—and his column “Of Things Literary” in the “Climax” is well known. His Byronic visage and an interview have appeared in the “Perfect Lady.” It was Aubrey Vair,
I believe, who demonstrated that the humour of Dickens was worse than his sentiment, and who detected “a subtle bourgeois1 flavour” in Shakespeare. However, it is not
generally known that Aubrey Vair has had erotic experiences as well as erotic inspirations. He adopted Goethe some little time since as his literary prototype, and
For it is one of the commonest things that undermine literary men, giving us landslips and picturesque3 effects along the otherwise even cliff of their respectable
life, ranking next to avarice4, and certainly above drink, this instability called 460genius, or, more fully5, the consciousness of genius, such as Aubrey Vair
possessed6. Since Shelley set the fashion, your man of gifts has been assured that his duty to himself and his duty to his wife are incompatible7, and his renunciation
of the Philistine8 has been marked by such infidelity as his means and courage warranted. Most virtue9 is lack of imagination. At any rate, a minor10 genius without his
affections twisted into an inextricable muddle11, and who did not occasionally shed sonnets12 over his troubles, I have never met.
Even Aubrey Vair did this, weeping the sonnets overnight into his blotting-book, and pretending to write literary causerie when his wife came down in her bath slippers
to see what kept him up. She did not understand him, of course. He did this even before the other woman appeared, so ingrained is conjugal13 treachery in the talented
mind. Indeed, he wrote more sonnets before the other woman came than after that event, because thereafter he spent much of his leisure in cutting down the old
productions, retrimming them, and generally altering this ready-made clothing of his passion to suit her particular height and complexion14.
Aubrey Vair lived in a little red villa15 with a lawn at the back and a view of the Downs behind Reigate. He lived upon discreet16 investment eked17 out by literary work.
His wife was handsome, sweet, and gentle, and—such is the tender humility18 461of good married women—she found her life’s happiness in seeing that little Aubrey Vair
had well-cooked variety for dinner, and that their house was the neatest and brightest of all the houses they entered. Aubrey Vair enjoyed the dinners, and was proud
of the house, yet nevertheless he mourned because his genius dwindled19. Moreover, he grew plump, and corpulence threatened him.
We learn in suffering what we teach in song, and Aubrey Vair knew certainly that his soul could give no creditable crops unless his affections were harrowed. And how
to harrow them was the trouble, for Reigate is a moral neighbourhood.
So Aubrey Vair’s romantic longings20 blew loose for a time, much as a seedling21 creeper might, planted in the midst of a flower-bed. But at last, in the fulness of time,
the other woman came to the embrace of Aubrey Vair’s yearning22 heart-tendrils, and his romantic episode proceeded as is here faithfully written down.
The other woman was really a girl, and Aubrey Vair met her first at a tennis party at Redhill. Aubrey Vair did not play tennis after the accident to Miss Morton’s
eye, and because latterly it made him pant and get warmer and moister than even a poet should be; and this young lady had only recently arrived in England, and could
not play. So they gravitated into the two vacant 462basket chairs beside Mrs. Bayne’s deaf aunt, in front of the hollyhocks, and were presently talking at their ease
together.
The other woman’s name was unpropitious,—Miss Smith,—but you would never have suspected it from her face and costume. Her parentage was promising23, she was an
orphan24, her mother was a Hindoo, and her father an Indian civil servant; and Aubrey Vair—himself a happy mixture of Kelt and Teuton, as, indeed, all literary men have
to be nowadays—naturally believed in the literary consequences of a mixture of races. She was dressed in white. She had finely moulded, pale features, great depth of
expression, and a cloud of delicately frisé black hair over her dark eyes, and she looked at Aubrey Vair with a look half curious and half shy, that contrasted
admirably with the stereotyped25 frankness of your common Reigate girl.
“This is a splendid lawn—the best in Redhill,” said Aubrey Vair, in the course of the conversation; “and I like it all the better because the daisies are spared.”
