The realization9 of his crazy lapse10 of memory was a sobering shock. Never before had he lost grip of himself. Hitherto, the tighter the corner—and he had found himself in many—the clearer had been his brain. The consciousness of the working of a cool intellect had given a pleasurable thrill to danger. Now, for over twenty-four hours, he had been acting11 like a madman, in contemplation of which the only thrill he experienced was one of profound disgust. To enter whatever sphere of life the effacement12 of Alexis Triona should render necessary, raving13 like a maniac14 would be absurd. It would need all his wit.
His retrieved15 suit-case in the rack of the third-class carriage, the paid hotel bill in his pocket, and food, up to then forgotten, in his stomach, he fortified16 himself in this decision, until exhausted17 nature claimed profound and untroubled sleep.
He awoke at Paddington, homeless for the night. Now his brain worked normally. Alexis Triona had disappeared from the face of the earth. It was therefore essential to avoid hotels where Alexis Triona might possibly be recognized. Besides, he knew that West End hotels were congested, that the late-comers to London had been glad to find a couch at a Turkish Bath. His chauffeur’s knowledge of London came to his aid. He drove to a mouldy hotel in the purlieus of the Euston Road, and there found a frowzy18 room. The contrast between the bed, its dingy19 counterpane sagging20 into the worn hollow of the mattress21 beneath, the threadbare rugs askew22 on the oilcloth, the blistered23 deal washstand and dressing-table, the damp, dirty paper, the bleak24 blinds, and the sweet and dainty appointments of the home he had left smote25 him till he could have groaned26 aloud. Not that he gave a thought to such things in themselves. Physical comfort meant little to him. But the lost daintiness signified Olivia; this abominable27 room, the negation28 of her.
He sat on the bed, rolled a cigarette, and began to think clearly. That he had for ever forfeited29 Olivia’s affection it never entered his head to doubt. He saw her face grow more cold and tragic30, and her eyes more horror-stricken at every fresh revelation of mendacity. Loathing31 himself, he had not pleaded for forgiveness; he had done penance32, applied33 the lash34, blackening himself unmercifully. He had lost sense of actual things in his cold romance of deception. He stood before her self-proclaimed, a monster of lies. Now he saw himself an unholy stranger profaning35 the sanctity of her life. He had fought for Heaven with Hell’s weapons, and Eternal Justice had hurled36 him back into the abyss. In the abyss he must remain, leaving her to tread the stars.
The exposure of the Vronsky myth had hurt her as much as anything.
“Vronsky?” She put her hands, fingers apart, to her temples. “But you made me give my heart to Vronsky!”
Yes, surely he had committed towards her the unforgivable sin. He was damned—at any rate, in this world. To rid her irremediably of his pestilent existence was the only hope of salvation37. Olifant was a fool, speaking according to the folly38 of an honourable39 gentleman. He clenched40 his teeth and gripped his hands. If only he could have been such a fool! To appear the kind of man that Olifant easily, naturally, was had been his gnawing41 ambition from his first insight into gentle life, long ago, in the Prince’s household. But, all the same, Olifant was a fool—a sort of Galahad out for Grails, and remote from the baseness in which he had wallowed.
“Go to Olivia. She loves you.”
Chivalrous42 imbecile! He had not seen Olivia’s great staring dark eyes with rims43 around them, and the awful little drawn44 face.
He was right—it was the only way out.
Yet, during all this interview with Olivia, he had been quite sane45. He had indulged in no histrionics. He had not declaimed, and flung his arms about, as he had done in Olifant’s study. He had felt himself talking like a dead man immersed up to the neck in the flames of Hell, but possessed46 of a cold clear intellect. In a way, he was proud of this. To have made an emotional appeal would have obscured the issue towards which his new-found honesty was striving.
His last words to Olivia were:
“And the future?”
She said hopelessly: “Is there a future?”
Then she drew a deep breath and passed her fingers across her face.
“Don’t talk to me any more, for heaven’s sake. I must be alone. I must have air. I must walk.”
She shrank wide of him as he opened the door for her, and she passed out, her eyes remote.
It was then that the poet-charlatan became suddenly aware of his sentence. If the Avengers, or what not uncheerful personages of Greek Tragedy had surrounded him with their ghastly shapes and had chanted their dismal47 Choric Ode of Doom48, his inmost soul could not have been more convinced of that which he must forthwith do. He never thought of questioning the message. He faced the absolute.
Waiting until he heard the click of the outer door of the flat announcing Olivia’s departure in quest of unpolluted air, he went into his dressing-room and packed a suit-case with necessaries, including the despatch-case which contained his John Briggs papers and the accursed little black book.
He met Myra in the hall, impassive.
