“You? Is it you?” She seemed doubtful.
Gumbril nodded. “It’s me,” he reassured1 her. “I’ve shaved; that’s all.” He had left his beard in the top right-hand drawer of the chest of drawers, among the ties and the collars.
Emily looked at him judicially2. “I like you better without it,” she decided3 at last. “You look nicer. Oh no, I don’t mean to say you weren’t nice before,” she hastened to add. “But—you know—gentler——” She hesitated. “It’s a silly word,” she said, “but there it is: sweeter.”
That was the unkindest cut of all. “Milder and more melancholy4?” he suggested.
“Well, if you like to put it like that,” Emily agreed.
He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “I forgive you,” he said.
He could forgive her anything for the sake of those candid5 eyes, anything for the grave, serious mouth, anything for the short brown hair that curled—oh, but never seriously, never gravely—with such a hilarious6 extravagance round her head. He had met her, or rather the Complete Man, flushed with his commercial triumphs as he returned from his victory over Mr. Boldero, had met her at the National Gallery. “Old Masters, young mistresses;” Coleman had recommended the National Gallery. He was walking up the Venetian Room, feeling as full of swaggering vitality7 as the largest composition of Veronese, when he heard, 179gigglingly whispered just behind him his Open Sesame to new adventure, “Beaver.” He spun9 round on his tracks and found himself face to face with two rather startled young women. He frowned ferociously10: he demanded satisfaction for the impertinence. They were both, he noticed, of gratifyingly pleasing appearance and both extremely young. One of them, the elder it seemed, and the more charming, as he had decided from the first, of the two, was dreadfully taken aback; blushed to the eyes, stammered12 apologetically. But the other, who had obviously pronounced the word, only laughed. It was she who made easy the forming of an acquaintance which ripened13, half an hour later, over the tea-cups and to the strains of the most classy music on the fifth floor of Lyons’s Strand14 Corner House.
Their names were Emily and Molly. Emily, it seemed, was married. It was Molly who let that out, and the other had been angry with her for what was evidently an indiscretion. The bald fact that Emily was married had at once been veiled with mysteries, surrounded and protected by silences; whenever the Complete Man asked a question about it, Emily did not answer and Molly only giggled15. But if Emily was married and the elder of the two, Molly was decidedly the more knowledgeable17 about life; Mr. Mercaptan would certainly have set her down as the more civilized18. Emily didn’t live in London; she didn’t seem to live anywhere in particular. At the moment she was staying with Molly’s family at Kew.
He had seen them the next day, and the day after, and the day after that; once at lunch, to desert them precipitately19 for his afternoon with Rosie; once at tea in Kew Gardens; once at dinner, with a theatre to follow and an extravagant20 taxi back to Kew at midnight. The tame 180decoy allays21 the fears of the shy wild birds; Molly, who was tame, who was frankly22 a flirting23 little wanton, had served the Complete Man as a decoy for the ensnaring of Emily. When Molly went away to stay with friends in the country, Emily was already inured24 and accustomed to the hunter’s presence; she accepted the playful attitude of gallantry, which the Complete Man, at the invitation of Molly’s rolling eyes and provocative25 giggle16, had adopted from the first, as natural and belonging to the established order of things. With giggling8 Molly to give her a lead, she had gone in three days much further along the path of intimacy26 than, by herself, she would have advanced in ten times the number of meetings.
“It seems funny,” she had said the first time they met after Molly’s departure, “it seems funny to be seeing you without Molly.”
“It seemed funnier with Molly,” said the Complete Man. “It wasn’t Molly I wanted to see.”
“Molly’s a very nice, dear girl,” she declared loyally. “Besides, she’s amusing and can talk. And I can’t; I’m not a bit amusing.”
It wasn’t difficult to retort to that sort of thing; but Emily didn’t believe in compliments; oh, quite genuinely not.
He set out to make the exploration of her; and now that she was inured to him, no longer too frightened to let him approach, now, moreover, that he had abandoned the jocular insolences of the Complete Man in favour of a more native mildness, which he felt instinctively27 was more suitable in this particular case, she laid no difficulties in his way. She was lonely, and he seemed to understand everything so well; in the unknown country of her spirit and 181her history she was soon going eagerly before him as his guide.
She was an orphan28. Her mother she hardly remembered. Her father had died of influenza29 when she was fifteen. One of his business friends used to come and see her at school, take her out for treats and give her chocolates. She used to call him Uncle Stanley. He was a leather merchant, fat and jolly with a rather red face, very white teeth and a bald head that was beautifully shiny. When she was seventeen and a half he asked her to marry him, and she had said yes.