“They are sweet little flowers,” said the lady in white, “and I have always associated them with England, chiefly, perhaps, through a picture I saw ‘over there’
when I was very little, of children making daisy chains. I promised myself 463that pleasure when I came home. But, alas27! I feel now rather too large for such delights.
”
“I do not see why we should not be able to enjoy these simple pleasures as we grow older—why our growth should have in it so much forgetting. For my own part—”
“I really don’t know,” said Aubrey Vair.
“That’s all right,” said Mrs. Bayne’s deaf aunt. “It ought to please even you.”
“Anything will please me,” said Aubrey Vair; “I care very little—”
“Oh, it’s a lovely dish,” said Mrs. Bayne’s deaf aunt, and relapsed into contemplation.
“I was saying,” said Aubrey Vair, “that I think I still find my keenest pleasures in childish pastimes. I have a little nephew that I see a great deal of, and when
we fly kites together, I am sure it would be hard to tell which of us is the happier. By-the-by, you should get at your daisy chains in that way. Beguile30 some little
girl.”
“But I did. I took that Morton mite31 for a walk in the meadows, and timidly broached32 the subject. And she reproached me for suggesting ‘frivolous pursuits.’ It was a
horrible disappointment.”
“The governess here,” said Aubrey Vair, “is robbing that child of its youth in a terrible way. 464What will a life be that has no childhood at the beginning?
“Some human beings are never young,” he continued, “and they never grow up. They lead absolutely colourless lives. They are—they are etiolated. They never love,
and never feel the loss of it. They are—for the moment I can think of no better image—they are human flowerpots, in which no soul has been planted. But a human soul
properly growing must begin in a fresh childishness.”
“Yes,” said the dark lady, thoughtfully, “a careless childhood, running wild almost. That should be the beginning.”
“Then we pass through the wonder and diffidence of youth.”
“To strength and action,” said the dark lady. Her dreamy eyes were fixed33 on the Downs, and her fingers tightened34 on her knees as she spoke35. “Ah, it is a grand thing
to live—as a man does—self-reliant and free.”
“And so at last,” said Aubrey Vair, “come to the culmination36 and crown of life.” He paused and glanced hastily at her. Then he dropped his voice almost to a
whisper—“And the culmination of life is love.”
Their eyes met for a moment, but she looked away at once. Aubrey Vair felt a peculiar37 thrill and a catching38 in his breath, but his emotions were too complex for
analysis. He had a certain 465sense of surprise, also, at the way his conversation had developed.
Mrs. Bayne’s deaf aunt suddenly dug him in the chest with her ear-trumpet, and some one at tennis bawled39, “Love all!”
“No,” said Aubrey Vair.
“Yes; and they are peeling now,” said Mrs. Bayne’s deaf aunt, shutting her lips tightly, and nodding in a slow, significant manner at both of them.
There was a pause. All three seemed lost in thought, too deep for words.
“Love,” began Aubrey Vair, presently, in a severely41 philosophical42 tone, leaning back in his chair, holding his hands like a praying saint’s in front of him, and
staring at the toe of his shoe,—“love is, I believe, the one true and real thing in life. It rises above reason, interest, or explanation. Yet I never read of an age
when it was so much forgotten as it is now. Never was love expected to run so much in appointed channels, never was it so despised, checked, ordered, and obstructed43.
Policemen say, ‘This way, Eros!’ As a result, we relieve our emotional possibilities in the hunt for gold and notoriety. And after all, with the best fortune in
these, we only hold up the gilded44 images of our success, and are weary slaves, with unsatisfied hearts, in the pageant45 of life.”
466Aubrey Vair sighed, and there was a pause. The girl looked at him out of the mysterious darkness of her eyes. She had read many books, but Aubrey Vair was her first
literary man, and she took this kind of thing for genius—as girls have done before.
“We are,” continued Aubrey Vair, conscious of a favourable46 impression,—“we are like fireworks, mere47 dead, inert48 things until the appointed spark comes; and then—
if it is not damp—the dormant49 soul blazes forth50 in all its warmth and beauty. That is living. I sometimes think, do you know, that we should be happier if we could
die soon after that golden time, like the Ephemerides. There is a decay sets in.”
