Forbes's room in Fellows' Quad7 was one of those that had housed Queen Henrietta Maria in 1643, and though Forbes's own tastes were nondescript the chamber8 still had something of an air. The dark wood panelling might well have done honour to a royal lodger9, and a motion-picture producer would have coveted10 it as a background for Mary Pickford. It was unspoiled by pictures: two or three political maps of Europe, sketchily11 drawn12 with coloured crayons, were pinned up here and there. The room was a typical Oxford apartment: dark, a little faded, but redeemed13 by the grate of glowing coals. Behind the chimney two recessed14 seats looked out over the college gardens; long red curtains were drawn to shut out the winter draughts15. It was the true English January—driving squalls of rain, dampness, and devastating16 chill. The east wind brought the booming toll17 from Magdalen tower very distinctly to the ear, closely followed by the tinny chime in Fellows' Quad. It was half past seven.
Forbes laid down his pen, looked quizzically at the last illegible18 lines slanting19 up the paper, and realized that he was hungry. His untasted tea and anchovy20 toast still stood in the fender where the scout21 had put them three hours before.
He switched on the electric light over the dining table in the centre of the room, and, dropping on the sofa before the fire, prodded22 the huge lumps of soft coal into a blaze. The triangular23 slices of anchovy toast were cold but still very good, and he devoured24 them with appetite. He lit a cigarette with a sigh of content, and reflected that he had not crossed his name off hall. Therefore he must pay eighteen pence for dinner, even though he had not eaten it. Also there lay somewhat heavily on his mind the fact that at ten the next morning he must read to his tutor an essay on “Danton and Robespierre,” an essay as yet unwritten. That would mean a very early rising and an uncomfortable chilly25 session in the college library, a dismal26 place in the forenoon. Never mind, first came a jolly evening with the Scorpions. The meetings were always fun, and this one, coming after the separation of a six-weeks' vacation, promised special sport. Carter was down for a paper on Rabelais; King would have some of his amusing ballades and rondeaus; and above all there would be the first chapter of the serial, from which the members promised themselves much diversion. It was too late now to attempt anything on Danton and Robespierre; he picked up a volume of Belloc and sat cosily27 by the fire.
A thumping28 tread sounded on the winding29 stairs, then the faint clink of a large metal tray laid on the serving table outside, and a muffled30 knock at the “oak,” the thick outer door which Forbes had “sported” when he came in at six to write his stint31. He unfastened the barrier and admitted Hinton, the scout, who bore in a tray of eatables, ordered by Forbes from the college store-room for the refreshment32 of his coming guests. Forbes, like most men of modest means, made it a point of honour to entertain lavishly33 when it was his turn as host, and the display set out by Hinton made an attractive still life under the droplight. A big bowl of apples and oranges stood in the centre; tin boxes from Huntley and Palmer, a couple of large iced cakes, raisins34, nuts, and a dish of candied fruits ended the solids. There was also a tray of coffee cups and a huge silver coffee pot bearing the college arms, flanked by a porcelain35 jug36 of hot milk. De Reszke cigarettes, whiskey and soda37, and a new tin of John Cotton smoking mixture completed the spread—which would be faithfully reflected in Forbes's “battels,” or weekly bills, later on. Young men at Oxford do themselves well, and this was a typical lay-out for an undergraduate evening.
Hinton, a ruddy old man with iron-gray hair and a very red and bulby nose, was a garrulous38 servant, and after a tentative cough made an attempt at small talk.
“I didn't see you in 'all to-night, sir.”
“No,” said Forbes, “I had some writing to do, Hinton.”
“Oh yes, sir,” said Hinton, according to the invariable formula of college servants. A moment later, after another embarrassed cough, he began again.
“Very wet night, sir; they say the towpath will be under water in another day or so.”
Forbes was not a rowing man, and the probable submerging of the towpath was not news that affected39 him one way or the other. His only reply was to ask the scout to refill the coal-scuttle. For this task Hinton donned an old pair of gloves and carried in several large lumps of coal in his hands from the bin40 outside. Then he disappeared into the adjoining bedroom to pour out a few gallons of very cold water into Forbes's hip41 bath, to turn down the sheets, lay out his pajamas42, and remove a muddy pair of boots to be cleaned. Such are the customs that make sweet the lives of succeeding undergraduates at Oxford. It is pleasant to know that Palmerston, Pitt, Gladstone, Asquith—they have all gone through the old routine. Forbes's father had occupied the very same rooms, thirty years before, and very likely old Hinton, then a “scout's boy,” had blacked his boots. Certainly Forbes senior had lain in the same bedroom and watched Magdalen Tower through the trees while delaying to get up on chilly mornings.
