” They got up and began to walk slowly towards the white glare. “If all these people were dead,” Henry Wimbush went on, “this festivity would be extremely agreeable. Nothing would be pleasanter than to read in a well-written book of an open-air ball that took place a century ago. How charming! one would say; how pretty and how amusing! But when the ball takes place to-day, when one finds oneself involved in it, then one sees the thing in its true light. It turns out to be merely this.” He waved his hand in the direction of the acetylene flares40. “In my youth,” he went on after a pause, “I found myself, quite fortuitously, involved in a series of the most phantasmagorical amorous41 intrigues42. A novelist could have made his fortune out of them, and even if I were to tell you, in my bald style, the details of these adventures, you would be amazed at the romantic tale. But I assure you, while they were happening—these romantic adventures—they seemed to me no more and no less exciting than any other incident of actual life. To climb by night up a rope-ladder to a second-floor window in an old house in Toledo seemed to me, while I was actually performing this rather dangerous feat43, an action as obvious, as much to be taken for granted, as—how shall I put it?—as quotidian44 as catching45 the 8.52 from Surbiton to go to business on a Monday morning. Adventures and romance only take on their adventurous46 and romantic qualities at second-hand47. Live them, and they are just a slice of life like the rest. In literature they become as charming as this dismal48 ball would be if we were celebrating its tercentenary.” They had come to the entrance of the enclosure and stood there, blinking in the dazzling light. “Ah, if only we were!” Henry Wimbush added.
Anne and Gombauld were still dancing together.
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收听单词发音
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1
quiescent
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| adj.静止的，不活动的，寂静的 | |
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2
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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3
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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4
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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5
tenant
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| n.承租人；房客；佃户；v.租借，租用 | |
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6
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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7
precariously
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| adv.不安全地；危险地；碰机会地；不稳定地 | |
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8
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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9
virtuosity
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| n.精湛技巧 | |
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subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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harmoniously
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| 和谐地，调和地 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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13
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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14
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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15
scooped
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| v.抢先报道( scoop的过去式和过去分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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16
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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18
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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19
rhythmic
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| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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20
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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21
primitives
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| 原始人（primitive的复数形式） | |
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22
reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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23
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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26
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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27
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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28
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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29
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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30
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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31
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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32
silhouette
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| n.黑色半身侧面影，影子，轮廓；v.描绘成侧面影，照出影子来，仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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33
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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34
literate
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| n.学者；adj.精通文学的，受过教育的 | |
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35
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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36
tedium
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| n.单调；烦闷 | |
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37
congregate
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| v.(使)集合，聚集 | |
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38
herds
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| 兽群( herd的名词复数 )； 牧群； 人群； 群众 | |
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39
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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40
flares
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| n.喇叭裤v.（使）闪耀( flare的第三人称单数 )；（使）（船舷）外倾；（使）鼻孔张大；（使）（衣裙、酒杯等）呈喇叭形展开 | |
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41
amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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42
intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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43
feat
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| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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44
quotidian
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| adj.每日的，平凡的 | |
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45
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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46
adventurous
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| adj.爱冒险的；惊心动魄的，惊险的，刺激的 | |
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47
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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48
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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