“And that isn’t all,” he cried. “What do you think she had the colossal6 nerve to tell me? That she was engaged to my brother Leopold. Leopold! ‘Why,’ I said, ‘only the other day you informed me you were fed up with Leopold.’ ‘Oh! that,’ she said airily, ‘was before the engagement.’ Apparently7 the brute’s just home on leave and has stolen a march on me. Easy enough with two feet,” he added bitterly.
Marcelle tried to console. After all, he was very young, not yet one-and-twenty. It would be years before he could marry. He flared8 up at the suggestion. That was what Dorothy, a month older than he, had the cool cheek to say. What did age matter? He was as old as Hell. He had all his life behind him. In the trenches9 alone he had spent twenty years. As for marrying, he was perfectly10 able to support a wife, not being, through God’s grace, one of those unhappy devils of new army officers who were wondering what the deuce they would do to earn their living when the war was over. . . . She had treated him damnably. A decent girl would have been kind and sorry and let him down easily. But she!
“She treated me as though I were a lout11 of a schoolboy, and she a woman of thirty. Only the woman of thirty would at least have had manners. Well, she’s going to marry Leopold. I wish her joy of him. She’ll have a hell of a time.”
Decidedly it had not been a lucky day for the House of Baltazar. Marcelle was oppressed by a sense of guilt12 for her share in the family disaster, and felt tragically13 unable to administer comfort. Yesterday she would have poured healing sympathy over the hurts of the evilly entreated14 youth, and her wrath15 would have flamed out upon the heartless minx who had spurned16 the love of a gallant17 gentleman. But to-day how could she? Had not some horrible freak of chance put her in the same dock as Dorothy, worthless criminals both?
“I suppose you were very angry with her,” she said timidly.
He flung out a hand. Oh, that inherited gesture! Angry? Who wouldn’t have been angry? He would never see her, speak to her, think of her again. He had told her so. As for receiving favours from General Mackworth, she was not to dare insult him by dreaming of it. Marcelle pictured a very pretty rumpus. Godfrey was not John Baltazar’s son for nothing.
And she, in the modern idiom, had turned down John Baltazar; with less ostensible18 reason, for, after all, she had not engaged herself to another man. Was he, too, like his son, hurling19 anathema20 at the head of a faithless woman? Outwardly he had been very courteous21, astonishingly gentle; but he was older and had learned self-restraint. How was he taking it now? She was very glad when they reached Churton Towers and when she stripped from herself the unfamiliar22 trappings of Marcelle Baring and put on the comforting impersonal23 uniform of the nurse.
Baltazar, however, carried out none of Marcelle’s forebodings. He neither upbraided24 her nor smashed furniture, nor made one of his volcanic25 decisions. He merely lit a pipe and sat down and tried to think out his unqualified rejection26. It was a second Zeppelin bomb, annihilating27 the castle in the air which that morning had appeared utterly28 solid and assured, as effectively as the first had wiped out Spendale Farm and all that it signified. He couldn’t make head or tail of it. He sat a mystified man. For him the glamour30 of the old days had not faded. In her ripe woman’s beauty she was more desirable than ever. Flashes had shown the continuance of her old wit and gaiety. Thank God she wasn’t eighteen still. What would he do with a child of eighteen? The association was unthinkable. But the woman into which she had developed was the ideal mate and companion. As for her being dead, that was rubbish. Never was woman more splendidly alive. . . . Now let him try to get her point of view. He clenched31 his teeth on his pipe. At eighteen she loved him. She made some sort of hero of him. She kept up her idealization until she met him an elderly, unromantic savage32 of fifty. Then her romance fell tumbling about her ears, and she said to herself, “Oh, my God! I can’t marry this!”
It was the “that” which he had thought himself that the second bomb had sent into eternity33. It took a lot of confused and blinking wonder for him to realize Marcelle’s “this.” Having realized, he accepted it grimly.
He had a little passage of arms with her some days afterwards. She had invited it, anxious to know how deeply she had wounded.
“I’m wretched because I feel I’ve again brought you unhappiness,” she confessed.
“That you should be leading the life you wish to lead is my happiness,” he replied, not insincerely.
“I feel so selfish,” she said.
“Which means that if I pestered34 and blustered35 and raved36 and stormed and made your days a nightmare of remorse37, you would end by marrying me out of desperation?”
