One particular couple, a large; fine man and wife, who, in the midst of all the dirt and rumbling2 hurry, the gloomy, ludicrous, and desperately3 jovial4 streets, walked side by side in well-bred silence, had evidently bought some article which pleased them. There was nothing offensive in their manner; they seemed quite unconcerned at the passing of the other people. The man had that fine solidity of shoulder and of waist, the glossy6 self-possession that belongs to those with horses, guns, and dressing-bags. The wife, her chin comfortably settled in her fur, kept her grey eyes on the ground, and, when she spoke7, her even and unruffled voice reached Shelton's ears above all the whirring of the traffic. It was leisurely8 precise, as if it had never hurried, had never been exhausted9, or passionate10, or afraid. Their talk, like that of many dozens of fine couples invading London from their country places, was of where to dine, what theatre they should go to, whom they had seen, what they should buy. And Shelton knew that from day's end to end, and even in their bed, these would be the subjects of their conversation. They were the best-bred people of the sort he met in country houses and accepted as of course, with a vague discomfort11 at the bottom of his soul. Antonia's home, for instance, had been full of them. They were the best-bred people of the sort who supported charities, knew everybody, had clear, calm judgment12, and intolerance of all such conduct as seemed to them “impossible,” all breaches14 of morality, such as mistakes of etiquette15, such as dishonesty, passion, sympathy (except with a canonised class of objects—the legitimate16 sufferings, for instance, of their own families and class). How healthy they were! The memory of the doss-house worked in Shelton's mind like poison. He was conscious that in his own groomed17 figure, in the undemonstrative assurance of his walk, he bore resemblance to the couple he apostrophised. “Ah!” he thought, “how vulgar our refinement18 is!” But he hardly believed in his own outburst. These people were so well mannered, so well conducted, and so healthy, he could not really understand what irritated him. What was the matter with them? They fulfilled their duties, had good appetites, clear consciences, all the furniture of perfect citizens; they merely lacked-feelers, a loss that, he had read, was suffered by plants and animals which no longer had a need for using them. Some rare national faculty19 of seeing only the obvious and materially useful had destroyed their power of catching20 gleams or scents21 to right or left.
The lady looked up at her husband. The light of quiet, proprietary22 affection shone in her calm grey eyes, decorously illumining her features slightly reddened by the wind. And the husband looked back at her, calm, practical, protecting. They were very much alike. So doubtless he looked when he presented himself in snowy shirt-sleeves for her to straighten the bow of his white tie; so nightly she would look, standing23 before the full-length mirror, fixing his gifts upon her bosom24. Calm, proprietary, kind! He passed them and walked behind a second less distinguished25 couple, who manifested a mutual26 dislike as matter-of-fact and free from nonsense as the unruffled satisfaction of the first; this dislike was just as healthy, and produced in Shelton about the same sensation. It was like knocking at a never-opened door, looking at a circle—couple after couple all the same. No heads, toes, angles of their souls stuck out anywhere. In the sea of their environments they were drowned; no leg braved the air, no arm emerged wet and naked waving at the skies; shop-persons, aristocrats27, workmen, officials, they were all respectable. And he himself as respectable as any.
He returned, thus moody28, to his rooms and, with the impetuosity which distinguished him when about to do an unwise thing, he seized a pen and poured out before Antonia some of his impressions:
... Mean is the word, darling; we are mean, that's what 's the matter with us, dukes and dustmen, the whole human species—as mean as caterpillars29. To secure our own property and our own comfort, to dole30 out our sympathy according to rule just so that it won't really hurt us, is what we're all after. There's something about human nature that is awfully31 repulsive32, and the healthier people are, the more repulsive they seem to me to be....
He paused, biting his pen. Had he one acquaintance who would not counsel him to see a doctor for writing in that style? How would the world go round, how could Society exist, without common-sense, practical ability, and the lack of sympathy?
He looked out of the open window. Down in the street a footman was settling the rug over the knees of a lady in a carriage, and the decorous immovability of both their faces, which were clearly visible to him, was like a portion of some well-oiled engine.
He got up and walked up and down. His rooms, in a narrow square skirting Belgravia, were unchanged since the death of his father had made him a man of means. Selected for their centrality, they were furnished in a very miscellaneous way. They were not bare, but close inspection33 revealed that everything was damaged, more or less, and there was absolutely nothing that seemed to have an interest taken in it. His goods were accidents, presents, or the haphazard34 acquisitions of a pressing need. Nothing, of course, was frowsy, but everything was somewhat dusty, as if belonging to a man who never rebuked35 a servant. Above all, there was nothing that indicated hobbies.
Three days later he had her answer to his letter:
. . . I don't think I understand what you mean by “the healthier people are, the more repulsive they seem to be”; one must be healthy to be perfect, must n't one? I don't like unhealthy people. I had to play on that wretched piano after reading your letter; it made me feel unhappy. I've been having a splendid lot of tennis lately, got the back-handed lifting stroke at last—hurrah! . . .