“If you had told me you were going on a journey, I would have packed for you. Does Mrs. Triona know?”
“No,” said he. “She doesn’t. Wait.”
He left her, and returned a few moments afterwards with a note he had scribbled49. After all, Olivia must suffer no uncertainty50. She must not dread51 his possible return.
“Give that to Mrs. Triona.”
“Are you coming back?”
He looked at her as at a Fate in a black gown relieved by two solitary52 patches of white at the wrists.
“Why do you ask me that?”
“You look as if you weren’t,” said Myra. “I know there has been trouble to-day.”
He had always stood in some awe53 of this efficient automaton54 of a woman, who had never given him a shadow of offence, but in whom he had divined a jealousy55 which he had always striven to propitiate56. But now she awakened57 a forlorn sense of dignity.
He picked up his suit-case.
“What has that got to do with you, Myra?”
“If Mrs. Triona’s room was on fire and I rushed in through the flames to save her, would you ask me what business it was of mine?”
The artist in him wondered for a moment at her even, undramatic presentation of the hypothesis. He could not argue the point, however, knowing her life’s devotion to Olivia. So yielding to the unlit, pale blue eyes in the woman’s unemotional face, he said:
“Yes. There is trouble. Deadly trouble. It’s all my doing. You quite understand that?”
“It couldn’t be anything else, sir,” said Myra.
“And so I’m going away and never coming back.”
He moved to the door. She made the swift pace or two of the trained servant to open it for him. She stood for a few seconds quite rigid58, her hand on the door-knob. Their eyes met. He saw in hers a cold hostility59. Without a word he passed her, and heard the door slam behind him.
It was when he reached the pavement, derelict on the wastes of the world, that his nerves gave way. Until the click of his brain at Worcester station, he had been demented.
“Never again,” said he.
He undressed and went to bed. It was some hours before he could sleep. But sleep came at last, and he woke in the morning refreshed physically60, and feeling capable of facing the unknown future. As yet he had no definite plan. All he knew was that he must disappear. Merely leaving Olivia and setting up for himself elsewhere as Alexis Triona was not to be thought of. Alexis Triona and all that his name stood for—good and evil—must be blotted61 out of human ken6. He must seek fortune again in a foreign country. Why not America? Writing under a fresh pseudonym62, he could maintain himself with his pen. Bare livelihood63 was all that mattered. Even in this earthly Lake of Fire and Brimstone to which, as a liar64, he had apocalyptically65 condemned66 himself, a man must live. During moments of his madness he had dallied67 with wild thoughts of suicide. His fundamental sanity had rejected them. He was no coward. Whatever punishment was in store for him, good God! he was man enough to face it.
In his swift packing he had seized a clump68 of his headed note-paper. A sheet of this he took when, after breakfast, he had remounted to his frowzy room, and wrote a letter to his publishers informing them that he was suddenly summoned abroad, and instructing them to pay, till further notice, all sums accruing69 to him into Olivia’s banking70 account. Consulting his pass-book, he drew a cheque in Olivia’s favour, which he enclosed with a covering letter to Olivia’s bankers. Then, driving to his own bank, he cashed a cheque for the balance of some hundreds of pounds. With this, he prepared to start life in some new world. Restless, he drove back to his hotel. Restless still, he obeyed the instinct of his life, and began to wander; not about any such haunts as might be frequented by his acquaintances, but through the dingy purlieus of the vague region north of the line of Euston and King’s Cross Stations.
It was in a mean street in Somers Town, a hopeless, littered street of little despairing shops, and costers’ barrows, and tousled women and unclean children, that they met. They came up against each other face to face, and recoiled71 a step or two, each scanning the other in a puzzlement of recognition. Then Triona cried:
“Yes, of course—you’re Boronowski.”
“And you—the name escapes me—” the other tapped his forehead with a fat, pallid72 hand “—you’re the chauffeur-mechanic of Prince——”
“Briggs,” said Triona.
“Briggs—yes. The only man who knew more than I of Ukranian literature—I a Pole and you an Englishman. Ah, my friend, what has happened since those days?”
“A hell of a lot,” said Triona.
“You may indeed say so,” replied Boronowski. He smiled. “Well?”
“Well?” said Triona.
“What are you, well-dressed and looking prosperous, doing in this—” he waved a hand “—in this sordidity?”
Triona responded with a smile—but at the foreign coinage of a word.
“I’m just wandering about. And you?”
“I’m living here for the moment. Living is costly74 and funds are scarce. I go back to Warsaw to-morrow—next week—a fortnight——”
“Poland’s a bit upset these days,” said Triona.
“That is why I am here—and that is why I am going back, my friend,” said the Pole.
