1
There comes into my mind a confused memory of conversations with Margaret; we must have had dozens altogether, and they mix in now for the most part inextricably not only with one another, but with later talks and with things we discussed at Pangbourne. We had the immensest anticipations1 of the years and opportunities that lay before us. I was now very deeply in love with her indeed. I felt not that I had cleaned up my life but that she had. We called each other "confederate" I remember, and made during our brief engagement a series of visits to the various legislative2 bodies in London, the County Council, the House of Commons, where we dined with Villiers, and the St. Pancras Vestry, where we heard Shaw speaking. I was full of plans and so was she of the way in which we were to live and work. We were to pay back in public service whatever excess of wealth beyond his merits old Seddon's economic advantage had won for him from the toiling3 people in the potteries4. The end of the Boer War was so recent that that blessed word "efficiency" echoed still in people's minds and thoughts. Lord Roseberry in a memorable5 oration6 had put it into the heads of the big outer public, but the Baileys with a certain show of justice claimed to have set it going in the channels that took it to him--if as a matter of fact it was taken to him. But then it was their habit to make claims of that sort. They certainly did their share to keep "efficient" going. Altiora's highest praise was "thoroughly7 efficient." We were to be a "thoroughly efficient" political couple of the "new type." She explained us to herself and Oscar, she explained us to ourselves, she explained us to the people who came to her dinners and afternoons until the world was highly charged with explanation and expectation, and the proposal that I should be the Liberal candidate for the Kinghamstead Division seemed the most natural development in the world.
I was full of the ideal of hard restrained living and relentless8 activity, and throughout a beautiful November at Venice, where chiefly we spent our honeymoon9, we turned over and over again and discussed in every aspect our conception of a life tremendously focussed upon the ideal of social service.
Most clearly there stands out a picture of ourselves talking in a gondola10 on our way to Torcella. Far away behind us the smoke of Murano forms a black stain upon an immense shining prospect11 of smooth water, water as unruffled and luminous12 as the sky above, a mirror on which rows of posts and distant black high-stemmed, swan-necked boats with their minutely clear swinging gondoliers, float aerially. Remote and low before us rises the little tower of our destination. Our men swing together and their oars13 swirl14 leisurely15 through the water, hump back in the rowlocks, splash sharply and go swishing back again. Margaret lies back on cushions, with her face shaded by a holland parasol, and I sit up beside her.
"You see," I say, and in spite of Margaret's note of perfect acquiescence16 I feel myself reasoning against an indefinable antagonism17, "it is so easy to fall into a slack way with life. There may seem to be something priggish in a meticulous18 discipline, but otherwise it is so easy to slip into indolent habits--and to be distracted from one's purpose. The country, the world, wants men to serve its constructive19 needs, to work out and carry out plans. For a man who has to make a living the enemy is immediate20 necessity; for people like ourselves it's--it's the constant small opportunity of agreeable things."
"Frittering away," she says, "time and strength."
"That is what I feel. It's so pleasant to pretend one is simply modest, it looks so foolish at times to take one's self too seriously. We've GOT to take ourselves seriously."
She endorses21 my words with her eyes.
"I feel I can do great things with life."
"I KNOW you can."
"But that's only to be done by concentrating one's life upon one main end. We have to plan our days, to make everything subserve our scheme."
"I feel," she answers softly, "we ought to give--every hour."
Her face becomes dreamy. "I WANT to give every hour," she adds.
2
That holiday in Venice is set in my memory like a little artificial lake in uneven22 confused country, as something very bright and skylike, and discontinuous with all about it. The faded quality of the very sunshine of that season, the mellow23 discoloured palaces and places, the huge, time-ripened paintings of departed splendours, the whispering, nearly noiseless passage of hearse-black gondolas24, for the horrible steam launch had not yet ruined Venice, the stilled magnificences of the depopulated lagoons26, the universal autumn, made me feel altogether in recess27 from the teeming28 uproars29 of reality. There was not a dozen people all told, no Americans and scarcely any English, to dine in the big cavern30 of a dining-room, with its vistas31 of separate tables, its distempered walls and its swathed chandeliers. We went about seeing beautiful things, accepting beauty on every hand, and taking it for granted that all was well with ourselves and the world. It was ten days or a fortnight before I became fretful and anxious for action; a long tranquillity32 for such a temperament34 as mine.