“Eigh?” said Mrs. Bayne’s deaf aunt, startlingly. “I didn’t hear you.”
“I was on the point of remarking,” shouted Aubrey Vair, wheeling the array of his thoughts,—“I was on the point of remarking that few people in Redhill could match
Mrs. Morton’s fine broad green.”
“Others have noticed it,” Mrs. Bayne’s deaf aunt shouted back. “It is since she has had in her new false teeth.”
This interruption dislocated the conversation a little. However—
“I must thank you, Mr. Vair,” said the dark girl, when they parted that afternoon, “for having given me very much to think about.”
467And from her manner, Aubrey Vair perceived clearly he had not wasted his time.
It would require a subtler pen than mine to tell how from that day a passion for Miss Smith grew like Jonah’s gourd51 in the heart of Aubrey Vair. He became pensive,
and in the prolonged absence of Miss Smith, irritable52. Mrs. Aubrey Vair felt the change in him, and put it down to a vitriolic53 Saturday Reviewer. Indisputably the
“Saturday” does at times go a little far. He re-read “Elective Affinities,” and lent it to Miss Smith. Incredible as it may appear to members of the Areopagus
Club, where we know Aubrey Vair, he did also beyond all question inspire a sort of passion in that sombre-eyed, rather clever, and really very beautiful girl.
He talked to her a lot about love and destiny, and all that bric-à-brac of the minor poet. And they talked together about his genius. He elaborately, though
discreetly54, sought her society, and presented and read to her the milder of his unpublished sonnets. We consider his Byronic features pasty, but the feminine mind has
its own laws. I suppose, also, where a girl is not a fool, a literary man has an enormous advantage over any one but a preacher, in the show he can make of his heart’
At last a day in that summer came when he met her alone, possibly by chance, in a quiet lane 468towards Horley. There were ample hedges on either side, rich with
honeysuckle, vetch, and mullein.
They conversed56 intimately of his poetic57 ambitions, and then he read her those verses of his subsequently published in “Hobson’s Magazine:” “Tenderly ever, since I
have met thee.” He had written these the day before; and though I think the sentiment is uncommonly58 trite59, there is a redeeming60 note of sincerity61 about the lines not
conspicuous62 in all Aubrey Vair’s poetry.
He read rather well, and a swell63 of genuine emotion crept into his voice as he read, with one white hand thrown out to point the rhythm of the lines. “Ever, my sweet,
for thee,” he concluded, looking up into her face.
Before he looked up, he had been thinking chiefly of his poem and its effect. Straightway he forgot it. Her arms hung limply before her, and her hands were clasped
together. Her eyes were very tender.
“Your verses go to the heart,” she said softly.
Her mobile features were capable of wonderful shades of expression. He suddenly forgot his wife and his position as a minor poet as he looked at her. It is possible
that his classical features may themselves have undergone a certain transfiguration. For one brief moment—and it was always to linger in his memory—destiny lifted
him out of his vain little self to a nobler level of simplicity64. 469The copy of “Tenderly ever” fluttered from his hand. Considerations vanished. Only one thing
seemed of importance.
“I love you,” he said abruptly.
An expression of fear came into her eyes. The grip of her hands upon one another tightened convulsively. She became very pale.
Then she moved her lips as if to speak, bringing her face slightly nearer to his. There was nothing in the world at that moment for either of them but one another.
They were both trembling exceedingly. In a whisper she said, “You love me?”
Aubrey Vair stood quivering and speechless, looking into her eyes. He had never seen such a light as he saw there before. He was in a wild tumult65 of emotion. He was
dreadfully scared at what he had done. He could not say another word. He nodded.
“And this has come to me?” she said presently, in the same awe-stricken whisper, and then, “Oh, my love, my love!”
And thereupon Aubrey Vair had her clasped to himself, her cheek upon his shoulder and his lips to hers.
Thus it was that Aubrey Vair came by the cardinal66 memory of his life. To this day it recurs67 in his works.
