The cab drove slowly and as though with reluctance2 down the dirty mews. He paid it off, opened his little door between the wide stable doors, climbed the steep ladder of his stairs and was at home. He sat down and tried to think.
“Death, death, death, death,” he kept repeating to himself, moving his lips as though he were praying. If he said the word often enough, if he accustomed himself completely to the idea, death would come almost by itself; he would know it already, while he was still alive, he would pass almost without noticing out of life into death. Into death, he thought, into death. Death like a well. The stone falls, falls, second after second; and at last there is a sound, a far-off, horrible sound of death and then nothing more. The well at Carisbrooke, with a donkey to wind the wheel that pulls up the bucket of water, of icy water.... He thought for a long time of the well of death.
Outside in the mews a barrel-organ struck up the tune3 273of ‘Where do flies go in the winter-time?’ Lypiatt lifted his head to listen. He smiled to himself. ‘Where do flies go?’ The question asked itself with a dramatic, a tragical4 appositeness. At the end of everything—the last ludicrous touch. He saw it all from outside. He pictured himself sitting there alone, broken. He looked at his hand lying limp on the table in front of him. It needed only the stigma5 of the nail to make it the hand of a dead Christ.
There, he was making literature of it again. Even now. He buried his face in his hands. His mind was full of twisted darkness, of an unspeakable, painful confusion. It was too difficult, too difficult.
The inkpot, he found when he wanted to begin writing, contained nothing but a parched6 black sediment7. He had been meaning for days past to get some more ink; and he had always forgotten. He would have to write in pencil.
“Do you remember,” he wrote, “do you remember, Myra, that time we went down into the country—you remember—under the Hog’s Back at that little inn they were trying to make pretentious8? ‘Hotel Bull’—do you remember? How we laughed over the Hotel Bull! And how we liked the country outside its doors! All the world in a few square miles. Chalk-pits and blue butterflies on the Hog’s Back. And at the foot of the hill, suddenly, the sand; the hard, yellow sand with those queer caves, dug when and by what remote villains9 at the edge of the Pilgrims’ Way? the fine grey sand on which the heather of Puttenham Common grows. And the flagstaff and the inscription10 marking the place where Queen Victoria stood to look at the view. And the enormous sloping meadows round Compton and the thick, dark woods. And the lakes, the heaths, the Scotch11 firs at Cutt Mill. The forests of 274Shackleford. There was everything. Do you remember how we enjoyed it all? I did, in any case. I was happy during those three days. And I loved you, Myra. And I thought you might, you might perhaps, some day, love me. You didn’t. And my love has only brought me unhappiness. Perhaps it has been my fault. Perhaps I ought to have known how to make you give me happiness. You remember that wonderful sonnet12 of Michelangelo’s, where he says that the loved woman is like a block of marble from which the artist knows how to cut the perfect statue of his dreams. If the statue turns out a bad one, if it’s death instead of love that the lover gets—why, the fault lies in the artist and in the lover, not in the marble, not in the beloved.
Amor dunque non ha, ne tua beltate,
O fortuna, o durezza, o gran disdegno,
Del mio mal colpa, o mio destino, o sorte.
Se dentro del tuo cor morte e pietate
Non sappia ardendo trarne altro che morte.