“But why?” Gumbril asked. “Why on earth?” he repeated.
“He said he’d take me round the world; it was just when the war had come to an end. Round the world, you know; and I didn’t like school. I didn’t know anything about it and he was very nice to me; he was very pressing. I didn’t know what marriage meant.”
“Didn’t know?”
She shook her head; it was quite true. “But not in the least.”
And she had been born within the twentieth century. It seemed a case for the text-books of sexual psychology30. “Mrs. Emily X., born in 1901, was found to be in a state of perfect innocence31 and ignorance at the time of the Armistice32, 11th November 1918,” etc.
“And so you married him?”
She had nodded.
“And then?”
She had covered her face with her hands, she had shuddered33. The amateur uncle, now professionally a husband, had come to claim his rights—drunk. She had fought him, she had eluded34 him, had run away and locked herself into 182another room. On the second night of her honeymoon35 he gave her a bruise36 on the forehead and a bite on the left breast which had gone on septically festering for weeks. On the fourth, more determined37 than ever, he seized her so violently by the throat, that a blood-vessel broke and she began coughing bright blood over the bedclothes. The amateur uncle had been reduced to send for a doctor and Emily had spent the next few weeks in a nursing home. That was four years ago; her husband had tried to induce her to come back, but Emily had refused. She had a little money of her own; she was able to refuse. The amateur uncle had consoled himself with other and more docile38 nieces.
“And has nobody tried to make love to you since then?” he asked.
“Oh, lots of them have tried.”
“And not succeeded?”
She shook her head. “I don’t like men,” she said. “They’re hateful, most of them. They’re brutes40.”
“Anch’ io?”
“What?” she asked, puzzled.
“No,” said Emily, after a little hesitation41, “you’re different. At least I think you are; though sometimes,” she added candidly42, “sometimes you do and say things which make me wonder if you really are different.”
The Complete Man laughed.
“Don’t laugh like that,” she said. “It’s rather stupid.”
And how did she spend her time? He continued the exploration.
183Well, she read a lot of books; but most of the novels she got from Boots’ seemed to her rather silly.
“Too much about the same thing. Always love.”
“Well, it oughtn’t to be,” said Emily.
And then, when she was in the country—and she was often in the country, taking lodgings45 here and there in little villages, weeks and months at a time—she went for long walks. Molly couldn’t understand why she liked the country; but she did. She was very fond of flowers. She liked them more than people, she thought.
“I wish I could paint,” she said. “If I could, I’d be happy for ever, just painting flowers. But I can’t paint.” She shook her head. “I’ve tried so often. Such dirty, ugly smudges come out on the paper; and it’s all so lovely in my head, so lovely out in the fields.”
Gumbril began talking with erudition about the flora46 of West Surrey: where you could find butterfly orchis and green man and the bee, the wood where there was actually wild columbine growing, the best localities for butcher’s broom, the outcrops of clay where you get wild daffodils. All this odd knowledge came spouting47 up into his mind from some underground source of memory. Flowers—he never thought about flowers nowadays from one year’s end to the other. But his mother had liked flowers. Every spring and summer they used to go down to stay at their cottage in the country. All their walks, all their drives in the governess cart had been hunts after flowers. And naturally the child had hunted with all his mother’s ardour. He had kept books of pressed flowers, he had mummified them in hot sand, he had drawn48 maps of the country and coloured them elaborately with different coloured inks to 184show where the different flowers grew. How long ago all that was! Horribly long ago! Many seeds had fallen in the stony49 places of his spirit, to spring luxuriantly up into stalky plants and wither50 again because they had no deepness of earth; many had been sown there and had died, since his mother scattered51 the seeds of the wild flowers.
“And if you want sundew,” he wound up, “you’ll find it in the Punch Bowl, under Hindhead. Or round about Frensham. The Little Pond, you know, not the Big.”
“But you know all about them,” Emily exclaimed in delight. “I’m ashamed of my poor little knowledge. And you must really love them as much as I do.”
Gumbril did not deny it; they were linked henceforth by a chain of flowers.
But what else did she do?
Oh, of course she played the piano a great deal. Very badly; but at any rate it gave her pleasure. Beethoven: she liked Beethoven best. More or less, she knew all the sonatas52, though she could never keep up anything like the right speed in the difficult parts.
Gumbril had again shown himself wonderfully at home. “Aha!” he said. “I bet you can’t shake that low B in the last variation but one of Op. 106 so that it doesn’t sound ridiculous.”
And of course she couldn’t, and of course she was glad that he knew all about it and how impossible it was.
