. . . Aunt Charlotte is ever so much better, so mother thinks we can go home-hurrah1! But she says that you and I must keep to our arrangement not to see each other till July. There will be something fine in being so near and having the strength to keep apart . . . All the English are gone. I feel it so empty out here; these people are so funny-all foreign and shallow. Oh, Dick! how splendid to have an ideal to look up to! Write at once to Brewer's Hotel and tell me you think the same.... We arrive at Charing2 Cross on Sunday at half-past seven, stay at Brewer's for a couple of nights, and go down on Tuesday to Holm Oaks.
Always your
ANTONIA.
“To-morrow!” he thought; “she's coming tomorrow!” and, leaving his neglected breakfast, he started out to walk off his emotion. His square ran into one of those slums that still rub shoulders with the most distinguished3 situations, and in it he came upon a little crowd assembled round a dogfight. One of the dogs was being mauled, but the day was muddy, and Shelton, like any well-bred Englishman, had a horror of making himself conspicuous4 even in a decent cause; he looked for a policeman. One was standing5 by, to see fair play, and Shelton made appeal to him. The official suggested that he should not have brought out a fighting dog, and advised him to throw cold water over them.
“It is n 't my dog,” said Shelton.
“Then I should let 'em be,” remarked the policeman with evident surprise.
Shelton appealed indefinitely to the lower orders. The lower orders, however, were afraid of being bitten.
“Nasty breed o' dawg is that.”
He was therefore obliged to cast away respectability, spoil his trousers and his gloves, break his umbrella, drop his hat in the mud, and separate the dogs. At the conclusion of the “job,” the lower orders said to him in a rather shamefaced spanner:
“Well, I never thought you'd have managed that, sir”; but, like all men of inaction, Shelton after action was more dangerous.
“D——n it!” he said, “one can't let a dog be killed”; and he marched off, towing the injured dog with his pocket-handkerchief, and looking scornfully at harmless passers-by. Having satisfied for once the smouldering fires within him, he felt entitled to hold a low opinion of these men in the street. “The brutes,” he thought, “won't stir a finger to save a poor dumb creature, and as for policemen—” But, growing cooler, he began to see that people weighted down by “honest toil” could not afford to tear their trousers or get a bitten hand, and that even the policeman, though he had looked so like a demi-god, was absolutely made of flesh and blood. He took the dog home, and, sending for a vet7., had him sewn up.
He was already tortured by the doubt whether or no he might venture to meet Antonia at the station, and, after sending his servant with the dog to the address marked on its collar, he formed the resolve to go and see his mother, with some vague notion that she might help him to decide. She lived in Kensington, and, crossing the Brompton Road, he was soon amongst that maze8 of houses into the fibre of whose structure architects have wrought9 the motto: “Keep what you have—wives, money, a good address, and all the blessings10 of a moral state!”
Shelton pondered as he passed house after house of such intense respectability that even dogs were known to bark at them. His blood was still too hot; it is amazing what incidents will promote the loftiest philosophy. He had been reading in his favourite review an article eulogising the freedom and expansion which had made the upper middle class so fine a body; and with eyes wandering from side to side he nodded his head ironically. “Expansion and freedom,” ran his thoughts: “Freedom and expansion!”
Each house-front was cold and formal, the shell of an owner with from three to five thousand pounds a year, and each one was armoured against the opinion of its neighbours by a sort of daring regularity11. “Conscious of my rectitude; and by the strict observance of exactly what is necessary and no more, I am enabled to hold my head up in the world. The person who lives in me has only four thousand two hundred and fifty-five pounds each year, after allowing for the income tax.” Such seemed the legend of these houses.
Shelton passed ladies in ones and twos and threes going out shopping, or to classes of drawing, cooking, ambulance. Hardly any men were seen, and they were mostly policemen; but a few disillusioned12 children were being wheeled towards the Park by fresh-cheeked nurses, accompanied by a great army of hairy or of hairless dogs.
There was something of her brother's large liberality about Mrs. Shelton, a tiny lady with affectionate eyes, warm cheeks, and chilly13 feet; fond as a cat of a chair by the fire, and full of the sympathy that has no insight. She kissed her son at once with rapture14, and, as usual, began to talk of his engagement. For the first time a tremor15 of doubt ran through her son; his mother's view of it grated on him like the sight of a blue-pink dress; it was too rosy16. Her splendid optimism, damped him; it had too little traffic with the reasoning powers.