Yes, it was my basso ingegno: my low genius which did not know how to draw love from you, nor beauty from the materials of which art is made. Ah, now you’ll smile to yourself and say: Poor Casimir, he has come to admit that at last? Yes, yes, I have come to admit everything. That I couldn’t paint, I couldn’t write, I couldn’t make music. That I was a charlatan14 and a quack15. That I was a ridiculous actor of heroic parts who deserved to be laughed at—and was laughed at. But then every man is ludicrous if you look at him from outside, without taking into account 275what’s going on in his heart and mind. You could turn Hamlet into an epigrammatic farce16 with an inimitable scene when he takes his adored mother in adultery. You could make the wittiest17 Guy de Maupassant short story out of the life of Christ, by contrasting the mad rabbi’s pretensions18 with his abject19 fate. It’s a question of the point of view. Every one’s a walking farce and a walking tragedy at the same time. The man who slips on a banana-skin and fractures his skull20 describes against the sky, as he falls, the most richly comical arabesque21. And you, Myra—what do you suppose the unsympathetic gossips say of you? What sort of a farce of the Boulevards is your life in their eyes? For me, Myra, you seem to move all the time through some nameless and incomprehensible tragedy. For them you are what? Merely any sort of a wanton, with amusing adventures. And what am I? A charlatan, a quack, a pretentious, boasting, rhodomontading imbecile, incapable22 of painting anything but vermouth posters. (Why did that hurt so terribly? I don’t know. There was no reason why you shouldn’t think so if you wanted to.) I was all that,—and grotesquely23 laughable. And very likely your laughter was justified24, your judgment25 was true. I don’t know. I can’t tell. Perhaps I am a charlatan. Perhaps I’m insincere; boasting to others, deceiving myself. I don’t know, I tell you. Everything is confusion in my mind now. The whole fabric26 seems to have tumbled to pieces; it lies in a horrible chaos27. I can make no order within myself. Have I lied to myself? have I acted and postured28 the Great Man to persuade myself that I am one? have I something in me, or nothing? have I ever achieved anything of worth, anything that rhymed with my conceptions, my dreams (for those were fine; of that, I am 276certain)? I look into the chaos that is my soul and, I tell you, I don’t know, I don’t know. But what I do know is that I’ve spent nearly twenty years now playing the charlatan at whom you all laugh. That I’ve suffered, in mind and in body too—almost from hunger, sometimes—in order to play it. That I’ve struggled, that I’ve exultantly29 climbed to the attack, that I’ve been thrown down—ah, many times!—that I’ve picked myself up and started again. Well, I suppose all that’s ludicrous, if you like to think of it that way. It is ludicrous that a man should put himself to prolonged inconvenience for the sake of something which doesn’t really exist at all. It’s exquisitely30 comic, I can see. I can see it in the abstract, so to speak. But in this particular case, you must remember I’m not a dispassionate observer. And if I am overcome now, it is not with laughter. It is with an indescribable unhappiness, with the bitterness of death itself. Death, death, death. I repeat the word to myself, again and again. I think of death, I try to imagine it, I hang over it, looking down, where the stones fall and fall and there is one horrible noise, and then silence again; looking down into the well of death. It is so deep that there is no glittering eye of water to be seen at the bottom. I have no candle to send down. It is horrible, but I do not want to go on living. Living would be worse than....”
Lypiatt was reaching out for another sheet of paper when he was startled to hear the sound of feet on the stairs. He turned towards the door. His heart beat with violence. He was filled with a strange sense of apprehension31. In terror he awaited the approach of some unknown and terrible being. The feet of the angel of death were on the stairs. Up, up, up. Lypiatt felt himself trembling as the 277sound came nearer. He knew for certain that in a few seconds he was going to die. The hangmen had already pinioned32 him; the soldiers of the firing squad33 had already raised their rifles. One, two, ... he thought of Mrs. Viveash standing34, bare-headed, the wind blowing in her hair, at the foot of the flagstaff from the site of which Queen Victoria had admired the distant view of Selborne; he thought of her dolorously35 smiling; he remembered that once she had taken his head between her two hands and kissed him: ‘Because you’re such a golden ass,’ she had said, laughing. Three.... There was a little tap at the door. Lypiatt pressed his hand over his heart. The door opened.
A small, bird-like man with a long, sharp nose and eyes as round and black and shining as buttons stepped into the room.
“Mr. Lydgate, I presume?” he began. Then looked at a card on which a name and address were evidently written. “Lypiatt, I mean. A thousand pardons. Mr. Lypiatt, I presume?”
Lypiatt leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes. His face was as white as paper. He breathed hard and his temples were wet with sweat, as though he had been running.
“I found the door down below open, so I came straight up. I hope you’ll excuse....” The stranger smiled apologetically.
“Who are you?” Lypiatt asked, reopening his eyes. His heart was still beating hard; after the storm it calmed itself slowly. He drew back from the brink36 of the fearful well; the time had not yet come to plunge37.
“My name,” said the stranger, “is Boldero, Herbert Boldero. Our mutual38 friend Mr. Gumbril, Mr. Theodore 278Gumbril, junior,” he made it more precise, “suggested that I might come and see you about a little matter in which he and I are interested and in which perhaps you, too, might be interested.”
Lypiatt nodded, without saying anything.