In the cab, as they drove back to Kew that evening, the Complete Man had decided it was time to do something decisive. The parting kiss—more of a playful sonorous53 buss than a serious embracement—that was already in the protocol54, as signed and sealed before her departure by giggling Molly. It was time, the Complete Man considered, that 185this salute55 should take on a character less formal and less playful. One, two, three and, decisively, as they passed through Hammersmith Broadway, he risked the gesture. Emily burst into tears. He was not prepared for that, though perhaps he should have been. It was only by imploring56, only by almost weeping himself, that Gumbril persuaded her to revoke57 her decision never, never to see him again.
“Please, please,” he entreated59. He was on the point of tearing off his beard and confessing everything there and then. But that, on second thoughts, would probably only make things worse.
“Please, I promise.”
In the end, she had consented to see him once again, provisionally, in Kew Gardens, on the following day. They were to meet at the little temple that stands on the hillock above the valley of the heathers.
And now, duly, they had met. The Complete Man had been left at home in the top right-hand drawer, along with the ties and collars. She would prefer, he guessed, the Mild and Melancholy one; he was quite right. She had thought him ‘sweeter’ at a first glimpse.
“I forgive you,” he said, and kissed her hand. “I forgive you.”
Hand in hand they walked down towards the valley of the heaths.
“I don’t know why you should be forgiving me,” she said, laughing. “It seems to me that I ought to be doing the forgiving. After yesterday.” She shook her head at him. “You made me so wretched.”
186“Ah, but you’ve already done your forgiving.”
“You seem to take it very much for granted,” said Emily. “Don’t be too sure.”
“But I am sure,” said Gumbril. “I can see——”
Emily laughed again. “I feel happy,” she declared.
“So do I.”
“How green the grass is!”
Green, green—after these long damp months it glowed in the sunlight, as though it were lighted from inside.
“And the trees!”
The pale, high, clot-polled trees of the English spring; the dark, symmetrical pine trees, islanded here and there on the lawns, each with its own separate profile against the sky and its own shadow, impenetrably dark or freckled60 with moving lights, on the grass at its feet.
They walked on in silence. Gumbril took off his hat, breathed the soft air that smelt61 of the greenness of the garden.
“There are quiet places also in the mind,” he said meditatively62. “But we build bandstands and factories on them. Deliberately—to put a stop to the quietness. We don’t like the quietness. All the thoughts, all the preoccupations in my head—round and round, continually.” He made a circular motion with his hand. “And the jazz bands, the music-hall songs, the boys shouting the news. What’s it for? what’s it all for? To put an end to the quiet, to break it up and disperse63 it, to pretend at any cost it isn’t there. Ah, but it is; it is there, in spite of everything, at the back of everything. Lying awake at night, sometimes—not restlessly, but serenely64, waiting for sleep—the quiet re-establishes itself, piece by piece; all the broken bits, all the fragments of it we’ve been so busily dispersing65 187all day long. It re-establishes itself, an inward quiet, like this outward quiet of grass and trees. It fills one, it grows—a crystal quiet, a growing, expanding crystal. It grows, it becomes more perfect; it is beautiful and terrifying, yes, terrifying as well as beautiful. For one’s alone in the crystal and there’s no support from outside, there’s nothing external and important, nothing external and trivial to pull oneself up by or to stand on, superiorly, contemptuously, so that one can look down. There’s nothing to laugh at or feel enthusiastic about. But the quiet grows and grows. Beautifully and unbearably66. And at last you are conscious of something approaching; it is almost a faint sound of footsteps. Something inexpressibly lovely and wonderful advances through the crystal, nearer, nearer. And, oh, inexpressibly terrifying. For if it were to touch you, if it were to seize and engulf67 you, you’d die; all the regular, habitual68, daily part of you would die. There would be an end of bandstands and whizzing factories, and one would have to begin living arduously69 in the quiet, arduously in some strange, unheard-of manner. Nearer, nearer come the steps; but one can’t face the advancing thing. One daren’t. It’s too terrifying, it’s too painful to die. Quickly, before it is too late, start the factory wheels, bang the drum, blow up the saxophone. Think of the women you’d like to sleep with, the schemes for making money, the gossip about your friends, the last outrage70 of the politicians. Anything for a diversion. Break the silence, smash the crystal to pieces. There, it lies in bits; it is easily broken, hard to build up and easy to break. And the steps? Ah, those have taken themselves off, double quick. Double quick, they were gone at the first flawing of the crystal. And by this time the lovely and terrifying thing is three 188infinities away, at least. And you lie tranquilly71 on your bed, thinking of what you’d do if you had ten thousand pounds, and of all the fornications you’ll never commit.” He thought of Rosie’s pink underclothes.
