Shelton assented1; he was too busy thinking of his encounter with the dons to heed2 the soreness of his feet. This, too, was the last day of his travels, for he had not altered his intention of waiting at Oxford3 till July.
“We call this place the heart of knowledge,” he said, passing a great building that presided, white and silent, over darkness; “it seems to me as little that, as Society is the heart of true gentility.”
Crocker's answer was a grunt4; he was looking at the stars, calculating possibly in how long he could walk to heaven.
“No,” proceeded Shelton; “we've too much common-sense up here to strain our minds. We know when it's time to stop. We pile up news of Papias and all the verbs in 'ui' but as for news of life or of oneself! Real seekers after knowledge are a different sort. They fight in the dark—no quarter given. We don't grow that sort up here.”
“How jolly the limes smell!” said Crocker.
He had halted opposite a garden, and taken hold of Shelton by a button of his coat. His eyes, like a dog's, stared wistfully. It seemed as though he wished to speak, but feared to give offence.
“They tell you,” pursued Shelton, “that we learn to be gentlemen up here. We learn that better through one incident that stirs our hearts than we learn it here in all the time we're up.”
“Hum!” muttered Crocker, twisting at the button; “those fellows who seemed the best sorts up here have turned out the best sorts afterwards.”
“I hope not,” said Shelton gloomily; “I was a snob5 when I was up here. I believed all I was told, anything that made things pleasant; my 'set' were nothing but—”
Crocker smiled in the darkness; he had been too “cranky” to belong to Shelton's “set.”
“You never were much like your 'set,' old chap,” he said.
Shelton turned away, sniffing6 the perfume of the limes. Images were thronging7 through his mind. The faces of his old friends strangely mixed with those of people he had lately met—the girl in the train, Ferrand, the lady with the short, round, powdered face, the little barber; others, too, and floating, mysterious,—connected with them all, Antonia's face. The scent9 of the lime-trees drifted at him with its magic sweetness. From the street behind, the footsteps of the passers-by sounded muffled10, yet exact, and on the breeze was borne the strain: “For he's a jolly good fellow!”
“For he's a jolly good fellow! For he's a jolly good fe-ellow! And so say all of us!”
“Ah!” he said, “they were good chaps.”
“I used to think,” said Crocker dreamily, “that some of them had too much side.”
And Shelton laughed.
“The thing sickens me,” said he, “the whole snobbish11, selfish business. The place sickens me, lined with cotton-wool-made so beastly comfortable.”
Crocker shook his head.
“It's a splendid old place,” he said, his eyes fastening at last on Shelton's boots. “You know, old chap,” he stammered12, “I think you—you ought to take care!”
“Take care? What of?”
Crocker pressed his arm convulsively.
“Losing myself! Finding myself, you mean!”
Crocker did not answer; his face was disappointed. Of what exactly was he thinking? In Shelton's heart there was a bitter pleasure in knowing that his friend was uncomfortable on his account, a sort of contempt, a sort of aching. Crocker broke the silence.
“I think I shall do a bit more walking to-night,” he said; “I feel very fit. Don't you really mean to come any further with me, Bird?”
And there was anxiety in his voice, as though Shelton were in danger of missing something good. The latter's feet had instantly begun to ache and burn.
“No!”? he said; “you know what I'm staying here for.”
Crocker nodded.
“She lives near here. Well, then, I'll say good-bye. I should like to do another ten miles to-night.”
“No,” he said; “I want to get on. See you in London. Good-bye!” and, gripping Shelton's hand, he turned and limped away.
Shelton called after him: “Don't be an idiot: You 'll only knock yourself up.”
But the sole answer was the pale moon of Crocker's face screwed round towards him in the darkness, and the waving of his stick.
Shelton strolled slowly on; leaning over the bridge, he watched the oily gleam of lamps, on the dark water underneath16 the trees. He felt relieved, yet sorry. His thoughts were random17, curious, half mutinous18, half sweet. That afternoon five years ago, when he had walked back from the river with Antonia across the Christchurch meadows, was vivid to his mind; the scent of that afternoon had never died away from him-the aroma19 of his love. Soon she would be his wife—his wife! The faces of the dons sprang up before him. They had wives, perhaps. Fat, lean, satirical, and compromising—what was it that through diversity they had in common? Cultured intolerance! . . . Honour! . . . A queer subject to discuss. Honour! The honour that made a fuss, and claimed its rights! And Shelton smiled. “As if man's honour suffered when he's injured!” And slowly he walked along the echoing, empty street to his room at the Bishop's Head. Next morning he received the following wire:
Thirty miles left eighteen hours heel bad but going
strong CROCKER
He passed a fortnight at the Bishop's Head, waiting for the end of his probation20, and the end seemed long in coming. To be so near Antonia, and as far as if he lived upon another planet, was worse than ever. Each day he took a sculling skiff, and pulled down to near Holm Oaks, on the chance of her being on the river; but the house was two miles off, and the chance but slender. She never came. After spending the afternoons like this he would return, pulling hard against the stream, with a queer feeling of relief, dine heartily21, and fall a-dreaming over his cigar. Each morning he awoke in an excited mood, devoured22 his letter if he had one, and sat down to write to her. These letters of his were the most amazing portion of that fortnight. They were remarkable23 for failing to express any single one of his real thoughts, but they were full of sentiments which were not what he was truly feeling; and when he set himself to analyse, he had such moments of delirium24 that he was scared, and shocked, and quite unable to write anything. He made the discovery that no two human beings ever tell each other what they really feel, except, perhaps, in situations with which he could not connect Antonia's ice-blue eyes and brilliant smile. All the world was too engaged in planning decency25.