A little boy clambering in the hedge some way down the lane saw this group with surprise, and 470then with scorn and contempt. Recking nothing of his destiny, he
turned away, feeling that he at least could never come to the unspeakable unmanliness of hugging girls. Unhappily for Reigate scandal, his shame for his sex was
altogether too deep for words.
An hour after, Aubrey Vair returned home in a hushed mood. There were muffins after his own heart for his tea—Mrs. Aubrey Vair had had hers. And there were
chrysanthemums68, chiefly white ones,—flowers he loved,—set out in the china bowl he was wont69 to praise. And his wife came behind him to kiss him as he sat eating.
“De lill Jummuns,” she remarked, kissing him under the ear.
Then it came into the mind of Aubrey Vair with startling clearness, while his ear was being kissed, and with his mouth full of muffin, that life is a singularly
complex thing.
The summer passed at last into the harvest-time, and the leaves began falling. It was evening, the warm sunset light still touched the Downs, but up the valley a blue
About half-way up the slanting71 road that scales the Downs, there is a wooden seat where one may obtain a fine view of the red villas72 scattered73 below, and of the
succession of blue hills beyond. Here the girl with the shadowy face was sitting.
471She had a book on her knees, but it lay neglected. She was leaning forward, her chin resting upon her hand. She was looking across the valley into the darkening
sky, with troubled eyes.
Aubrey Vair appeared through the hazel-bushes, and sat down beside her. He held half a dozen dead leaves in his hand.
She did not alter her attitude. “Well?” she said.
“Is it to be flight?” he asked.
Aubrey Vair was rather pale. He had been having bad nights latterly, with dreams of the Continental74 Express Mrs. Aubrey Vair possibly even in pursuit,—he always
fancied her making the tragedy ridiculous by tearfully bringing additional pairs of socks, and any such trifles he had forgotten, with her,—all Reigate and Redhill in
commotion75. He had never eloped before, and he had visions of difficulties with hotel proprietors76. Mrs. Aubrey Vair might telegraph ahead. Even he had had a prophetic
vision of a headline in a halfpenny evening newspaper: “Young Lady abducts77 a Minor Poet.” So there was a quaver in his voice as he asked, “Is it to be flight?”
“As you will,” she answered, still not looking at him.
“I want you to consider particularly how this will affect you. A man,” said Aubrey Vair, slowly, and staring hard at the leaves in his hand, “even gains 472a
certain éclat in these affairs. But to a woman it is ruin—social, moral.”
“This is not love,” said the girl in white.
“Ah, my dearest! Think of yourself.”
“Stupid!” she said, under her breath.
“You spoke?”
“Nothing.”
“But cannot we go on, meeting one another, loving one another, without any great scandal or misery78? Could we not—”
“That,” interrupted Miss Smith, “would be unspeakably horrible.”
“This is a dreadful conversation to me. Life is so intricate, such a web of subtle strands79 binds80 us this way and that. I cannot tell what is right. You must consider
—”
“A man would break such strands.”
“There is no manliness,” said Aubrey Vair, with a sudden glow of moral exaltation, “in doing wrong. My love—”
“We could at least die together, dearest,” she said discontentedly.
“Good Lord!” said Aubrey Vair. “I mean—consider my wife.”
“You have not considered her hitherto.”
“There is a flavour—of cowardice81, of desertion, about suicide,” said Aubrey Vair. “Frankly, I have the English prejudice, and do not like any kind of running away.
”
Miss Smith smiled very faintly. “I see clearly 473now what I did not see. My love and yours are very different things.”
“Possibly it is a sexual difference,” said Aubrey Vair; and then, feeling the remark inadequate82, he relapsed into silence.
They sat for some time without a word. The two lights in Reigate below multiplied to a score of bright points, and, above, one star had become visible. She began
laughing, an almost noiseless, hysterical83 laugh that jarred unaccountably upon Aubrey Vair.
Presently she stood up. “They will wonder where I am,” she said. “I think I must be going.”