He was a stout75 man, nearing forty, with dark eyes and a straggly red moustache and beard already grizzled. His grey suit was stained with wear; on his jacket a spike76 of thread showing where a button was missing. He wore an old black felt hat stuck far back on his head, revealing signs of baldness above an intellectual forehead.
Triona laughed. “Was there ever a Pole who was not a conspirator77?”
“Say rather, was there ever a Pole who did not love his country more than his life?”
“Yes. I must say, you Poles are patriotic,” said Triona.
Boronowski’s dark eyes flashed, and seizing his companion’s arm, he hurried him along the encumbered78 pavement.
“Why do you Englishmen who have lately died and bled in millions for your country, always have a little laugh, a little sneer79, at patriotism80? To listen to you, one would think you cared nothing for your country’s welfare.”
“We’ve been so sure of it, you see.”
“But we Poles have not. For two centuries we have not had a country. For two centuries we have dreamed of it, and now we have got it at last, and our blood sings in our veins81, and we have no other interest on earth. And just as we are beginning to realize the wonder of it, we find ourselves enmeshed in German intrigue82, with our promised way to the sea blocked, with the Powers saying: ‘No Ukraine, no Galicia,’ and with the Russian Red Army attacking us. Ah, no. We are not so assured of our country’s welfare that we can afford to depreciate83 patriotism.”
“What are you doing here in England?” asked Triona.
“Breaking my heart,” cried Boronowski passionately84. “I come for help, and find only fair words. I ask for money for guns and munitions85 for the enforcement of the Treaty of Versailles, and they reply, ‘Oh, we can’t do that. Our Labour Party wouldn’t allow us to do that. But we’ll tell those naughty Bolshevists to leave you alone.’ So I return, my mission a failure. Oh, I play a very humble86 part. I do not wish to magnify myself. Those with me have failed. We are cast on our own resources. We are fighting for our new national life. And as the blood in our hearts and the thought in our brains cry ‘Poland, Poland,’ so shall the words be ever loud in our mouths. And look. If we did not cry out, who would listen to us? And we are crying our ‘Poland, Poland,’ in all the Entente87 and neutral countries—I, Boronowski, the most unimportant of all. Perhaps we are voices crying in the wilderness88. But one Voice, once on a time, was heard—and revolutionized the world.”
The man’s voice, crying in the wilderness of the sordid73 Somers Town street, awoke at any rate a responsive chord in the sensitive creature by his side.
“Of course, I understand,” said he. “Forgive my idle speech. But I am in great personal trouble, and I spoke89 with the edge of my lips.”
Boronowski flashed a glance at him.
“Do you know the remedy? The remedy for silly unhappinesses that affect you here and here—” he swung a hand, touching90 forehead and heart “—the little things——”
“I’m damned if they’re little,” said Triona.
“Yes, my friend,” exclaimed the Pole, halting suddenly in front of a wilting91 greengrocer’s shop, and holding him by the lapel of his coat. “Procure for yourself a sense of proportion. In the myriad92 of animated93 beings, what is the individual but an insignificant94 atom? What are your sufferings in the balance of the world’s sufferings? Yes. Yes. Of course you feel them—the toothache, the heartache, the agony of soul. But I claim that the individual has a remedy.”
“What is that?” asked Triona.
“He must cast off the individual, merge95 his pain in the common sorrow of humanity. He must strip himself free of self, and identify himself with a great cause.”
A rusty96 virago97, carrying a straw marketing98 bag, pushed him rudely aside, for he was blocking the entrance to the shop.
“Very much,” replied Triona, suddenly aware that this commonplace looking prophet, vibrating with inspiration, might possibly have some message for him, spiritually derelict.
“Then come up to my rooms.”
To Triona’s surprise, he plunged100 into the crowded greengrocer’s shop, turned into an evil-smelling, basket-littered passage at the back, mounted a couple of flights of unclean stairs, and unlocked and threw open the door of an untidy sitting-room101 looking out on to the noisy street. He swung a wooden chair from a little deal table strewn with paper, and pointed102 to a musty sofa.
“That,” said he courteously103, “is the more comfortable. Pray be seated.”
He picked a depopulated packet of cigarettes from the table.
“Will you smoke? For refreshment104, I can offer you tea—” he pointed to a spirit-lamp and poor tea equipage in a corner. He did the honours of his mildewed105 establishment with much grace. Triona accepted the cigarette, but declined the tea. Boronowski seated himself on the wooden chair. Having taken off his hat, he revealed himself entirely106 bald, save for a longish grizzling red fringe at the back, from ear-tip to ear-tip. The quick rites107 of hospitality performed, he plunged again into impatient speech, recapitulating108 what he had said before and ending in the same peroration109.
