If Evylyn’s beauty had hesitated an her early thirties it came to an abrupt1 decision just afterward2 and completely left her. A tentative outlay3 of wrinkles on her face suddenly deepened and flesh collected rapidly on her legs and hips4 and arms. Her mannerism5 of drawing her brows together had become an expression — it was habitual6 when she was reading or speaking and even while she slept. She was forty-six.
As in most families whose fortunes have gone down rather than up, she and Harold had drifted into a colorless antagonism7. In repose8 they looked at each other with the toleration they might have felt for broken old chairs; Evylyn worried a little when he was sick and did her best to be cheerful under the wearying depression of living with a disappointed man.
Family bridge was over for the evening and she sighed with relief. She had made more mistakes than usual this evening and she didn’t care. Irene shouldn’t have made that remark about the infantry9 being particularly dangerous. There had been no letter for three weeks now, and, while this was nothing out of the ordinary, it never failed to make her nervous; naturally she hadn’t known how many clubs were out.
Harold had gone up-stairs, so she stepped out on the porch for a breath of fresh air. There was a bright glamour10 of moonlight diffusing11 on the sidewalks and lawns, and with a little half yawn, half laugh, she remembered one long moonlight affair of her youth. It was astonishing to think that life had once been the sum of her current love-affairs. It was now the sum of her current problems.
There was the problem of Julie — Julie was thirteen, and lately she was growing more and more sensitive about her deformity and preferred to stay always in her room reading. A few years before she had been frightened at the idea of going to school, and Evylyn could not bring herself to send her, so she grew up in her mother’s shadow, a pitiful little figure with the artificial hand that she made no attempt to use but kept forlornly in her pocket. Lately she had been taking lessons in using it because Evylyn had feared she would cease to lift the arm altogether, but after the lessons, unless she made a move with it in listless obedience12 to her mother, the little hand would creep back to the pocket of her dress. For a while her dresses were made without pockets, but Julie had moped around the house so miserably13 at a loss all one month that Evylyn weakened and never tried the experiment again.
The problem of Donald had been different from the start. She had attempted vainly to keep him near her as she had tried to teach Julie to lean less on her — lately the problem of Donald had been snatched out of her hands; his division had been abroad for three months.
She yawned again — life was a thing for youth. What a happy youth she must have had! She remembered her pony14, Bijou, and the trip to Europe with her mother when she was eighteen ——
“Very, very complicated,” she said aloud and severely15 to the moon, and, stepping inside, was about to close the door when she heard a noise in the library and started.
It was Martha, the middle-aged16 servant: they kept only one now.
“Why, Martha!” she said in surprise.
Martha turned quickly.
“Oh, I thought you was up-stairs. I was jist ——”
“Is anything the matter?”
Martha hesitated.
“No; I——” She stood there fidgeting. “It was a letter, Mrs. Piper, that I put somewhere.
“A letter? Your own letter?” asked Evylyn.
“No, it was to you. ’Twas this afternoon, Mrs. Piper, in the last mail. The postman give it to me and then the back door-bell rang. I had it in my hand, so I must have stuck it somewhere. I thought I’d just slip in now and find it.”
“What sort of a letter? From Mr. Donald?”
“No, it was an advertisement, maybe, or a business letter. It was a long narrow one, I remember.”
They began a search through the music-room, looking on trays and mantelpieces, and then through the library, feeling on the tops of rows of books. Martha paused in despair.
“I can’t think where. I went straight to the kitchen. The dining-room, maybe.” She started hopefully for the dining-room, but turned suddenly at the sound of a gasp17 behind her. Evylyn had sat down heavily in a Morris chair, her brows drawn18 very close together eyes blanking furiously.
“Are you sick?”
For a minute there was no answer. Evylyn sat there very still and Martha could see the very quick rise and fall of her bosom19.
“Are you sick?” she repeated.
“No,” said Evylyn slowly, “but I know where the letter is. Go ‘way, Martha. I know.”
Wonderingly, Martha withdrew, and still Evylyn sat there, only the muscles around her eyes moving — contracting and relaxing and contracting again. She knew now where the letter was — she knew as well as if she had put it there herself. And she felt instinctively20 and unquestionably what the letter was. It was long and narrow like an advertisement, but up in the corner in large letters it said “War Department” and, in smaller letters below, “Official Business.” She knew it lay there in the big bowl with her name in ink on the outside and her soul’s death within.
Rising uncertainly, she walked toward the dining-room, feeling her way along the bookcases and through the doorway21. After a moment she found the light and switched it on.