He followed her to the road. “Then this is the end?” he said, with a curious mixture of relief and poignant84 regret.
“Yes, this is the end,” she answered, and turned away.
There straightway dropped into the soul of Aubrey Vair a sense of infinite loss. It was an altogether new sensation. She was perhaps twenty yards away, when he groaned
aloud with the weight of it, and suddenly began running after her with his arms extended.
“Annie,” he cried,—“Annie! I have been talking rot. Annie, now I know I love you! I cannot spare you. This must not be. I did not understand.”
The weight was horrible.
474“Oh, stop, Annie!” he cried, with a breaking voice, and there were tears on his face.
She turned upon him suddenly, with a look of annoyance85, and his arms fell by his side. His expression changed at the sight of her pale face.
“You do not understand,” she said. “I have said good-bye.”
She looked at him; he was evidently greatly distressed86, a little out of breath, and he had just stopped blubbering. His contemptible87 quality reached the pathetic. She
came up close to him, and, taking his damp Byronic visage between her hands, she kissed him again and again. “Good-bye, little man that I loved,” she said; “and
Then, with something that may have been a laugh or a sob,—she herself, when she came to write it all in her novel, did not know which,—she turned and hurried away
again, and went out of the path that Aubrey Vair must pursue, at the cross-roads.
Aubrey Vair stood, where she had kissed him, with a mind as inactive as his body, until her white dress had disappeared. Then he gave an involuntary sigh, a large,
exhaustive expiration89, and so awoke himself, and began walking, pensively90 dragging his feet through the dead leaves, home. Emotions are terrible things.
“Do you like the potatoes, dear?” asked Mrs. 475Aubrey Vair at dinner. “I cooked them myself.”
Aubrey Vair descended91 slowly from cloudy, impalpable meditations92 to the level of fried potatoes. “These potatoes—” he remarked, after a pause during which he was
struggling with recollection. “Yes. These potatoes have exactly the tints93 of the dead leaves of the hazel.”
“What a fanciful poet it is!” said Mrs. Aubrey Vair. “Taste them. They are very nice potatoes indeed.”
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1
bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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avarice
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| n.贪婪；贪心 | |
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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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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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8
philistine
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| n.庸俗的人；adj.市侩的，庸俗的 | |
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9
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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11
muddle
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| n.困惑，混浊状态；vt.使混乱，使糊涂，使惊呆；vi.胡乱应付，混乱 | |
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12
sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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13
conjugal
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| adj.婚姻的，婚姻性的 | |
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14
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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17
eked
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| v.（靠节省用量）使…的供应持久( eke的过去式和过去分词 )；节约使用；竭力维持生计；勉强度日 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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19
dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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seedling
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| n.秧苗，树苗 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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promising
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| adj.有希望的，有前途的 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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25
stereotyped
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| adj.(指形象、思想、人物等)模式化的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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27
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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30
beguile
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| vt.欺骗，消遣 | |
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31
mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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32
broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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34
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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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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culmination
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| n.顶点；最高潮 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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39
bawled
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的过去式和过去分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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42
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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43
obstructed
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| 阻塞( obstruct的过去式和过去分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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46
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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gourd
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| n.葫芦 | |
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irritable
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| adj.急躁的；过敏的；易怒的 | |
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vitriolic
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| adj.硫酸的，尖刻的 | |
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discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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wares
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| n. 货物, 商品 | |
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conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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trite
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| adj.陈腐的 | |
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redeeming
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| 补偿的，弥补的 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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recurs
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| 再发生，复发( recur的第三人称单数 ) | |
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chrysanthemums
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| n.菊花( chrysanthemum的名词复数 ) | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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proprietors
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| n.所有人，业主( proprietor的名词复数 ) | |
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abducts
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| 劫持，诱拐( abduct的第三人称单数 )； 使（肢体等）外展 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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binds
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| v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 )；装订；捆绑；（用长布条）缠绕 | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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contemptible
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| adj.可鄙的，可轻视的，卑劣的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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expiration
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| n.终结，期满，呼气，呼出物 | |
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pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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