“Anything else to-night, sir?” said Hinton, as Forbes put down Belloc and began to clean a very crusty briar.
“Nothing to-night.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Hinton and took his departure, after poking43 up the fire and removing the dead tea things.
The eight o'clock chimes spoke44 as Hinton clumped45 downstairs, and a few moments later Forbes's guests began to straggle in. All were wet and ruddy from rain and wind, and, as they discarded raincoats and caps, disclosed a pleasant medley46 of types. The Scorpions was a rather recent and informal society, but it had gathered from various colleges a little band of temperamental congenials who found a unique pleasure in their Sunday evening meetings. None of them was of the acknowledged literary successes of the university: their names were not those seen every week in the undergraduate journals. And yet this obscure group, which had drawn together in a spirit of satire47, had in it two or three men of real gift. Forbes himself was a man of uncommon48 vivacity49. Small, stocky, with an unruly thatch50 of yellow hair and a quaintly51 wry53 and homely54 face, he hid his shyness and his brilliancy behind a brusque manner. Ostensibly cynical55 and a witty56 satirist57 of his more sentimental58 fellows, his desk was full of charming ballades and pieces d'amour, scratched off at white heat in odd moments. His infinite fund of full-flavoured jest had won him the nickname of Priapus. But beneath the uncouth59 exterior60 of the man, behind his careless dress and humorously assumed coarseness, lay the soul of a poet—sensitive as a girl, and devout61 before the whisperings of Beauty.
Stephen Carter and Randall King were first to arrive, and seized the ends of the fireside couch while Forbes poured their coffee.
“A Clark Russell of an evening!” said Carter, stretching his golfing brogues to the blaze. “Don't you love a good drenching62, downpouring night? I do!” He was a burly full-blooded blond, extravagantly63 facetious64 in convivial65 moments, and a mournful brooder in solitude66. King, better known as “The Goblin,” was a dark, whimsical elf in thick spectacles, much loved in the 'varsity dramatic society for his brilliant impersonations. The Goblin said nothing as he sipped67 his coffee and gazed at the fire.
“There you go again, Falstaff!” exclaimed Forbes to Carter, as he unlocked a corner cupboard and drew out a bottle of port. “The universal enthusiast68! I believe you'll be enthusiastic about the examiners that plough you!”
“What, Falstaff get ploughed?” said a vast and rather handsome newcomer, flinging open the door without knocking. “I think he's down for a ruddy First!” This was Douglas Whitney, of Balliol.
Carter's only answer to both these remarks was to drain a glass of the port which Forbes was decanting69.
“I say, Priapus, what vile70 port!” he said. “Is this some of the vintage you crocked poor old Hinton with?”
“Any port in a storm, Falstaff,” said the Goblin, mildly.
As Forbes was pouring out the coffee loud shouts of “Minters!” greeted the next arrival. This was Johnny Blair of Tennessee and Trinity, the only American among the Scorpions. Blair was a Rhodes Scholar whose dulcet71 Southern drawl and quaint52 modes of speech were a constant delight to his English comrades. His great popularity in his own college was begun by his introduction of mint julep, which had given him his nickname.
“Hello, Minters!” cried Forbes. “What cheer?”
By the time Forbes had poured out eight cups of coffee and as many glasses of wine, Keith, Graham, and Twiston had come in, making the full gathering73. There was much laughing and banter74 as the men stood round the table or by the fire, lighting75 pipes and cigarettes, and helping76 themselves to fruit and cake. Finally, when everyone was settled in a semicircle round the fire, Forbes hammered his coffee cup with a spoon. According to the custom of the society the host of the evening always acted as chairman.
“The meeting will please come to order,” said Forbes. “Brother Scorpions, what is your pleasure? Has the secretary anything to report?”
The gatherings77 of the Scorpions were pleasingly devoid78 of formality, and untrammeled by parliamentary conventions. There were no minutes, and the only officer was a secretary who sent out postal79 cards each week, reminding the members of the time and place of the next meeting.
“Then I call upon Falstaff for his delightful81 paper on Rabelais,” said Forbes.
A small electric reading lamp was propped82 behind Carter's head, and the Scorpions disposed themselves to listen. Carter pulled an untidy manuscript from his pocket, and after an embarrassed cough, began to read.