“Then I’m damned if I do it. You’d be merely a scared sort of slave of duty, suffering all the time from acute inflammation of the conscience. I being a product of human civilization, and not a German or a gorilla39, or even a Hottentot, should be soon aware of the fact, and our lives would be the most exquisite40 misery41 the mind could conceive.”
“I can’t see why you don’t hate me,” she said.
“I think I’ve arrived at an understanding of the phenomenon,” he replied with a wry42 smile. “You might just as well try to recreate a vanished rainbow as a lost illusion.” He smiled. “Go in peace,” said he.
To himself he said: “I wonder what will be the next knock-down blow.”
Not being able to take charge of Marcelle and Godfrey, who both seemed bent43 on going their respective independent ways, and Quong Ho still lingering at Water End, Baltazar applied44 himself seriously to England. First he must learn, learn more fully45 the endless ramifications46 of national and international life that formed the nervous ganglion of that manifestation47 of activity known as the war. In pursuit of knowledge he not only read books, but eagerly availed himself of every opportunity of social intercourse48. His circle of acquaintances grew rapidly. His three friends, loyal sponsors, had started him with the reputation of an authority on Far Eastern problems. He became a little lion and delighted in it like a child.
A great monthly review published an article on China written by a well-known diplomatist. It was so deplorably wrong in its failure to reach any possible Chinese point of view, that Baltazar shut himself up for a couple of days in his inn sitting-room50 and wrote a scathing51 refutation of the eminent52 sciolist’s propositions. This, the ink on the last sheets scarcely dry, he put into an envelope and sent off to the editor. A week later the article was returned with the stereotyped53 form of rejection. In a fury Baltazar sought Weatherley and consulted him as to the quickest means of wading54 in that editor’s blood. Here was this monstrous55 ass29, he shouted, who, on the strength of having passed a few months at the Embassy in Pekin, with his owl’s eyes full of the dust politely thrown in them by bland56 Chinese officials, not knowing a word of any Chinese language written or spoken, without the vaguest idea of the thoughts or aspirations58 of the educated man in the interior of the kingdom, was granted the authority of a great review to spread abroad in this country the miasma59 of his pestilential ignorance. That stupendous and pernicious asses60 of his kidney should be allowed to mould British public opinion was a scandal of scandals. And when he, who knew, wrote to expose the solemn red-tape and sealing-wax dummy’s imbecility, an equally colossal ass of an editor sent back his article as if it were an essay on Longfellow written by a schoolgirl.
“When you’ve finished foaming61 at the mouth, my dear J. B.,” said Weatherley, “let me look at the manuscript. Ah!” he remarked, turning over the pages, “untyped, difficult to read, owing to saeva indignatio playing the devil with a neat though not very legible handwriting, and signed by a name calamitously62 unknown to the young and essentially63 Oxford64 Pennyfeather.”
“You must advance with the times, my dear J. B.,” laughed Weatherley. “Why on earth didn’t you ring the man up, telling him who you were, and then have the thing typed?”
“Telephones and typewriters!” cried Baltazar. “This new world’s too complicated for me.”
“Never mind,” said Weatherley. “Leave things in my hands. I’ll fix up Pennyfeather. If he persists in his obscurantism, owing to a desire to save his face, I’ll send the article to Jesson of The Imperial Review, who’ll jump at it.”
“I accept your help gratefully,” replied Baltazar. “But all you’ve said confirms me in my opinion that your friend Pennyfeather is a lazy, incompetent68 hound. He and his jejune69 magazine can starve to death.”
He laughed after a while at his own vehemence70. They talked of the points at issue. Presently Weatherley said:
“After all, you’re two years behindhand in Chinese affairs. Chinese adherence71 to the Allied72 Cause is of vast importance. Why don’t you go out again on behalf of the Government and pick up the threads?”
Baltazar burst out:
“I go back to China? That God-forgotten country of dead formulas, in which I’ve wasted the prime of my life? No, my dear friend, never again. I’m here at last, among my own people, in the most enthralling73 moments in the history of the civilized74 world. For years I looked upon myself as a damned Chinaman, and now I’ve woke up to find myself English. And English I’m going to remain.”
“But,” objected Weatherley, “by undertaking75 a Government mission in China, you can remain as English as you please.”