Absorbed by longings26, he but vaguely27 realised the turmoil28 of Commemoration, which had gathered its hundreds for their annual cure of salmon29 mayonnaise and cheap champagne30. In preparation for his visit to Holm Oaks he shaved his beard and had some clothes sent down from London. With them was forwarded a letter from Ferrand, which ran as follows:
IMPERIAL PEACOCK HOTEL, FOLKESTONE,
June 20.
MY DEAR SIR,
Forgive me for not having written to you before, but I have been so bothered that I have felt no taste for writing; when I have the time, I have some curious stories to tell you. Once again I have encountered that demon31 of misfortune which dogs my footsteps. Being occupied all day and nearly all night upon business which brings me a heap of worries and next to no profit, I have no chance to look after my things. Thieves have entered my room, stolen everything, and left me an empty box. I am once again almost without clothes, and know not where to turn to make that figure necessary for the fulfilment of my duties. You see, I am not lucky. Since coming to your country, the sole piece of fortune I have had was to tumble on a man like you. Excuse me for not writing more at this moment. Hoping that you are in good health, and in affectionately pressing your hand,
I am,
LOUIS FERRAND.
Upon reading this letter Shelton had once more a sense of being exploited, of which he was ashamed; he sat down immediately and wrote the following reply:
June 25.
MY DEAR FERRAND,
I am grieved to hear of your misfortunes. I was much hoping that you had made a better start. I enclose you Post Office Orders for four pounds. Always glad to hear from you.
Yours sincerely,
RICHARD SHELTON.
He posted it with the satisfaction that a man feels who nobly shakes off his responsibilities.
Three days before July he met with one of those disturbing incidents which befall no persons who attend quietly to their property and reputation.
The night was unbearably34 hot, and he had wandered out with his cigar; a woman came sidling up and spoke35 to him. He perceived her to be one of those made by men into mediums for their pleasure, to feel sympathy with whom was sentimental36. Her face was flushed, her whisper hoarse37; she had no attractions but the curves of a tawdry figure. Shelton was repelled38 by her proprietary39 tone, by her blowzy face, and by the scent of patchouli. Her touch on his arm startled him, sending a shiver through his marrow40; he almost leaped aside, and walked the faster. But her breathing as she followed sounded laboured; it suddenly seemed pitiful that a woman should be panting after him like that.
“The least I can do,” he thought, “is to speak to her.” He stopped, and, with a mixture of hardness and compassion41, said, “It 's impossible.”
In spite of her smile, he saw by her disappointed eyes that she accepted the impossibility.
“I 'm sorry,” he said.
She muttered something. Shelton shook his head.
“I 'm sorry,” he said once more. “Good.-night.”
The woman bit her lower lip.
“Good-night,” she answered dully.
At the corner of the street he turned his head. The woman was hurrying uneasily; a policeman coming from behind had caught her by the arm.
His heart began to beat. “Heavens!” he thought, “what shall I do now?” His first impulse was to walk away, and think no more about it—to act, indeed, like any averagely decent man who did not care to be concerned in such affairs.
“Ask the gentleman! He spoke to me,” she was saying in her brassy voice, through the emphasis of which Shelton could detect her fear.
“That's all right,” returned the policeman, “we know all about that.”
“You—police!” cried the woman tearfully; “I 've got to get my living, have n't I, the same as you?”
Shelton hesitated, then, catching43 the expression in her frightened face, stepped forward. The policeman turned, and at the sight of his pale, heavy jowl, cut by the cheek-strap, and the bullying44 eyes, he felt both hate and fear, as if brought face to face with all that he despised and loathed45, yet strangely dreaded46. The cold certainty of law and order upholding the strong, treading underfoot the weak, the smug front of meanness that only the purest spirits may attack, seemed to be facing him. And the odd thing was, this man was only carrying out his duty. Shelton moistened his lips.
“You're not going to charge her?”
“Aren't I?” returned the policeman.
The policeman took out his note-book.
“Oh, I 'm making a mistake? I 'll take your name and address, please; we have to report these things.”
“By all means,” said Shelton, angrily giving it. “I spoke to her first.”
“Perhaps you'll come up to the court tomorrow morning, and repeat that,” replied the policeman, with incivility.
Shelton looked at him with all the force at his command.
“You had better be careful, constable,” he said; but in the act of uttering these words he thought how pitiable they sounded.
“We 're not to be trifled with,” returned the policeman in a threatening voice.
Shelton could think of nothing but to repeat:
“You had better be careful, constable.”