Mr. Boldero, meanwhile, was turning his bright, bird-like eyes about the studio. Mrs. Viveash’s portrait, all but finished now, was clamped to the easel. He approached it, a connoisseur39.
“It reminds me very much,” he said, “of Bacosso. Very much indeed, if I may say so. Also a little of ...” he hesitated, trying to think of the name of that other fellow Gumbril had talked about. But being unable to remember the unimpressive syllables40 of Derain he played for safety and said—“of Orpen.” Mr. Boldero looked inquiringly at Lypiatt to see if that was right.
Mr. Boldero saw that it wasn’t much good talking about modern art. This chap, he thought, looked as though something were wrong with him. He hoped he hadn’t got influenza42. There was a lot of the disease about. “This little affair I was speaking of,” he pursued, in another tone, “is a little business proposition that Mr. Gumbril and I have gone into together. A matter of pneumatic trousers,” he waved his hand airily.
Lypiatt suddenly burst out laughing, an embittered43 Titan. Where do flies go? Where do souls go? The barrel-organ, and now pneumatic trousers! Then, as suddenly, he was silent again. More literature? Another piece of acting44? “Go on,” he said, “I’m sorry.”
“Not at all, not at all,” said Mr. Boldero indulgently. 279“I know the idea does seem a little humorous, if I may say so, at first. But I assure you, there’s money in it, Mr. Lydgate—Mr. Lypiatt. Money!” Mr. Boldero paused a moment dramatically. “Well,” he went on, “our idea was to launch the new product with a good swingeing publicity45 campaign. Spend a few thousands in the papers and then get it good and strong into the Underground and on the hoardings, along with Owbridge’s and John Bull and the Golden Ballot46. Now, for that, Mr. Lypiatt, we shall need, as you can well imagine, a few good striking pictures. Mr. Gumbril mentioned your name and suggested I should come and see you to find out if you would perhaps be agreeable to lending us your talent for this work. And I may add, Mr. Lypiatt,” he spoke with real warmth, “that having seen this example of your work”—he pointed47 to the portrait of Mrs. Viveash—“I feel that you would be eminently48 capable of....”
He did not finish the sentence; for at this moment Lypiatt leapt up from his chair and, making a shrill49, inarticulate, animal noise, rushed on the financier, seized him with both hands by the throat, shook him, threw him to the floor, then picked him up again by the coat collar and pushed him towards the door, kicking him as he went. A final kick sent Mr. Boldero tobogganing down the steep stairs. Lypiatt ran down after him; but Mr. Boldero had picked himself up, had opened the front door, slipped out, slammed it behind him, and was running up the mews before Lypiatt could get to the bottom of the stairs.
Lypiatt opened the door and looked out. Mr. Boldero was already far away, almost at the Piranesian arch. He watched him till he was out of sight, then went upstairs again and threw himself face downwards50 on his bed.
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1
deride
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| v.嘲弄，愚弄 | |
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reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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tragical
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| adj. 悲剧的, 悲剧性的 | |
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stigma
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| n.耻辱，污名；(花的)柱头 | |
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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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sediment
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| n.沉淀，沉渣，沉积(物) | |
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pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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villains
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| n.恶棍( villain的名词复数 )；罪犯；（小说、戏剧等中的）反面人物；淘气鬼 | |
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10
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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11
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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12
sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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tempo
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| n.(音乐的)速度；节奏，行进速度 | |
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charlatan
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| n.骗子；江湖医生；假内行 | |
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quack
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| n.庸医；江湖医生；冒充内行的人；骗子 | |
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16
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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wittiest
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| 机智的，言辞巧妙的，情趣横生的( witty的最高级 ) | |
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18
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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arabesque
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| n.阿拉伯式花饰；adj.阿拉伯式图案的 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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28
postured
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| 做出某种姿势( posture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exultantly
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| adv.狂欢地，欢欣鼓舞地 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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31
apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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pinioned
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| v.抓住[捆住]（双臂）( pinion的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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squad
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| n.班，小队，小团体；vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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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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dolorously
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| adj. 悲伤的；痛苦的；悲哀的；阴沉的 | |
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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41
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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42
influenza
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| n.流行性感冒，流感 | |
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43
embittered
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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44
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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45
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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46
ballot
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| n.（不记名）投票，投票总数，投票权；vi.投票 | |
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47
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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49
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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50
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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