Our pleasures were curiously35 impersonal36, a succession of shared aesthetic37 appreciation38 threads all that time. Our honeymoon was no exultant39 coming together, no mutual40 shout of "YOU!" We were almost shy with one another, and felt the relief of even a picture to help us out. It was entirely41 in my conception of things that I should be very watchful42 not to shock or distress43 Margaret or press the sensuous44 note. Our love-making had much of the tepid45 smoothness of the lagoons. We talked in delicate innuendo46 of what should be glorious freedoms. Margaret had missed Verona and Venice in her previous Italian journey--fear of the mosquito had driven her mother across Italy to the westward47 route--and now she could fill up her gaps and see the Titians and Paul Veroneses she already knew in colourless photographs, the Carpaccios, (the St. George series delighted her beyond measure,) the Basaitis and that great statue of Bartolomeo Colleoni that Ruskin praised.
But since I am not a man to look at pictures and architectural effects day after day, I did watch Margaret very closely and store a thousand memories of her. I can see her now, her long body drooping48 a little forward, her sweet face upraised to some discovered familiar masterpiece and shining with a delicate enthusiasm. I can hear again the soft cadences49 of her voice murmuring commonplace comments, for she had no gift of expressing the shapeless satisfaction these things gave her.
Margaret, I perceived, was a cultivated person, the first cultivated person with whom I had ever come into close contact. She was cultivated and moral, and I, I now realise, was never either of these things. She was passive, and I am active. She did not simply and naturally look for beauty but she had been incited50 to look for it at school, and took perhaps a keener interest in books and lectures and all the organisation51 of beautiful things than she did in beauty itself; she found much of her delight in being guided to it. Now a thing ceases to be beautiful to me when some finger points me out its merits. Beauty is the salt of life, but I take my beauty as a wild beast gets its salt, as a constituent52 of the meal....
And besides, there was that between us that should have seemed more beautiful than any picture....
So we went about Venice tracking down pictures and spiral staircases and such-like things, and my brains were busy all the time with such things as a comparison of Venice and its nearest modern equivalent, New York, with the elaboration of schemes of action when we returned to London, with the development of a theory of Margaret.
Our marriage had done this much at least, that it had fused and destroyed those two independent ways of thinking about her that had gone on in my mind hitherto. Suddenly she had become very near to me, and a very big thing, a sort of comprehensive generalisation behind a thousand questions, like the sky or England. The judgments53 and understandings that had worked when she was, so to speak, miles away from my life, had now to be altogether revised. Trifling54 things began to matter enormously, that she had a weak and easily fatigued55 back, for example, or that when she knitted her brows and stammered56 a little in talking, it didn't really mean that an exquisite57 significance struggled for utterance58.
We visited pictures in the mornings chiefly. In the afternoon, unless we were making a day-long excursion in a gondola, Margaret would rest for an hour while I prowled about in search of English newspapers, and then we would go to tea in the Piazza59 San Marco and watch the drift of people feeding the pigeons and going into the little doors beneath the sunlit arches and domes60 of Saint Mark's. Then perhaps we would stroll on the Piazzetta, or go out into the sunset in a gondola. Margaret became very interested in the shops that abound61 under the colonnades62 and decided63 at last to make an extensive purchase of table glass. "These things," she said, "are quite beautiful, and far cheaper than anything but the most ordinary looking English ware64." I was interested in her idea, and a good deal charmed by the delightful65 qualities of tinted66 shape, slender handle and twisted stem. I suggested we should get not simply tumblers and wineglasses but bedroom waterbottles, fruit- and sweet-dishes, water-jugs, and in the end we made quite a business-like afternoon of it.
I was beginning now to long quite definitely for events. Energy was accumulating in me, and worrying me for an outlet67. I found the TIMES and the DAILY TELEGRAPH and the other papers I managed to get hold of, more and more stimulating68. I nearly wrote to the former paper one day in answer to a letter by Lord Grimthorpe--I forget now upon what point. I chafed69 secretly against this life of tranquil33 appreciations70 more and more. I found my attitudes of restrained and delicate affection for Margaret increasingly difficult to sustain. I surprised myself and her by little gusts71 of irritability72, gusts like the catspaws before a gale73. I was alarmed at these symptoms.
One night when Margaret had gone up to her room, I put on a light overcoat, went out into the night and prowled for a long time through the narrow streets, smoking and thinking. I returned and went and sat on the edge of her bed to talk to her.
