A Reflection
People should not leave looking-glasses hanging in their rooms any more than they should leave open cheque books or letters confessing some hideous1 crime. One could not help looking, that summer afternoon, in the long glass that hung outside in the hall. Chance had so arranged it. From the depths of the sofa in the drawing-room one could see reflected in the Italian glass not only the marble-topped table opposite, but a stretch of the garden beyond. One could see a long grass path leading between banks of tall flowers until, slicing off an angle, the gold rim2 cut it off.
The house was empty, and one felt, since one was the only person in the drawing-room, like one of those naturalists3 who, covered with grass and leaves, lie watching the shyest animals — badgers4, otters5, kingfishersmoving about freely, themselves unseen. The room that afternoon was full of such shy creatures, lights and shadows, curtains blowing, petals6 falling — things that never happen, so it seems, if someone is looking. The quiet old country room with its rugs and stone chimney pieces, its sunken book-cases and red and gold lacquer cabinets, was full of such nocturnal creatures. They came pirouetting across the floor, stepping delicately with high-lifted feet and spread tails and pecking allusive7 beaks8 as if they had been cranes or flocks of elegant flamingoes whose pink was faded, or peacocks whose trains were veiled with silver. And there were obscure flushes and darkenings too, as if a cuttlefish9 had suddenly suffused10 the air with purple; and the room had its passions and rages and envies and sorrows coming over it and clouding it, like a human being. Nothing stayed the same for two seconds together.
But, outside, the looking-glass reflected the hall table, the sunflowers, the garden path so accurately11 and so fixedly12 that they seemed held there in their reality unescapably. It was a strange contrast — all changing here, all stillness there. One could not help looking from one to the other. Meanwhile, since all the doors and windows were open in the heat, there was a perpetual sighing and ceasing sound, the voice of the transient and the perishing, it seemed, coming and going like human breath, while in the looking-glass things had ceased to breathe and lay still in the trance of immortality13.
Half an hour ago the mistress of the house, Isabella Tyson, had gone down the grass path in her thin summer dress, carrying a basket, and had vanished, sliced off by the gilt14 rim of the looking-glass. She had gone presumably into the lower garden to pick flowers; or as it seemed more natural to suppose, to pick something light and fantastic and leafy and trailing, travellers’ joy, or one of those elegant sprays of convolvulus that twine15 round ugly walls and burst here and there into white and violet blossoms. She suggested the fantastic and the tremulous convolvulus rather than the upright aster16, the starched17 zinnia, or her own burning roses alight like lamps on the straight posts of their rose trees. The comparison showed how very little, after all these years, one knew about her; for it is impossible that any woman of flesh and blood of fifty-five or sixty should be really a wreath or a tendril. Such comparisons are worse than idle and superficial — they are cruel even, for they come like the convolvulus itself trembling between one’s eyes and the truth. There must be truth; there must be a wall. Yet it was strange that after knowing her all these years one could not say what the truth about Isabella was; one still made up phrases like this about convolvulus and travellers’ joy. As for facts, it was a fact that she was a spinster; that she was rich; that she had bought this house and collected with her own hands — often in the most obscure corners of the world and at great risk from poisonous stings and Oriental diseases — the rugs, the chairs, the cabinets which now lived their nocturnal life before one’s eyes. Sometimes it seemed as if they knew more about her than we, who sat on them, wrote at them, and trod on them so care fully18, were allowed to know. In each of these cabinets were many little drawers, and each almost certainly held letters, tied with bows of ribbon, sprinkled with sticks of lavender or rose leaves. For it was another fact — if facts were what one wanted — that Isabella had known many people, had had many friends; and thus if one had the audacity19 to open a drawer and read her letters, one would find the traces of many agitations20, of appointments to meet, of upbraidings for not having met, long letters of intimacy21 and affection, violent letters of jealousy22 and reproach, terrible final words of parting — for all those interviews and assignations had led to nothing — that is, she had never married, and yet, judg ing from the mask-like indifference23 of her face, she had gone through twenty times more of passion and exper ience than those whose loves are trumpeted24 forth25 for all the world to hear. Under the stress of thinking about Isabella, her room became more shadowy and symbolic26; the corners seemed darker, the legs of chairs and tables more spindly and hieroglyphic27.
Suddenly these reflections were ended violently — and yet without a sound. A large black form loomed28 into the looking-glass; blotted29 out everything, strewed30 the table with a packet of marble tablets veined with pink and grey, and was gone. But the picture was entirely31 altered. For the moment it was unrecognizable and irrational32 and entirely out of focus. One could not relate these tablets to any human purpose. And then by degrees some logical process set to work on them and began ordering and arranging them and bringing them into the fold of common experience. One realized at last that they were merely letters. The man had brought the post.
There they lay on the marble-topped table, all dripping with light and colour at first and crude and unabsorbed. And then it was strange to see how they were drawn33 in and arranged and composed and made part of the picture and granted that stillness and immortality which the looking-glass conferred. They lay there invested with a new reality and significance and with a greater heaviness, too, as if it would have needed a chisel34 to dislodge them from the table. And, whether it was fancy or not, they seemed to have become not merely a handful of casual letters but to be tablets graven with eternal truth — if one could read them, one would know everything there was to be known about Isabella, yes, and about life, too. The pages inside those marble-looking envelopes must be cut deep and scored thick with meaning. Isabella would come in, and take them, one by one, very slowly, and open them, and read them carefully word by word, and then with a profound sigh of comprehension, as if she had seen to the bottom of everything, she would tear the envelopes to little bits and tie the letters together and lock the cabinet drawer in her determination to conceal35 what she did not wish to be known.