Baltazar refused to consider the suggestion. England, his rediscovered country, was his appointed sphere of action. No more China for him as long as he lived. He went away almost angry with Weatherley for putting such an idea into his head. No doubt he might be useful out there: much more useful than a diplomatist like the arid76 ass who had written the article; but to bury himself there again and leave Godfrey and Marcelle and the throbbing77 wonders of his resurrection, was preposterous78. As he descended79 Weatherley’s staircase a shiver of dismay ran down his spine80. A walk through the streets restored his equanimity. Those crowds which once had seemed so alien, were now his brothers, all fired by the same noble aspirations. He would have liked to shake hands with the soldiers from far oversea, Canadians, Australians, New Zealanders, South Africans, and thank them for their inspiring presence. The day was fine, the exhilaration of the Somme victories was in the air. The new mystery of the tanks exercised all London, which still showed the afterglow of the laughter caused by continued humoristic descriptions in the morning papers. A tank waddled81 up to a house filled with Germans, leaned against it in a comfortable way, and there was no more house and no more Huns. He heard scraps82 of conversation about them as he walked. Yes, Tennyson was right—a bit of a seer after all that Incarnation of Victorianism—when he remarked that fifty years in Europe were preferable to a cycle in Cathay. He went in gayer mood to lunch with Jackman at a club in the West End, for membership of which his host had proposed him. The club, like many London clubs, being hard hit by the war, had taken the unprecedented83 step of holding an autumn election for all candidates duly proposed and seconded. Baltazar found invited to meet him a little party of influential84 members. He went back to Godalming forgetful of Weatherley’s idiocy85.
A few days afterwards he met Weatherley by appointment at his chambers86 in the Temple. A group of publicists outside professional journalism87, of which Baltazar guessed his friend to be one of the initiative forces, were about to bring out a new weekly review, devoted88 to the international phases of the war; to all racial questions from Greenland to New Guinea. Its international outlook would be unlimited89, but, of course, it would pursue a relentless90 anti-German policy. Would Baltazar care to join the band? If so, would he attend a meeting of the founders91 of the Review that afternoon?
“My dear fellow,” cried Baltazar, holding out both his hands, “it’s meat and drink to me.”
“You’ll take up the Far Eastern end of the thing,” said Weatherley.
“I’ll write about China till I’m dead, if you like,” said Baltazar, “so long as I don’t have to go back to the infernal country.”
Again, after the meeting, Baltazar returned to Godalming in a glow. Thanks to Weatherley, he had at last got a footing in the Great Struggle.
“Where does the fun come in?” he asked.
Her voice said: “You’re so young and enthusiastic. You ought to be the son and Godfrey the father.”
“By the way,” said he, “what’s the matter with Godfrey? He’s about as cheerful as a police-court in a fog.”
Marcelle, who could not betray Godfrey’s confidence, attributed his depression to the tediousness of his recovery and the uncertainty93 of the future.
“Of course, of course!” replied Baltazar penitently94. “I’m a selfish beast, never entering into other people’s feelings. I must brighten things up for him.”
The opportunity came very much sooner than Baltazar had any reason to anticipate, in their meeting with Lady Edna Donnithorpe in the lounge of the Carlton.
Young, beautiful, royally assured, she advanced laughing to Baltazar.
“What about your promise, Mr. Baltazar? Pie-crust?”
He had sat next her at dinner a week before and she had invited him to come to tea one afternoon; to have a quiet, interesting talk, she said, away from crowds of disturbing people. She was the wife of the Parliamentary Secretary of one of the new ministries95, the daughter of the Earl of Dunstable, and in other ways a woman of considerable importance. Her radiant photographs recurred96 week after week in the illustrated97 papers. Gossip whispered that she had turned the Prime Minister round her little finger and that when he had recovered from dizziness, he found he had given her elderly and uninspiring husband a place in the Government. Certainly no one was more surprised than Edgar Donnithorpe himself. That he owed his advancement98 to his wife was common knowledge; but alone of mortals he was unaware99 of the fact. When asked by a friend why she had gone to so much pains, she replied: “To get Edgar out of the way and give him something to play with.” She was twenty-five, pulling a hundred strings100 of fascinating intrigue101, a flashing member of scores of war committees, and contrived102 for herself illimitable freedom.
Baltazar made his apologies. He meant to keep his promise, but it required courage on the part of such a back number as himself.
“Back number?” she cried. “Why, on your own showing you’ve only been in existence a few weeks. You are the newest thing in numbers in London.”