“The dear!” she cooed. “And she is coming back to-morrow? Hurrah! how I long to see her!”
“But you know, mother, we've agreed not to meet again until July.”
Mrs. Shelton rocked her foot, and, holding her head on one side like a little bird, looked at her son with shining eyes.
“Dear old Dick!” she said, “how happy you must be!”
Half a century of sympathy with weddings of all sorts—good, bad, indifferent—beamed from her.
“I suppose,” said Shelton gloomily, “I ought not to go and see her at the station.”
That “Cheer-up!”—the panacea19 which had carried her blind and bright through every evil—was as void of meaning to him as wine without a flavour.
“And how is your sciatica?” he asked.
“Oh, pretty bad,” returned his mother; “I expect it's all right, really. Cheer up!” She stretched her little figure, canting her head still more.
“Wonderful woman!” Shelton thought. She had, in fact, like many of her fellow-countrymen, mislaid the darker side of things, and, enjoying the benefits of orthodoxy with an easy conscience, had kept as young in heart as any girl of thirty.
Shelton left her house as doubtful whether he might meet Antonia as when he entered it. He spent a restless afternoon.
The next day—that of her arrival—was a Sunday. He had made Ferrand a promise to go with him to hear a sermon in the slums, and, catching20 at any diversion which might allay21 excitement, he fulfilled it. The preacher in question—an amateur, so Ferrand told him—had an original method of distributing the funds that he obtained. To male sheep he gave nothing, to ugly female sheep a very little, to pretty female sheep the rest. Ferrand hazarded an inference, but he was a foreigner. The Englishman preferred to look upon the preacher as guided by a purely22 abstract love of beauty. His eloquence23, at any rate, was unquestionable, and Shelton came out feeling sick.
It was not yet seven o'clock, so, entering an Italian restaurant to kill the half-hour before Antonia's arrival, he ordered a bottle of wine for his companion, a cup of coffee for himself, and, lighting24 a cigarette, compressed his lips. There was a strange, sweet sinking in his heart. His companion, ignorant of this emotion, drank his wine, crumbled25 his roll, and blew smoke through his nostrils26, glancing caustically27 at the rows of little tables, the cheap mirrors, the hot, red velvet28, the chandeliers. His juicy lips seemed to be murmuring, “Ah! if you only knew of the dirt behind these feathers!” Shelton watched him with disgust. Though his clothes were now so nice, his nails were not quite clean, and his fingertips seemed yellow to the bone. An anaemic waiter in a shirt some four days old, with grease-spots on his garments and a crumpled29 napkin on his arm, stood leaning an elbow amongst doubtful fruits, and reading an Italian journal. Resting his tired feet in turn, he looked like overwork personified, and when he moved, each limb accused the sordid30 smartness of the walls. In the far corner sat a lady eating, and, mirrored opposite, her feathered hat, her short, round face, its coat of powder, and dark eyes, gave Shelton a shiver of disgust. His companion's gaze rested long and subtly on her.
“Excuse me, monsieur,” he said at length. “I think I know that lady!” And, leaving his host, he crossed the room, bowed, accosted31 her, and sat down. With Pharisaic delicacy32, Shelton refrained from looking. But presently Ferrand came back; the lady rose and left the restaurant; she had been crying. The young foreigner was flushed, his face contorted; he did not touch his wine.
“I was right,” he said; “she is the wife of an old friend. I used to know her well.”
He was suffering from emotion, but someone less absorbed than Shelton might have noticed a kind of relish33 in his voice, as though he were savouring life's dishes, and glad to have something new, and spiced with tragic34 sauce, to set before his patron.
“You can find her story by the hundred in your streets, but nothing hinders these paragons35 of virtue”—he nodded at the stream of carriages—“from turning up their eyes when they see ladies of her sort pass. She came to London—just three years ago. After a year one of her little boys took fever—the shop was avoided—her husband caught it, and died. There she was, left with two children and everything gone to pay the debts. She tried to get work; no one helped her. There was no money to pay anyone to stay with the children; all the work she could get in the house was not enough to keep them alive. She's not a strong woman. Well, she put the children out to nurse, and went to the streets. The first week was frightful36, but now she's used to it—one gets used to anything.”