By the same post, too, came the following note in an autocratic writing:
DEAR BIRD [for this was Shelton's college nickname],
My wife has gone down to her people, so I'm 'en garcon' for a few days. If you've nothing better to do, come and dine to-night at seven, and go to the theatre. It's ages since I saw you.
Yours as ever,
B. M. HALIDOME.
Shelton had nothing better to do, for pleasant were his friend Halidome's well-appointed dinners. At seven, therefore, he went to Chester Square. His friend was in his study, reading Matthew Arnold by the light of an electric lamp. The walls of the room were hung with costly36 etchings, arranged with solid and unfailing taste; from the carving37 of the mantel-piece to the binding38 of the books, from the miraculously-coloured meerschaums to the chased fire-irons, everything displayed an unpretentious luxury, an order and a finish significant of life completely under rule of thumb. Everything had been collected. The collector rose as Shelton entered, a fine figure of a man, clean shaven,—with dark hair, a Roman nose, good eyes, and the rather weighty dignity of attitude which comes from the assurance that one is in the right.
Taking Shelton by the lapel, he drew him into the radius39 of the lamp, where he examined him, smiling a slow smile. “Glad to see you, old chap. I rather like your beard,” he said with genial40 brusqueness; and nothing, perhaps, could better have summed up his faculty for forming independent judgments41 which Shelton found so admirable. He made no apology for the smallness of the dinner, which, consisting of eight courses and three wines, served by a butler and one footman, smacked42 of the same perfection as the furniture; in fact, he never apologised for anything, except with a jovial brusqueness that was worse than the offence. The suave43 and reasonable weight of his dislikes and his approvals stirred Shelton up to feel ironical44 and insignificant45; but whether from a sense of the solid, humane46, and healthy quality of his friend's egoism, or merely from the fact that this friendship had been long in bottle, he did not resent his mixed sensations.
“By the way, I congratulate you, old chap,” said Halidome, while driving to the theatre; there was no vulgar hurry about his congratulations, no more than about himself. “They're awfully nice people, the Dennants.”
A sense of having had a seal put on his choice came over Shelton.
“Where are you going to live? You ought to come down and live near us; there are some ripping houses to be had down there; it's really a ripping neighbourhood. Have you chucked the Bar? You ought to do something, you know; it'll be fatal for you to have nothing to do. I tell you what, Bird: you ought to stand for the County Council.”
But before Shelton had replied they reached the theatre, and their energies were spent in sidling to their stalls. He had time to pass his neighbours in review before the play began. Seated next to him was a lady with large healthy shoulders, displayed with splendid liberality; beyond her a husband, red-cheeked, with drooping47, yellow-grey moustache and a bald head; beyond him again two men whom he had known at Eton. One of them had a clean-shaved face, dark hair, and a weather-tanned complexion48; his small mouth with its upper lip pushed out above the lower, his eyelids49 a little drooped50 over his watchful51 eyes, gave him a satirical and resolute52 expression. “I've got hold of your tail, old fellow,” he seemed to say, as though he were always busy with the catching of some kind of fox. The other's goggling53 eyes rested on Shelton with a chaffing smile; his thick, sleek54 hair, brushed with water and parted in the middle, his neat moustache and admirable waistcoat, suggested the sort of dandyism that despises women. From his recognition of these old schoolfellows Shelton turned to look at Halidome, who, having cleared his throat, was staring straight before him at the curtain. Antonia's words kept running in her lover's head, “I don't like unhealthy people.” Well, all these people, anyway, were healthy; they looked as if they had defied the elements to endow them with a spark of anything but health. Just then the curtain rose.
Slowly, unwillingly55, for he was of a trustful disposition56, Shelton recognised that this play was one of those masterpieces of the modern drama whose characters were drawn57 on the principle that men were made for morals rather than morals made by men, and he watched the play unfold with all its careful sandwiching of grave and gay.
A married woman anxious to be ridded of her husband was the pivot58 of the story, and a number of scenes, ingeniously contrived59, with a hundred reasons why this desire was wrong and inexpedient, were revealed to Shelton's eyes. These reasons issued mainly from the mouth of a well-preserved old gentleman who seemed to play the part of a sort of Moral Salesman. He turned to Halidome and whispered:
“Can you stand that old woman?”
“What old woman?”
“Do you mean Pirbright?” he said. “I think he's ripping.”
Shelton turned to the play rebuffed; he felt guilty of a breach13 of manners, sitting as he was in one of his friend's stalls, and he naturally set to work to watch the play more critically than ever. Antonia's words again recurred64 to him, “I don't like unhealthy people,” and they seemed to throw a sudden light upon this play. It was healthy!
The scene was a drawing-room, softly lighted by electric lamps, with a cat (Shelton could not decide whether she was real or not) asleep upon the mat.
