At each recurrence14 of the refrain the four negroes of the orchestra, or at least the three of them who played with their hands alone—for the saxophonist always blew at this point with a redoubled sweetness, enriching the passage with a warbling contrapuntal soliloquy that fairly wrung15 the entrails and transported the pierced heart—broke into melancholy16 and drawling song:
214“What’s he to Hecuba?
Nothing at all.
That’s why there’ll be no wedding on Wednesday week,
Way down in old Bengal.”
“What unspeakable sadness,” said Gumbril, as he stepped, stepped through the intricacies of the trot. “Eternal passion, eternal pain. Les chants désesperés sont les chants les plus beaux, Et j’en sais d’immortels qui sont de purs sanglots. Rum tiddle-um-tum, pom-pom. Amen. What’s he to Hecuba? Nothing at all. Nothing, mark you. Nothing, nothing.”
“Nothing,” repeated Mrs. Viveash. “I know all about that.” She sighed.
“I am nothing to you,” said Gumbril, gliding17 with skill between the wall and the Charybdis of a couple dangerously experimenting with a new step. “You are nothing to me. Thank God. And yet here we are, two bodies with but a single thought, a beast with two backs, a perfectly18 united centaur19 trotting20, trotting.” They trotted21.
“What’s he to Hecuba?” The grinning blackamoors repeated the question, reiterated22 the answer on a tone of frightful23 unhappiness. The saxophone warbled on the verge24 of anguish25. The couples revolved26, marked time, stepped and stepped with an habitual27 precision, as though performing some ancient and profoundly significant rite28. Some were in fancy dress, for this was a gala night at the cabaret. Young women disguised as callipygous Florentine pages, blue-breeched Gondoliers, black-breeched Toreadors circulated, moon-like, round the hall, clasped sometimes in the arms of Arabs, or white clowns, or more often of untravestied partners. The faces reflected in the mirrors 215were the sort of faces one feels one ought to know by sight; the cabaret was ‘Artistic.’
“What’s he to Hecuba?”
Mrs. Viveash murmured the response, almost piously29, as though she were worshipping almighty30 and omnipresent Nil31. “I adore this tune32,” she said, “this divine tune.” It filled up a space, it moved, it jigged33, it set things twitching34 in you, it occupied time, it gave you a sense of being alive. “Divine tune, divine tune,” she repeated with emphasis, and she shut her eyes, trying to abandon herself, trying to float, trying to give Nil the slip.
“Ravishing little Toreador, that,” said Gumbril, who had been following the black-breeched travesty35 with affectionate interest.
Mrs. Viveash opened her eyes. Nil was unescapable. “With Piers36 Cotton, you mean? Your tastes are a little common, my dear Theodore.”
“Green-eyed monster!”
Mrs. Viveash laughed. “When I was being ‘finished’ in Paris,” she said, “Mademoiselle always used to urge me to take fencing lessons. C’est un exercice très gracieux. Et puis,” Mrs. Viveash mimicked37 a passionate38 earnestness, “et puis, ?a dévelope le bassin. Your Toreador, Gumbril, looks as though she must be a champion with the foils. Quel bassin!”
“Hush,” said Gumbril. They were abreast39 of the Toreador and her partner. Piers Cotton turned his long greyhound’s nose in their direction.
“How are you?” he asked across the music.
They nodded. “And you?”
“Ah, writing such a book,” cried Piers Cotton, “such a brilliant, brilliant, flashing book.” The dance was carrying 216them apart. “Like a smile of false teeth,” he shouted across the widening gulf40, and disappeared in the crowd.
“What’s he to Hecuba?” Lachrymosely41, the hilarious42 blackamoors chanted their question, mournfully pregnant with its foreknown reply.
Nil, omnipresent nil, world-soul, spiritual informer of all matter. Nil in the shape of a black-breeched moon-basined Toreador. Nil, the man with the greyhound’s nose. Nil, as four blackamoors. Nil in the form of a divine tune. Nil, the faces, the faces one ought to know by sight, reflected in the mirrors of the hall. Nil this Gumbril whose arm is round one’s waist, whose feet step in and out among one’s own. Nothing at all.
That’s why there’ll be no wedding. No wedding at St. George’s, Hanover Square,—oh, desperate experiment!—with Nil Viveash, that charming boy, that charming nothing at all, engaged at the moment in hunting elephants, hunting fever and carnivores among the Tikki-tikki pygmies. That’s why there’ll be no wedding on Wednesday week. For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime. For the light strawy hair (not a lock left), the brown face, the red-brown hands and the smooth boy’s body, milk-white, milk-warm, are nothing at all, nothing, now, at all—nil these five years—and the shining blue eyes as much nil as the rest.
“Always the same people,” complained Mrs. Viveash, looking round the room. “The old familiar faces. Never any one new. Where’s the younger generation, Gumbril? We’re old, Theodore. There are millions younger than we are. Where are they?”
“I’m not responsible for them,” said Gumbril. “I’m not even responsible for myself.” He imagined a cottagey room, under the roof, with a window near the floor and a 217sloping ceiling where you were always bumping your head; and in the candlelight Emily’s candid43 eyes, her grave and happy mouth; in the darkness, the curve, under his fingers, of her firm body.
“Why don’t they come and sing for their supper?” Mrs. Viveash went on petulantly44. “It’s their business to amuse us.”
“They’re probably thinking of amusing themselves,” Gumbril suggested.
“Well, then, they should do it where we can see them.”
“What’s he to Hecuba?”
“Nothing at all,” Gumbril clownishly sang. The room, in the cottage, had nothing to do with him. He breathed Mrs. Viveash’s memories of Italian jasmines, laid his cheek for a moment against her smooth hair. “Nothing at all.” Happy clown!
Way down in old Bengal, under the green Paradisiac palms, among the ecstatic mystagogues and the saints who scream beneath the divine caresses45, the music came to an end. The four negroes wiped their glistening46 faces. The couples fell apart. Gumbril and Mrs. Viveash sat down and smoked a cigarette.
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1
bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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3
dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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4
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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5
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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6
voluptuousness
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| n.风骚，体态丰满 | |
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7
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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8
ecstasies
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| 狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 )； 出神； 入迷； 迷幻药 | |
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9
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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10
draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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11
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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12
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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13
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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14
recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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15
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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16
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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17
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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18
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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19
centaur
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| n.人首马身的怪物 | |
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20
trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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21
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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22
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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23
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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24
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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25
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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26
revolved
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| v.（使）旋转( revolve的过去式和过去分词 )；细想 | |
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27
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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28
rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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29
piously
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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30
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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31
nil
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| n.无，全无，零 | |
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32
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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33
jigged
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| v.（使）上下急动( jig的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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34
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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35
travesty
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| n.歪曲，嘲弄，滑稽化 | |
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36
piers
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| n.水上平台( pier的名词复数 )；（常设有娱乐场所的）突堤；柱子；墙墩 | |
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37
mimicked
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| v.（尤指为了逗乐而）模仿( mimic的过去式和过去分词 )；酷似 | |
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38
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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39
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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40
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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41
lachrymosely
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| adv.眼泪地，哭泣地 | |
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42
hilarious
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| adj.充满笑声的，欢闹的；[反]depressed | |
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43
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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44
petulantly
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45
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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46
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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