It was the third day after their meeting. Hour by hour their intimacy1 had increased. Ethel was sitting in a large wicker-chair. She restlessly fingered her parasol, mechanically describing magic circles in the sand. Ernest lay at her feet. With his knees clasped between his hands, he gazed into her eyes.
"Why are you trying so hard to make love to me?" the woman asked, with the half-amused smile with which the Eve near thirty receives the homage2 of a boy. There is an element of insincerity in that smile, but it is a weapon of defence against love's artillery3.
Sometimes, indeed, the pleading in the boy's eyes and the cry of the blood pierces the woman's smiling superiority. She listens, loves and loses.
Ethel Brandenbourg was listening, but the idea of love had not yet entered into her mind. Her interest in Ernest was due in part to his youth and the trembling in his voice when he spoke4 of love. But what probably attracted her most powerfully was the fact that he intimately knew the man who still held her woman's heart in the hollow of his hand. It was half in play, therefore, that she had asked him that question.
Why did he make love to her? He did not know. Perhaps it was the irresistible5 desire to be petted which young poets share with domesticated6 cats. But what should he tell her? Polite platitudes7 were out of place between them.
Besides he knew the penalty of all tender entanglements8. Women treat love as if it were an extremely tenuous9 wire that can be drawn10 out indefinitely. This is a very expensive process. It costs us the most precious, the only irretrievable thing in the universe--time. And to him time was song; for money he did not care. The Lord had hallowed his lips with rhythmic11 speech; only in the intervals12 of his singing might he listen to the voice of his heart--strangest of all watches, that tells the time not by minutes and hours, but by the coming and going of love.
The woman beside him seemed to read his thoughts.
"Child, child," she said, "why will you toy with love? Like Jehovah, he is a jealous god, and nothing but the whole heart can placate13 him. Woe14 to the woman who takes a poet for a lover. I admit it is fascinating, but it is playing va banque. In fact, it is fatal. Art or love will come to harm. No man can minister equally to both. A genuine poet is incapable15 of loving a woman."
"Pshaw! You exaggerate. Of course, there is a measure of truth in what you say, but it is only one side of the truth, and the truth, you know, is always Janus-faced. In fact, it often has more than two faces. I can assure you that I have cared deeply for the women to whom my love-poetry was written. And you will not deny that it is genuine."
"God forbid! Only you have been using the wrong preposition. You should have said that it was written at them."
Ernest stared at her in child-like wonder.
"By Jove! you are too devilishly clever!" he exclaimed.
After a little silence he said not without hesitation16: "And do you apply your theory to all artists, or only to us makers17 of rhyme?"
"To all," she replied.
He looked at her questioningly.
"Yes," she said, with a new sadness in her voice, "I, too, have paid the price."
"You mean?"
"I loved."
"And art?"
"That was the sacrifice."
"Perhaps you have chosen the better part," Ernest said without conviction.
"No," she replied, "my tribute was brought in vain."
This she said calmly, but Ernest knew that her words were of tragic18 import.
"You love him still?" he observed simply.
Ethel made no reply. Sadness clouded her face like a veil or like a grey mist over the face of the waters. Her eyes went out to the sea, following the sombre flight of the sea-mews.
In that moment he could have taken her in his arms and kissed her with infinite tenderness.
But tenderness between man and woman is like a match in a powder-magazine. The least provocation19, and an amorous20 explosion will ensue, tumbling down the card-houses of platonic21 affection. If he yielded to the impulse of the moment, the wine of the springtide would set their blood afire, and from the flames within us there is no escape.
"Come, come," she said, "you do not love me."
He protested.
"Ah!" she cried triumphantly22, "how many sonnets23 would you give for me? If you were a usurer in gold instead of in rhyme, I would ask how many dollars. But it is unjust to pay in a coin that we value little. To a man starving in gold mines, a piece of bread weighs more than all the treasures of the earth. To you, I warrant your poems are the standard of appreciation24. How many would you give for me? One, two, three?"
"More."
"Because you think love would repay you with compound interest," she observed merrily.
He laughed.
And when love turns to laughter the danger is passed for the moment.
1 intimacy | |
n.熟悉,亲密,密切关系,亲昵的言行 | |
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2 homage | |
n.尊敬,敬意,崇敬 | |
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3 artillery | |
n.(军)火炮,大炮;炮兵(部队) | |
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4 spoke | |
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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5 irresistible | |
adj.非常诱人的,无法拒绝的,无法抗拒的 | |
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6 domesticated | |
adj.喜欢家庭生活的;(指动物)被驯养了的v.驯化( domesticate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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7 platitudes | |
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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8 entanglements | |
n.瓜葛( entanglement的名词复数 );牵连;纠缠;缠住 | |
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9 tenuous | |
adj.细薄的,稀薄的,空洞的 | |
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10 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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11 rhythmic | |
adj.有节奏的,有韵律的 | |
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12 intervals | |
n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 );间隔时间;[数学]区间;(戏剧、电影或音乐会的)幕间休息 | |
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13 placate | |
v.抚慰,平息(愤怒) | |
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14 woe | |
n.悲哀,苦痛,不幸,困难;int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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15 incapable | |
adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
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16 hesitation | |
n.犹豫,踌躇 | |
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17 makers | |
n.制造者,制造商(maker的复数形式) | |
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18 tragic | |
adj.悲剧的,悲剧性的,悲惨的 | |
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19 provocation | |
n.激怒,刺激,挑拨,挑衅的事物,激怒的原因 | |
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20 amorous | |
adj.多情的;有关爱情的 | |
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21 platonic | |
adj.精神的;柏拉图(哲学)的 | |
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22 triumphantly | |
ad.得意洋洋地;得胜地;成功地 | |
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23 sonnets | |
n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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24 appreciation | |
n.评价;欣赏;感谢;领会,理解;价格上涨 | |
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