The husband, a thick-set, healthy man in evening dress, was drinking off neat whisky. He put down his tumbler, and deliberately65 struck a match; then with even greater deliberation he lit a gold-tipped cigarette....
Shelton was no inexperienced play-goer. He shifted his elbows, for he felt that something was about to happen; and when the match was pitched into the fire, he leaned forward in his seat. The husband poured more whisky out, drank it at a draught66, and walked towards the door; then, turning to the audience as if to admit them to the secret of some tremendous resolution, he puffed68 at them a puff67 of smoke. He left the room, returned, and once more filled his glass. A lady now entered, pale of face and dark of eye—his wife. The husband crossed the stage, and stood before the fire, his legs astride, in the attitude which somehow Shelton had felt sure he would assume. He spoke:
“Come in, and shut the door.”
Shelton suddenly perceived that he was face to face with one of those dumb moments in which two people declare their inextinguishable hatred69—the hatred underlying70 the sexual intimacy71 of two ill-assorted creatures—and he was suddenly reminded of a scene he had once witnessed in a restaurant. He remembered with extreme minuteness how the woman and the man had sat facing each other across the narrow patch of white, emblazoned by a candle with cheap shades and a thin green vase with yellow flowers. He remembered the curious scornful anger of their voices, subdued72 so that only a few words reached him. He remembered the cold loathing73 in their eyes. And, above all, he remembered his impression that this sort of scene happened between them every other day, and would continue so to happen; and as he put on his overcoat and paid his bill he had asked himself, “Why in the name of decency74 do they go on living together?” And now he thought, as he listened to the two players wrangling75 on the stage: “What 's the good of all this talk? There's something here past words.”
The curtain came down upon the act, and he looked at the lady next him. She was shrugging her shoulders at her husband, whose face was healthy and offended.
“I do dislike these unhealthy women,” he was saying, but catching Shelton's eye he turned square in his seat and sniffed76 ironically.
The face of Shelton's friend beyond, composed, satirical as ever, was clothed with a mask of scornful curiosity, as if he had been listening to something that had displeased77 him not a little. The goggle-eyed man was yawning. Shelton turned to Halidome:
“Can you stand this sort of thing?” said he.
“No; I call that scene a bit too hot,” replied his friend.
“I'll bet you anything,” he said, “I know what's going to happen now. You'll have that old ass—what's his name?—lunching off cutlets and champagne79 to fortify80 himself—for a lecture to the wife. He'll show her how unhealthy her feelings are—I know him—and he'll take her hand and say, 'Dear lady, is there anything in this poor world but the good opinion of Society?' and he'll pretend to laugh at himself for saying it; but you'll see perfectly81 well that the old woman means it. And then he'll put her into a set of circumstances that are n't her own but his version of them, and show her the only way of salvation82 is to kiss her husband”; and Shelton grinned. “Anyway, I'll bet you anything he takes her hand and says, 'Dear lady.'.rdquo;
Halidome turned on him the disapproval83 of his eyes, and again he said,
“I think Pirbright 's ripping!”
But as Shelton had predicted, so it turned out, amidst great applause.
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收听单词发音
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1
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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rumbling
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| n. 隆隆声, 辘辘声 adj. 隆隆响的 动词rumble的现在分词 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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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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8
leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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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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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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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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13
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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breaches
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| 破坏( breach的名词复数 )； 破裂； 缺口； 违背 | |
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15
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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groomed
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| v.照料或梳洗（马等）( groom的过去式和过去分词 )；使做好准备；训练；（给动物）擦洗 | |
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18
refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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proprietary
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| n.所有权，所有的；独占的；业主 | |
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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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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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25
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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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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aristocrats
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| n.贵族( aristocrat的名词复数 ) | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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caterpillars
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| n.毛虫( caterpillar的名词复数 )；履带 | |
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dole
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| n.救济，（失业）救济金；vt.（out）发放，发给 | |
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31
awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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rebuked
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| 责难或指责( rebuke的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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radius
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| n.半径，半径范围；有效航程，范围，界限 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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42
smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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44
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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45
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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46
humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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47
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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48
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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49
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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50
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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52
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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53
goggling
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| v.睁大眼睛瞪视， （惊讶的）转动眼珠( goggle的现在分词 ) | |
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54
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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55
unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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56
disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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57
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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58
pivot
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| v.在枢轴上转动；装枢轴，枢轴；adj.枢轴的 | |
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59
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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60
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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61
platitudes
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| n.平常的话，老生常谈，陈词滥调( platitude的名词复数 )；滥套子 | |
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62
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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63
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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64
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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65
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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66
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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67
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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68
puffed
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| adj.疏松的v.使喷出( puff的过去式和过去分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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69
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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71
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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72
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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73
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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74
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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75
wrangling
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的现在分词 ) | |
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76
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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77
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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78
wriggled
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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79
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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80
fortify
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| v.强化防御，为…设防；加强，强化 | |
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81
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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82
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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83
disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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