“You make things very complicated,” she said, after a silence.
Gumbril spread out his great-coat on a green bank and they sat down. Leaning back, his hands under his head, he watched her sitting there beside him. She had taken off her hat; there was a stir of wind in those childish curls, and at the nape, at the temples, where the hair had sleaved out thin and fine, the sunlight made little misty72 haloes of gold. Her hands clasped round her knees, she sat quite still, looking out across the green expanses, at the trees, at the white clouds on the horizon. There was quiet in her mind, he thought. She was native to that crystal world; for her, the steps came comfortingly through the silence and the lovely thing brought with it no terrors. It was all so easy for her and simple.
Ah, so simple, so simple; like the Hire Purchase System on which Rosie had bought her pink bed. And how simple it was, too, to puddle73 clear waters and unpetal every flower!—every wild flower, by God! one ever passed in a governess cart at the heels of a barrel-bellied pony74. How simple to spit on the floors of churches! Si prega di non sputare. Simple to kick one’s legs and enjoy oneself—dutifully—in pink underclothing. Perfectly simple.
“It’s like the Arietta, don’t you think?” said Emily suddenly, “the Arietta of Op. 111.” And she hummed the first bars of the air. “Don’t you feel it’s like that?”
“What’s like that?”
189“Everything,” said Emily. “To-day, I mean. You and me. These gardens——” And she went on humming.
Gumbril shook his head. “Too simple for me,” he said.
Emily laughed. “Ah, but then think how impossible it gets a little farther on.” She agitated75 her fingers wildly, as though she were trying to play the impossible passages. “It begins easily for the sake of poor imbeciles like me; but it goes on, it goes on, more and more fully11 and subtly and abstrusely76 and embracingly. But it’s still the same movement.”
The shadows stretched farther and farther across the lawns, and as the sun declined the level light picked out among the grasses innumerable stipplings of shadow; and in the paths, that had seemed under the more perpendicular77 rays as level as a table, a thousand little shadowy depressions and sun-touched mountains were now apparent. Gumbril looked at his watch.
“Good Lord!” he said, “we must fly.” He jumped up. “Quick, quick!”
“But why?”
“We shall be late.” He wouldn’t tell her for what. “Wait and see” was all that Emily could get out of him by her questioning. They hurried out of the gardens, and in spite of her protests he insisted on taking a taxi into town. “I have such a lot of unearned increment78 to get rid of,” he explained. The Patent Small-Clothes seemed at the moment remoter than the farthest stars.
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1
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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judicially
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| 依法判决地，公平地 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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hilarious
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| adj.充满笑声的，欢闹的；[反]depressed | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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8
giggling
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的现在分词 ) | |
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spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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ferociously
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| 野蛮地，残忍地 | |
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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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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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knowledgeable
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| adj.知识渊博的；有见识的 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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precipitately
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| adv.猛进地 | |
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extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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allays
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的第三人称单数 ) | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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inured
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| adj.坚强的，习惯的 | |
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provocative
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| adj.挑衅的，煽动的，刺激的，挑逗的 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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influenza
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| n.流行性感冒，流感 | |
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psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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armistice
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| n.休战，停战协定 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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34
eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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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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shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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46
flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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47
spouting
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| n.水落管系统v.（指液体）喷出( spout的现在分词 )；滔滔不绝地讲；喋喋不休地说；喷水 | |
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48
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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49
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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50
wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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51
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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52
sonatas
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| n.奏鸣曲( sonata的名词复数 ) | |
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53
sonorous
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| adj.响亮的，回响的；adv.圆润低沉地；感人地；n.感人，堂皇 | |
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54
protocol
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| n.议定书，草约，会谈记录，外交礼节 | |
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55
salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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revoke
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| v.废除，取消，撤回 | |
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58
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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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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60
freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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62
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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63
disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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65
dispersing
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| adj. 分散的 动词disperse的现在分词形式 | |
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66
unbearably
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| adv.不能忍受地，无法容忍地；慌 | |
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67
engulf
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| vt.吞没，吞食 | |
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68
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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arduously
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| adv.费力地，严酷地 | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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71
tranquilly
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| adv. 宁静地 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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puddle
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| n.(雨)水坑，泥潭 | |
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74
pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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75
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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abstrusely
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| adv.难解地，深奥地 | |
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perpendicular
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| adj.垂直的，直立的；n.垂直线，垂直的位置 | |
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increment
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| n.增值，增价；提薪，增加工资 | |
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