“It is gracious of you to say so,” replied Baltazar. Then, as she gave no sign of withdrawal103: “Lady Edna, may I introduce my son—Lady Edna Donnithorpe.”
“I thought it must be. How do you do?” There were dovenotes in her voice which, to the young man’s fancy, invested the commonplace formula with caressive significance; her liquid dark blue eyes regarded him understandingly and pityingly; her hand lingered in a firm clasp for just an appreciable104 fraction of a second.
“Don’t you agree with me about your father? You and I are old, wise, battered105 people compared with him?”
“My father,” replied Godfrey, drinking in her laughing beauty and her sympathetic charm, “has brought back from China all sorts of quaint49 notions of filial piety—so, until I know whether my opinions of him are pious106 or not, I rather shy at expressing them.”
She beamed appreciation107. “I have a father, too, and although he has never been to China, I sympathize with you. One of these days we’ll have a little heart to heart talk about fathers.”
“I should love to,” replied Godfrey.
“Would you really? Are you sure faithlessness is not hereditary108 in your family?”
“Lady Edna,” said Baltazar, holding out the signet ring on his little finger. “If you saw this motto of our ancient Huguenot family in a looking-glass, you would read ‘Jusqu’à la mort.’ The word fidèle, of course, being understood.”
“Death is a long way off, let us hope,” she laughed. “But if the family faithfulness will last out—jusqu’à jeudi—no—I can’t manage Thursday—I’ll give it one day more—say Friday—may I expect you both to lunch with me? You have my address—160 Belgrave Square.”
Receiving their acceptance of the invitation, she shook hands and went across the lounge to her waiting friends.
“A most interesting type,” said Baltazar. “A woman of the moment.”
“She’s wonderful!” said Godfrey. And as her head was turned away, he looked long and lingeringly at her. “Wonderful!”
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收听单词发音
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1
discomfiture
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| n.崩溃；大败；挫败；困惑 | |
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callously
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peals
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| n.（声音大而持续或重复的）洪亮的响声( peal的名词复数 )；隆隆声；洪亮的钟声；钟乐v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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lout
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| n.粗鄙的人；举止粗鲁的人 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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spurned
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| v.一脚踢开，拒绝接受( spurn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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ostensible
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| adj.(指理由)表面的，假装的 | |
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hurling
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| n.爱尔兰式曲棍球v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的现在分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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anathema
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| n.诅咒；被诅咒的人(物)，十分讨厌的人(物) | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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upbraided
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| v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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volcanic
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| adj.火山的；象火山的；由火山引起的 | |
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rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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annihilating
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的现在分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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pestered
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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blustered
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| v.外强中干的威吓( bluster的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮；（风）呼啸；狂吹 | |
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raved
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| v.胡言乱语( rave的过去式和过去分词 )；愤怒地说；咆哮；痴心地说 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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gorilla
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| n.大猩猩，暴徒，打手 | |
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40
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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41
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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43
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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44
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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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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46
ramifications
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| n.结果，后果( ramification的名词复数 ) | |
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47
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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48
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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49
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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50
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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51
scathing
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| adj.（言词、文章）严厉的，尖刻的；不留情的adv.严厉地，尖刻地v.伤害，损害（尤指使之枯萎）( scathe的现在分词) | |
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52
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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stereotyped
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| adj.(指形象、思想、人物等)模式化的 | |
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54
wading
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的现在分词 ) | |
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55
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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56
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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57
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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58
aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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miasma
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| n.毒气；不良气氛 | |
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60
asses
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| n. 驴，愚蠢的人，臀部 adv. (常用作后置)用于贬损或骂人 | |
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61
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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calamitously
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| adv.灾难地，悲惨地 | |
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essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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jejune
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| adj.枯燥无味的，贫瘠的 | |
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vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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adherence
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| n.信奉，依附，坚持，固着 | |
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allied
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| adj.协约国的；同盟国的 | |
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enthralling
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| 迷人的 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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waddled
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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idiocy
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| n.愚蠢 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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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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unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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founders
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| n.创始人( founder的名词复数 ) | |
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ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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penitently
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ministries
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| （政府的）部( ministry的名词复数 )； 神职； 牧师职位； 神职任期 | |
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recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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illustrated
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| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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advancement
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| n.前进，促进，提升 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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strings
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| n.弦 | |
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intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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appreciable
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| adj.明显的，可见的，可估量的，可觉察的 | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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