The thought served as a challenge. Isabella did not wish to be known — but she should no longer escape. It was absurd, it was monstrous36. If she concealed37 so much and knew so much one must prise her open with the first tool that came to hand — the imagination. One must fix one’s mind upon her at that very moment. One must fasten her down there. One must refuse to be put off any longer with sayings and doings such as the moment brought forth — with dinners and visits and polite conversations. One must put oneself in her shoes. If one took the phrase literally38, it was easy to see the shoes in which she stood, down in the lower garden, at this moment. They were very narrow and long and fashionable — they were made of the softest and most flexible leather. Like everything she wore, they were exquisite39. And she would be standing40 under the high hedge in the lower part of the garden, raising the scissors that were tied to her waist to cut some dead flower, some overgrown branch. The sun would beat down on her face, into her eyes; but no, at the critical moment a veil of cloud covered the sun, making the expression of her eyes doubtful — was it mocking or tender, brilliant or dull? One could only see the indeterminate outline of her rather faded, fine face looking at the sky. She was thinking, perhaps, that she must order a new net for the strawberries; that she must send flowers to Johnson’s widow; that it was time she drove over to see the Hippesleys in their new house. Those were the things she talked about at dinner certainly. But one was tired of the things that she talked about at dinner. It was her profounder state of being that one wanted to catch and turn to words, the state that is to the mind what breathing is to the body, what one calls happiness or unhappiness. At the mention of those words it became obvious, surely, that she must be happy. She was rich; she was distinguished41; she had many friends; she travelled — she bought rugs in Turkey and blue pots in Persia. Avenues of pleasure radiated this way and that from where she stood with her scissors raised to cut the trembling branches while the lacy clouds veiled her face.
Here with a quick movement of her scissors she snipped42 the spray of travellers’ joy and it fell to the ground. As it fell, surely some light came in too, surely one could penetrate43 a little farther into her being. Her mind then was filled with tenderness and regret. . . . To cut an overgrown branch saddened her because it had once lived, and life was dear to her. Yes, and at the same time the fall of the branch would suggest to her how she must die herself and all the futility44 and evanescence of things. And then again quickly catching45 this thought up, with her instant good sense, she thought life had treated her well; even if fall she must, it was to lie on the earth and moulder46 sweetly into the roots of violets. So she stood thinking. Without making any thought precise — for she was one of those reticent47 people whose minds hold their thoughts enmeshed in clouds of silence — she was filled with thoughts. Her mind was like her room, in which lights advanced and retreated, came pirouetting and stepping delicately, spread their tails, pecked their way; and then her whole being was suffused, like the room again, with a cloud of some profound knowledge, some unspoken regret, and then she was full of locked drawers, stuffed with letters, like her cabinets. To talk of “prising her open” as if she were an oyster48, to use any but the finest and subtlest and most pliable49 tools upon her was impious and absurd. One must imagine — here was she in the looking-glass. It made one start.
She was so far off at first that one could not see her clearly. She came lingering and pausing, here straightening a rose, there lifting a pink to smell it, but she never stopped; and all the time she became larger and larger in the looking-glass, more and more completely the person into whose mind one had been trying to penetrate. One verified her by degrees — fitted the qualities one had discovered into this visible body. There were her grey-green dress, and her long shoes, her basket, and something sparkling at her throat. She came so gradually that she did not seem to derange50 the pattern in the glass, but only to bring in some new element which gently moved and altered the other objects as if asking them, courteously51, to make room for her. And the letters and the table and the grass walk and the sunflowers which had been waiting in the looking-glass separated and opened out so that she might be received among them. At last there she was, in the hall. She stopped dead. She stood by the table. She stood perfectly52 still. At once the lookingglass began to pour over her a light that seemed to fix her; that seemed like some acid to bite off the unessential and superficial and to leave only the truth. It was an enthralling53 spectacle. Everything dropped from her — clouds, dress, basket, diamond — all that one had called the creeper and convolvulus. Here was the hard wall beneath. Here was the woman herself. She stood naked in that pitiless light. And there was nothing. Isabella was perfectly empty. She had no thoughts. She had no friends. She cared for nobody. As for her letters, they were all bills. Look, as she stood there, old and angular, veined and lined, with her high nose and her wrinkled neck, she did not even trouble to open them.
People should not leave looking-glasses hanging in their rooms.
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1
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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naturalists
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| n.博物学家( naturalist的名词复数 )；（文学艺术的）自然主义者 | |
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badgers
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| n.獾( badger的名词复数 )；獾皮；（大写）獾州人（美国威斯康星州人的别称）；毛鼻袋熊 | |
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otters
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| n.（水）獭( otter的名词复数 )；獭皮 | |
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petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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allusive
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| adj.暗示的；引用典故的 | |
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beaks
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| n.鸟嘴( beak的名词复数 )；鹰钩嘴；尖鼻子；掌权者 | |
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cuttlefish
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| n.乌贼，墨鱼 | |
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10
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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11
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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13
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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14
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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15
twine
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| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
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aster
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| n.紫菀属植物 | |
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starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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agitations
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| （液体等的）摇动( agitation的名词复数 )； 鼓动； 激烈争论； （情绪等的）纷乱 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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23
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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trumpeted
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| 大声说出或宣告（trumpet的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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27
hieroglyphic
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| n.象形文字 | |
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28
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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29
blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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30
strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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31
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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33
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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35
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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39
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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40
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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41
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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42
snipped
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| v.剪( snip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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43
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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44
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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45
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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moulder
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| v.腐朽，崩碎 | |
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47
reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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48
oyster
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| n.牡蛎；沉默寡言的人 | |
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49
pliable
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| adj.易受影响的；易弯的；柔顺的，易驾驭的 | |
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50
derange
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| v.使精神错乱 | |
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51
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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52
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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53
enthralling
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| 迷人的 | |
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