“Salvation lies in a man’s effacement of himself, and his identification with a great cause.”
“But, my dear man,” cried Triona feverishly110, “what great cause is there in the world for an Englishman of the present day to devote himself to? Look at the damned country. You’re living in it. Is there a cry anywhere, ‘England über alles?’ Have you seen any enthusiasm for any kind of idea? Of course I love my country. I’ve fought for her on land and sea. I’ve been wounded. I’ve been torpedoed111. And I’d go through it all over again if my country called. But my country doesn’t call.”
He rose from the sofa and walked up and down the little room, throwing about his arms, less like an Englishman than his Polish host, who, keeping his eyes on him, nodded his head in amazed approbation112 as he developed his thesis—that of the fervid113 creature eager to fight England’s battles, but confronted with England’s negation of any battles to fight.
“The only positive ideal in England at the present moment is Bolshevism. The only flag waved in this war-wearied country is the red flag. All the rest is negative. Not what we can do—but what we can prevent. And you, Boronowski, a professor of history, know very well that no Gospel of Negation has ever succeeded since the world began. Look at me,” he said, standing114 before the Pole, with wide, outstretched arms, “young, fit, with a brain that has proved itself—I won’t tell you how—and eager to throw my personal sufferings into the world’s melting-pot—to live, my dear fellow, to work, to devote myself to some ideal. I must do that, or die. It’s all very well for you to theorize. You do it beautifully. There’s not a word wrong in anything you say. But what is the Great Cause that I can devote myself to?”
“Poland,” said Boronowski.
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1
goaded
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| v.刺激( goad的过去式和过去分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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unpaid
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| adj.未付款的，无报酬的 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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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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11
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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effacement
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| n.抹消，抹杀 | |
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raving
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| adj.说胡话的；疯狂的，怒吼的；非常漂亮的；令人醉心[痴心]的v.胡言乱语(rave的现在分词)n.胡话；疯话adv.胡言乱语地；疯狂地 | |
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maniac
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| n.精神癫狂的人；疯子 | |
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15
retrieved
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| v.取回( retrieve的过去式和过去分词 )；恢复；寻回；检索（储存的信息） | |
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fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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frowzy
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| adj.不整洁的；污秽的 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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sagging
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| 下垂[沉，陷]，松垂，垂度 | |
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mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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askew
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| adv.斜地；adj.歪斜的 | |
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blistered
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| adj.水疮状的，泡状的v.（使）起水泡( blister的过去式和过去分词 )；（使表皮等）涨破，爆裂 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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negation
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| n.否定；否认 | |
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forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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31
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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profaning
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| v.不敬( profane的现在分词 )；亵渎，玷污 | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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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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41
gnawing
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| a.痛苦的，折磨人的 | |
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42
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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43
rims
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| n.（圆形物体的）边( rim的名词复数 )；缘；轮辋；轮圈 | |
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44
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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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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46
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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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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48
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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49
scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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50
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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51
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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52
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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53
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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54
automaton
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| n.自动机器，机器人 | |
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55
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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56
propitiate
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| v.慰解，劝解 | |
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57
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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pseudonym
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| n.假名，笔名 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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apocalyptically
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| adj.天启的，启示论的 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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dallied
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| v.随随便便地对待( dally的过去式和过去分词 )；不很认真地考虑；浪费时间；调情 | |
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68
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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accruing
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| v.增加( accrue的现在分词 )；（通过自然增长）产生；获得；（使钱款、债务）积累 | |
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banking
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| n.银行业，银行学，金融业 | |
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recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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spike
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| n.长钉，钉鞋；v.以大钉钉牢，使...失效 | |
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conspirator
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| n.阴谋者，谋叛者 | |
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encumbered
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| v.妨碍，阻碍，拖累( encumber的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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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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83
depreciate
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| v.降价，贬值，折旧 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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85
munitions
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| n.军火，弹药；v.供应…军需品 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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entente
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| n.协定；有协定关系的各国 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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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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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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wilting
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| 萎蔫 | |
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myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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merge
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| v.(使)结合，(使)合并，(使)合为一体 | |
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rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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virago
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| n.悍妇 | |
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marketing
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| n.行销，在市场的买卖，买东西 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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102
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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103
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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104
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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mildewed
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| adj.发了霉的，陈腐的，长了霉花的v.（使）发霉，（使）长霉( mildew的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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recapitulating
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| v.总结，扼要重述( recapitulate的现在分词 ) | |
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109
peroration
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| n.（演说等之）结论 | |
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110
feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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111
torpedoed
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| 用鱼雷袭击（torpedo的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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112
approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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113
fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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114
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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