“You're a gentleman,” replied the policeman. “I'm only a policeman. You've got the riches, I've got the power.”
Grasping the woman's arm, he began to move along with her.
Shelton turned, and walked away.
He went to Grinnings' Club, and flung himself down upon a sofa. His feeling was not one of pity for the woman, nor of peculiar48 anger with the policeman, but rather of dissatisfaction with himself.
“What ought I to have done?” he thought, “the beggar was within his rights.”
He stared at the pictures on the wall, and a tide of disgust surged up in him.
“One or other of us,” he reflected, “we make these women what they are. And when we've made them, we can't do without them; we don't want to; but we give them no proper homes, so that they're reduced to prowl about the streets, and then we run them in. Ha! that's good—that's excellent! We run them in! And here we sit and carp. But what do we do? Nothing! Our system is the most highly moral known. We get the benefit without soiling even the hem8 of our phylacteries—the women are the only ones that suffer. And why should n't they—inferior things?”
He lit a cigarette, and ordered the waiter to bring a drink.
“I'll go to the Court,” he thought; but suddenly it occurred to him that the case would get into the local papers. The press would never miss so nice a little bit of scandal—“Gentleman v. Policeman!” And he had a vision of Antonia's father, a neighbouring and conscientious49 magistrate50, solemnly reading this. Someone, at all events, was bound to see his name and make a point of mentioning it too good to be missed! And suddenly he saw with horror that to help the woman he would have to assert again that he had spoken to her first. “I must go to the Court!” he kept thinking, as if to assure himself that he was not a coward.
“But I did n't speak to her first,” he told himself; “I shall only be telling a lie, and they 'll make me swear it, too!”
He tried to persuade himself that this was against his principles, but at the bottom of his heart he knew that he would not object to telling such a lie if only guaranteed immune from consequences; it appeared to him, indeed, but obvious humanity.
“But why should I suffer?” he thought; “I've done nothing. It's neither reasonable nor just.”
He hated the unhappy woman who was causing him these horrors of uncertainty52. Whenever he decided53 one way or other, the policeman's face, with its tyrannical and muddy eyes, rose before him like a nightmare, and forced him to an opposite conviction. He fell asleep at last with the full determination to go and see what happened.
He woke with a sense of odd disturbance54. “I can do no good by going,” he thought, remembering, aid lying very still; “they 're certain to believe the policeman; I shall only blacken myself for nothing;” and the combat began again within him, but with far less fury. It was not what other people thought, not even the risk of perjury55 that mattered (all this he made quite clear)—it was Antonia. It was not fair to her to put himself in such a false position; in fact, not decent.
He breakfasted. In the room were some Americans, and the face of one young girl reminded him a little of Antonia. Fainter and fainter grew the incident; it seemed to have its right proportions.
Two hours later, looking at the clock, he found that it was lunch-time. He had not gone, had not committed perjury; but he wrote to a daily paper, pointing out the danger run by the community from the power which a belief in their infallibility places in the hands of the police—how, since they are the sworn abettors of right and justice, their word is almost necessarily taken to be gospel; how one and all they hang together, from mingled56 interest and esprit de corps57. Was it not, he said, reasonable to suppose that amongst thousands of human beings invested with such opportunities there would be found bullies58 who would take advantage of them, and rise to distinction in the service upon the helplessness of the unfortunate and the cowardice59 of people with anything to lose? Those who had in their hands the sacred duties of selecting a practically irresponsible body of men were bound, for the sake of freedom and humanity, to exercise those duties with the utmost care and thoroughness . . . .
However true, none of this helped him to think any better of himself at heart, and he was haunted by the feeling that a stout60 and honest bit of perjury was worth more than a letter to a daily paper.
He never saw his letter printed, containing, as it did, the germs of an unpalatable truth.
In the afternoon he hired a horse, and galloped61 on Port Meadow. The strain of his indecision over, he felt like a man recovering from an illness, and he carefully abstained62 from looking at the local papers. There was that within him, however, which resented the worsting of his chivalry63.
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1
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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snob
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| n.势利小人，自以为高雅、有学问的人 | |
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sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；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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thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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snobbish
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| adj.势利的，谄上欺下的 | |
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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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waxy
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| adj.苍白的；光滑的 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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mutinous
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| adj.叛变的，反抗的；adv.反抗地，叛变地；n.反抗，叛变 | |
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aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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probation
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| n.缓刑(期)，(以观后效的)察看；试用(期) | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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devoured
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| 吞没( devour的过去式和过去分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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unbearably
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| adv.不能忍受地，无法容忍地；慌 | |
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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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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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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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marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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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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bullying
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| v.恐吓，威逼( bully的现在分词 )；豪；跋扈 | |
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loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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constable
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| n.(英国)警察，警官 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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50
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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51
dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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52
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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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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54
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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55
perjury
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| n.伪证；伪证罪 | |
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56
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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bullies
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| n.欺凌弱小者, 开球 vt.恐吓, 威胁, 欺负 | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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61
galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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62
abstained
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| v.戒（尤指酒），戒除( abstain的过去式和过去分词 )；弃权（不投票） | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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