“Can nothing be done?” asked Shelton, startled.
“No,” returned his companion. “I know that sort; if they once take to it all's over. They get used to luxury. One does n't part with luxury, after tasting destitution37. She tells me she does very nicely; the children are happy; she's able to pay well and see them sometimes. She was a girl of good family, too, who loved her husband, and gave up much for him. What would you have? Three quarters of your virtuous38 ladies placed in her position would do the same if they had the necessary looks.”
It was evident that he felt the shock of this discovery, and Shelton understood that personal acquaintance makes a difference, even in a vagabond.
“This is her beat,” said the young foreigner, as they passed the illuminated39 crescent, where nightly the shadows of hypocrites and women fall; and Shelton went from these comments on Christianity to the station of Charing Cross. There, as he stood waiting in the shadow, his heart was in his mouth; and it struck him as odd that he should have come to this meeting fresh from a vagabond's society.
Presently, amongst the stream of travellers, he saw Antonia. She was close to her mother, who was parleying with a footman; behind them were a maid carrying a bandbox and a porter with the travelling-bags. Antonia's figure, with its throat settled in the collar of her cape40, slender, tall, severe, looked impatient and remote amongst the bustle41. Her eyes, shadowed by the journey, glanced eagerly about, welcoming all she saw; a wisp of hair was loose above her ear, her cheeks glowed cold and rosy. She caught sight of Shelton, and bending her neck, stag-like, stood looking at him; a brilliant smile parted her lips, and Shelton trembled. Here was the embodiment of all he had desired for weeks. He could not tell what was behind that smile of hers—passionate aching or only some ideal, some chaste42 and glacial intangibility. It seemed to be shining past him into the gloomy station. There was no trembling and uncertainty43, no rage of possession in that brilliant smile; it had the gleam of fixedness44, like the smiling of a star. What did it matter? She was there, beautiful as a young day, and smiling at him; and she was his, only divided from him by a space of time. He took a step; her eyes fell at once, her face regained45 aloofness46; he saw her, encircled by mother, footman, maid, and porter, take her seat and drive away. It was over; she had seen him, she had smiled, but alongside his delight lurked47 another feeling, and, by a bitter freak, not her face came up before him but the face of that lady in the restaurant—short, round, and powdered, with black-circled eyes. What right had we to scorn them? Had they mothers, footmen, porters, maids? He shivered, but this time with physical disgust; the powdered face with dark-fringed eyes had vanished; the fair, remote figure of the railway-station came back again.
He sat long over dinner, drinking, dreaming; he sat long after, smoking, dreaming, and when at length he drove away, wine and dreams fumed48 in his brain. The dance of lamps, the cream-cheese moon, the rays of clean wet light on his horse's harness, the jingling49 of the cab bell, the whirring wheels, the night air and the branches—it was all so good! He threw back the hansom doors to feel the touch of the warm breeze. The crowds on the pavement gave him strange delight; they were like shadows, in some great illusion, happy shadows, thronging50, wheeling round the single figure of his world.
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1
hurrah
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| int.好哇，万岁，乌拉 | |
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charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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3
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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5
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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meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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7
vet
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| n.兽医，退役军人；vt.检查 | |
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8
maze
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| n.迷宫，八阵图，混乱，迷惑 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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10
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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11
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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disillusioned
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| a.不再抱幻想的，大失所望的，幻想破灭的 | |
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chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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15
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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blasphemy
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| n.亵渎，渎神 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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panacea
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| n.万灵药；治百病的灵药 | |
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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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allay
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| v.消除，减轻(恐惧、怀疑等) | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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24
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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25
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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26
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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caustically
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| adv.刻薄地；挖苦地；尖刻地；讥刺地 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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30
sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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31
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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32
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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33
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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paragons
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| n.模范( paragon的名词复数 )；典型；十全十美的人；完美无缺的人 | |
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36
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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38
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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39
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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40
cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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41
bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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42
chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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43
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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44
fixedness
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| n.固定；稳定；稳固 | |
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45
regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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46
aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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47
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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48
fumed
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| 愤怒( fume的过去式和过去分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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49
jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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50
thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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