The general tenor83 of an undergraduate essay on Rabelais, intended for the intimacy84 of a fireside circle, may readily be guessed. The general thesis of the composition was of course to prove that Rabelais was by no means the low-minded old dog of Puritan conception; or, as Carter put it, that he was “not simply a George Moore”; but that his amazing writings bore witness throughout to a high and devoted85 ethical86 purpose. It is even conjecturable87 that Carter may have said puribus omnia pura; but if he did so, it was with so droll88 an accent that his audience laughed again. At all events his reading was punctuated89 with cheery applause, and at the conclusion the Scorpions renewed their acquaintance with those historic affinities90 whiskey and soda. Discussion was brisk.
The meditative91 Goblin then was called upon for his poems; and, after becoming hesitation92, unfolded a sheaf of verses. His rhymes were always full of quaint and elvish humour which was very endearing. His ballade with the refrain “When Harry93 Baillie kept the Tabard Inn,” was voted the best of the six he read.
But the event of the evening was to be the serial story, which Forbes had been appointed to begin. A new round of refreshments94 was distributed, and then the host took his place under the reading lamp.
“This needs a word of explanation,” he said. “Having the whole vacation to work on this, naturally I did nothing until tea time this afternoon. I didn't even have an idea in my head until yesterday. About four o'clock yesterday afternoon I was strolling down the Broad in desperation. You know when there is some hateful task that has to be done, one will snatch at any pretext95 for postponing96 it. I stopped in at Blackwell's to look for a book I wanted. Up in one corner of the shop, lying on a row of books, I found this.”
Impressively he drew from his pocket a double sheet of notepaper and held it up.
“It was a letter, evidently written by some girl to a man at the 'varsity. Finding it there, forgotten and defenseless, I could not resist reading it. It was a very charming letter, not too intimate, but full of a delicious virgin97 coyness and reserve. Then a great idea struck me. Why not take the people mentioned in the letter and use them as the characters of our story? We know that they are real people; we know their first names; that's all we know about them. The rest can be left to the invention of the Scorpions.”
Generous laughter greeted the idea.
“Let's hear the letter!” cried someone.
“Yes,” said Forbes, “before reading my chapter I'll read you the letter. And then remember that our story is to be built up solely98 upon this document. There are to be no characters in the story except those mentioned in the letter, and our task must be to delineate them in such a way that they are in keeping with the suggestions the letter gives us. Here it is.”
X X X X These are from Fred.
318, BANCROFT ROAD,
WOLVERHAMPTON
October 30, 1912.
DEAR JOE:
Thank you so much for the tie—it is pretty and I do wear ties sometimes, so I sha'n't let the boys have it.
You must think me rather ungrateful not writing before, but I have been out the last two evenings and have had no time for letters. Yesterday Mother and I went to Birmingham as I had my half-term holiday.
I hope you managed to get some tea after writing to me, otherwise I shall feel so grieved to think I was the cause of your starvation. By the way, I read your latest poem and I don't like it—not that that will trouble you much I'm sure. The idea isn't at all bad, but that's all I like about it.
I haven't a bit of news, and I have just found out it is too late to catch the post to-night, so you will have to wait a little longer for this precious letter—it will be precious, won't it?
Charlie has just come home from his class, so I must bring his food for him. Daddy's lumbago is better, I'm glad to say.
Good-night, and with many thanks
I remain
Yours,
KATHLEEN.
A moment of silence followed the reading of the letter.
“Joe's a lucky boy,” said Whitney. “She's a darling.”
“The letter doesn't tell us much,” said Forbes, as he handed it round for examination; “but more than you might think. Before writing my chapter I summarized the data. Here they are:
“1. Joe. He's a member of the 'varsity who writes poetry. Either it's published in some magazine or he sends it privately101 to her. The blighter has sent Kathleen a tie of some kind—probably a scarf with his college or club colours. He's got as far as the plaintive102 stage: he tells her that he is going without his tea just to write to her. (Probably half a dozen crumpets and four cups of tea were simmering inside of him as he wrote). So much for Joe. I'll wager103 he's a Rhodes Scholar!