There was the bowl, reflecting the electric light in crimson22 squares edged with black and yellow squares edged with blue, ponderous23 and glittering, grotesquely24 and triumphantly25 ominous26. She took a step forward and paused again; another step and she would see over the top and into the inside — another step and she would see an edge of white — another step — her hands fell on the rough, cold surface —
In a moment she was tearing it open, fumbling27 with an obstinate28 fold, holding it before her while the typewritten page glared out and struck at her. Then it fluttered like a bird to the floor. The house that had seemed whirring, buzzing a moment since, was suddenly very quiet; a breath of air crept in through the open front door carrying the noise of a passing motor; she heard faint sounds from upstairs and then a grinding racket in the pipe behind the bookcases-her husband turning of a water- tap ——
And in that instant it was as if this were not, after all, Donald’s hour except in so far as he was a marker in the insidious29 contest that had gone on in sudden surges and long, listless interludes between Evylyn and this cold, malignant30 thing of beauty, a gift of enmity from a man whose face she had long since forgotten. With its massive, brooding passivity it lay there in the centre of her house as it had lain for years, throwing out the ice-like beams of a thousand eyes, perverse31 glitterings merging32 each into each, never aging, never changing.
Evylyn sat down on the edge of the table and stared at it fascinated. It seemed to be smiling now, a very cruel smile, as if to say:
“You see, this time I didn’t have to hurt you directly. I didn’t bother. You know it was I who took your son away. You know how cold I am and how hard and how beautiful, because once you were just as cold and hard and beautiful.”
The bowl seemed suddenly to turn itself over and then to distend33 and swell34 until it became a great canopy35 that glittered and trembled over the room, over the house, and, as the walls melted slowly into mist, Evylyn saw that it was still moving out, out and far away from her, shutting off far horizons and suns and moons and stars except as inky blots36 seen faintly through it. And under it walked all the people, and the light that came through to them was refracted and twisted until shadow seamed light and light seemed shadow — until the whole panoply37 of the world became changed and distorted under the twinkling heaven of the bowl.
Then there came a far-away, booming voice like a low, clear bell. It came from the centre of the bowl and down the great sides to the ground and then bounced toward her eagerly.
“You see, I am fate,” it shouted, “and stronger than your puny38 plans; and I am how-things-turn-out and I am different from your little dreams, and I am the flight of time and the end of beauty and unfulfilled desire; all the accidents and imperceptions and the little minutes that shape the crucial hours are mine. I am the exception that proves no rules, the limits of your control, the condiment39 in the dish of life.”
The booming sound stopped; the echoes rolled away over the wide land to the edge of the bowl that bounded the world and up the great sides and back to the centre where they hummed for a moment and died. Then the great walls began slowly to bear down upon her, growing smaller and smaller, coming closer and closer as if to crush her; and as she clinched40 her hands and waited for the swift bruise41 of the cold glass, the bowl gave a sudden wrench42 and turned over — and lay there on the side-board, shining and inscrutable, reflecting in a hundred prisms, myriad43, many-colored glints and gleams and crossings and interlaces of light.
The cold wind blew in again through to front door, and with a desperate, frantic44 energy Evylyn stretched both her arms around the bowl. She must be quick — she must be strong. She tightened45 her arms until they ached, tauted the thin strips of muscle under her soft flesh, and with a mighty46 effort raised it and held it. She felt the wind blow cold on her back where her dress had come apart from the strain of her effort, and as she felt it she turned toward it and staggered under the great weight out through the library and on toward the front door. She must be quick — she must be strong. The blood in her arms throbbed47 dully and her knees kept giving way under her, but the feel of the cool glass was good.
Out the front door she tottered48 and over to the stone steps, and there, summoning every fibre of her soul and body for a last effort, swung herself half around — for a second, as she tried to loose her hold, her numb49 fingers clung to the rough surface, and in that second she slipped and, losing balance, toppled forward with a despairing cry, her arms still around the bowl . . . down . . .
Over the way lights went on; far down the block the crash was heard, and pedestrians50 rushed up wonderingly; up-stairs a tired man awoke from the edge of sleep and a little girl whimpered in a haunted doze51. And all over the moonlit sidewalk around the still, black form, hundreds of prisms and cubes and splinters of glass reflected the light in little gleams of blue, and black edged with yellow, and yellow, and crimson edged with black.
收听单词发音 |
1
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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outlay
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| n.费用，经费，支出；v.花费 | |
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hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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mannerism
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| n.特殊习惯，怪癖 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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diffusing
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| （使光）模糊，漫射，漫散( diffuse的现在分词 )； （使）扩散； （使）弥漫； （使）传播 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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pony
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| adj.小型的；n.小马 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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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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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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insidious
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| adj.阴险的，隐匿的，暗中为害的，（疾病）不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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32
merging
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| 合并（分类） | |
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distend
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| vt./vi.（使）扩大，（使）扩张 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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36
blots
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| 污渍( blot的名词复数 )； 墨水渍； 错事； 污点 | |
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panoply
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| n.全副甲胄，礼服 | |
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puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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condiment
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| n.调味品 | |
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clinched
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| v.（尤指两人）互相紧紧抱[扭]住( clinch的过去式和过去分词 )；解决（争端、交易），达成（协议） | |
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41
bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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42
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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43
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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44
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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45
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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47
throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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48
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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49
numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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50
pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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51
doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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