"Look here, Margaret," I said; "this is all very well, but I'm restless."
"Restless!" she said with a faint surprise in her voice.
"Yes. I think I want exercise. I've got a sort of feeling--I've never had it before--as though I was getting fat."
"My dear!" she cried.
"I want to do things;--ride horses, climb mountains, take the devil out of myself."
She watched me thoughtfully.
"Couldn't we DO something?" she said.
Do what?
"I don't know. Couldn't we perhaps go away from here soon--and walk in the mountains--on our way home."
I thought. "There seems to be no exercise at all in this place."
"Isn't there some walk?"
"I wonder," I answered. "We might walk to Chioggia perhaps, along the Lido." And we tried that, but the long stretch of beach fatigued Margaret's back, and gave her blisters74, and we never got beyond Malamocco....
A day or so after we went out to those pleasant black-robed, bearded Armenians in their monastery75 at Saint Lazzaro, and returned towards sundown. We fell into silence. "PIU LENTO," said Margaret to the gondolier, and released my accumulated resolution.
"Let us go back to London," I said abruptly76.
Margaret looked at me with surprised blue eyes.
"This is beautiful beyond measure, you know," I said, sticking to my point, "but I have work to do."
She was silent for some seconds. "I had forgotten," she said.
"So had I," I sympathised, and took her hand. "Suddenly I have remembered."
She remained quite still. "There is so much to be done," I said, almost apologetically.
She looked long away from me across the lagoon25 and at last sighed, like one who has drunk deeply, and turned to me.
"I suppose one ought not to be so happy," she said. "Everything has been so beautiful and so simple and splendid. And clean. It has been just With You--the time of my life. It's a pity such things must end. But the world is calling you, dear.... I ought not to have forgotten it. I thought you were resting--and thinking. But if you are rested.--Would you like us to start to-morrow?"
She looked at once so fragile and so devoted77 that on the spur of the moment I relented, and we stayed in Venice four more days.
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1
anticipations
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| 预期( anticipation的名词复数 )； 预测； （信托财产收益的）预支； 预期的事物 | |
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legislative
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| n.立法机构，立法权；adj.立法的，有立法权的 | |
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toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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potteries
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| n.陶器( pottery的名词复数 )；陶器厂；陶土；陶器制造（术） | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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oration
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| n.演说，致辞，叙述法 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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gondola
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| n.威尼斯的平底轻舟；飞船的吊船 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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swirl
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| v.(使)打漩，(使)涡卷；n.漩涡，螺旋形 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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meticulous
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| adj.极其仔细的，一丝不苟的 | |
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constructive
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| adj.建设的，建设性的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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endorses
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| v.赞同( endorse的第三人称单数 )；在（尤指支票的）背面签字；在（文件的）背面写评论；在广告上说本人使用并赞同某产品 | |
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uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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gondolas
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| n.狭长小船( gondola的名词复数 )；货架（一般指商店，例如化妆品店）；吊船工作台 | |
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lagoon
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| n.泻湖，咸水湖 | |
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lagoons
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| n.污水池( lagoon的名词复数 )；潟湖；（大湖或江河附近的）小而浅的淡水湖；温泉形成的池塘 | |
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recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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teeming
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| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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uproars
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| 吵闹，喧嚣，骚乱( uproar的名词复数 ) | |
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cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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32
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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35
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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aesthetic
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| adj.美学的，审美的，有美感 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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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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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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42
watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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43
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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45
tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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innuendo
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| n.暗指，讽刺 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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48
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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49
cadences
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| n.（声音的）抑扬顿挫( cadence的名词复数 )；节奏；韵律；调子 | |
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50
incited
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| 刺激，激励，煽动( incite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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constituent
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| n.选民；成分，组分；adj.组成的，构成的 | |
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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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54
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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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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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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domes
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| n.圆屋顶( dome的名词复数 )；像圆屋顶一样的东西；圆顶体育场 | |
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abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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colonnades
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| n.石柱廊( colonnade的名词复数 ) | |
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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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ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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stimulating
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| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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chafed
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| v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的过去式 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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appreciations
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| n.欣赏( appreciation的名词复数 )；感激；评定；（尤指土地或财产的）增值 | |
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gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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blisters
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| n.水疱( blister的名词复数 )；水肿；气泡 | |
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monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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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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