“2. Kathleen. I put her at seventeen, and (as Whitney says) she's a darling. She's at school still. She's adorably sane104. She doesn't care for Joe's yowling poetry (probably he writes Verlaine kind of stuff, or free verse, or some blither of that sort). She has younger brothers ('the boys') and she helps her mother run the house. I think she likes Joe better than she cares to admit—see the touch of coquettishness where she says 'It will be precious, won't it?' And how adorably she teases him in those four crosses marked 'These are from Fred.' Gad105, I'm jealous of Joe already!
“3. Fred. I think he's the older brother; probably recently left the 'varsity; a friend of Joe's, perhaps.
“4. Charlie is one of the younger brothers. He goes to some kind of night school or gymnasium. Probably an ugly little beggar. Why doesn't he get his food for himself?
“5. The Mother. Don't know anything about her except that she went to Birmingham with Kathleen.
“6. The Father. Has lumbago.”
“One thing you don't mention,” said Graham. “It's an easy run from here to Wolverhampton on a motor bike!”
“Rather a sell if Joe should turn out a boxing blue, and mash106 us all into pulp107 for bagging his letter!” said Whitney. There was a general laugh at this. Whitney was over six feet, rowed number 5 in the Balliol boat, and was nicknamed the Iron Duke for his muscular strength.
“Go on with your chapter, Priapus,” said the Goblin.
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1
scorpions
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| n.蝎子( scorpion的名词复数 ) | |
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serial
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| n.连本影片，连本电视节目；adj.连续的 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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quad
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| n.四方院；四胞胎之一；v.在…填补空铅 | |
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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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lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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sketchily
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| adv.写生风格地，大略地 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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recessed
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| v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的过去式和过去分词 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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devastating
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| adj.毁灭性的，令人震惊的，强有力的 | |
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toll
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| n.过路(桥)费；损失，伤亡人数；v.敲(钟) | |
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illegible
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slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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anchovy
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| n.凤尾鱼 | |
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scout
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| n.童子军，侦察员；v.侦察，搜索 | |
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prodded
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| v.刺，戳( prod的过去式和过去分词 )；刺激；促使；（用手指或尖物）戳 | |
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triangular
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| adj.三角（形）的，三者间的 | |
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devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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cosily
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| adv.舒适地，惬意地 | |
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thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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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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stint
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| v.节省，限制，停止；n.舍不得化，节约，限制；连续不断的一段时间从事某件事 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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lavishly
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| adv.慷慨地，大方地 | |
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raisins
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| n.葡萄干( raisin的名词复数 ) | |
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porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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jug
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| n.(有柄，小口，可盛水等的)大壶，罐，盂 | |
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soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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garrulous
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| adj.唠叨的，多话的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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bin
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| n.箱柜；vt.放入箱内；[计算机] DOS文件名:二进制目标文件 | |
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hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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pajamas
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| n.睡衣裤 | |
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poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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44
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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clumped
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| adj.[医]成群的v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的过去式和过去分词 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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medley
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| n.混合 | |
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satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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thatch
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| vt.用茅草覆盖…的顶部；n.茅草(屋) | |
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quaintly
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| adv.古怪离奇地 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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54
homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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55
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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satirist
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| n.讽刺诗作者，讽刺家，爱挖苦别人的人 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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62
drenching
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| n.湿透v.使湿透( drench的现在分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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extravagantly
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| adv.挥霍无度地 | |
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facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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decanting
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| n.滗析（手续）v.将（酒等）自瓶中倒入另一容器( decant的现在分词 ) | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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dulcet
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| adj.悦耳的 | |
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belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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gatherings
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| 聚集( gathering的名词复数 )； 收集； 采集； 搜集 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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postal
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| adj.邮政的，邮局的 | |
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puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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ethical
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| adj.伦理的，道德的，合乎道德的 | |
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conjecturable
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| 可推测的，可猜想的 | |
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droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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punctuated
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| 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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affinities
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| n.密切关系( affinity的名词复数 )；亲近；（生性）喜爱；类同 | |
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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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postponing
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| v.延期，推迟( postpone的现在分词 ) | |
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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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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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scrawl
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| vt.潦草地书写；n.潦草的笔记，涂写 | |
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groggy
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| adj.体弱的；不稳的 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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102
plaintive
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| adj.可怜的，伤心的 | |
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103
wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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gad
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| n.闲逛；v.闲逛 | |
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106
mash
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| n.麦芽浆，糊状物，土豆泥；v.把…捣成糊状，挑逗，调情 | |
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pulp
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| n.果肉，纸浆；v.化成纸浆，除去...果肉，制成纸浆 | |
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