“SLATER’S PINS HAVE NO POINTS”
“Slater’s pins have no points — don’t you always find that?” said Miss Craye, turning round as the rose fell out of Fanny Wilmot’s dress, and Fanny stooped, with her cars full of the music, to look for the pin on the floor.
The words gave her an extraordinary shock, as Miss Craye struck the last chord of the Bach fugue. Did Miss Craye actually go to Slater’s and buy pins then, Fanny Wilmot asked herself, transfixed for a moment. Did she stand at the counter waiting like anybody else, and was she given a bill with coppers1 wrapped in it, and did she slip them into her purse and then, an hour later, stand by her dressing2 table and take out the pins? What need had she of pins? For she was not so much dressed as cased, like a beetle3 compactly in its sheath, blue in winter, green in summer. What need had she of pins — Julia Craye — who lived, it seemed in the cool glassy world of Bach fugues, playing to herself what she liked, to take one or two pupils at the and only consenting Archer4 Street College of Music (so the Principal, Miss Kingston, said) as a special favour to herself, who had “the greatest admiration5 for her in every way.” Miss Craye was left badly off, Miss Kingston was afraid, at her brother’s death. Oh, they used to have such lovely things, when they lived at Salisbury, and her brother Julius was, of course, a very well-known man: a famous archaeologist. It was a great privilege to stay with them, Miss Kingston said (“My family had always known them — they were regular Canterbury people,” Miss Kingston said), but a little frightening for a child; one had to be careful not to slam the door or bounce into the room unexpectedly. Miss Kingston, who gave little character sketches6 like this on the first day of term while she received cheques and wrote out receipts for them, smiled here. Yes, she had been rather a tomboy; she had bounced in and set all those green Roman glasses and things jumping in their case. The Crayes were not used to children. The Crayes were none of them married. They kept cats; the cats, one used to feel, knew as much about the Roman urns7 and things as anybody.
“Far more than I did!” said Miss Kingston brightly, writing her name across the stamp in her dashing, cheerful, full-bodied hand, for she had always been practical. That was how she made her living, after all.
Perhaps then, Fanny Wilmot thought, looking for the pin, Miss Craye said that about “Slater’s pins having no points,” at a venture. None of the Crayes had ever married. She knew nothing about pinsnothing whatever. But she wanted to break the spell that had fallen on the house; to break the pane8 of glass which separated them from other people. When Polly Kingston, that merry little girl, had slammed the door and made the Roman vases jump, Julius, seeing that no harm was done (that would be his first instinct) looked, for the case was stood in the window, at Polly skipping home across the fields; looked with the look his sister often had, that lingering, driving look.
“Stars, sun, moon,” it seemed to say, “the daisy in the grass, fires, frost on the window pane, my heart goes out to you. But,” it always seemed to add, “you break, you pass, you go.” And simultaneously9 it covered the intensity10 of both these states of mind with “I can’t reach you — I can’t get at you,” spoken wistfully, frustratedly. And the stars faded, and the child went. That was the kind of spell that was the glassy surface, that Miss Craye wanted to break by showing, when she had played Bach beautifully as a reward to a favourite pupil (Fanny Wilmot knew that she was Miss Craye’s favourite pupil), that she, too, knew, like other people, about pins. Slater’s pins had no points.
Yes, the “famous archaeologist” had looked like that too. “The famous archaeologist”— as she said that, endorsing12 cheques, ascertaining13 the day of the month, speaking so brightly and frankly14, there was in Miss Kingston’s voice an indescribable tone which hinted at something odd; something queer in Julius Craye; it was the very same thing that was odd perhaps in Julia too. One could have sworn, thought Fanny Wilmot, as she looked for the pin, that at parties, meetings (Miss Kingston’s father was a clergyman), she had picked up some piece of gossip, or it might only have been a smile, or a tone when his name was mentioned, which had given her “a feeling” about Julius Craye. Needless to say, she had never spoken about it to anybody. Probably she scarcely knew what she meant by it. But whenever she spoke11 of Julius, or heard him mentioned, that was the first thing that came to mind; and it was a seductive thought; there was something odd about Julius Craye.
It was so that Julia looked too, as she sat half turned on the music stool, smiling. It’s on the field, it’s on the pane, it’s in the sky — beauty; and I can’t get at it; I can’t have it — I, she seemed to add, with that little clutch of the hand which was so characteristic, who adore it so passionately15, would give the whole world to possess it! And she picked up the carnation16 which had fallen on the floor, while Fanny searched for the pin. She crushed it, Fanny felt, voluptuously17 in her smooth veined hands stuck about with water-coloured rings set in pearls. The pressure of her fingers seemed to increase all that was most brilliant in the flower; to set it off; to make it more frilled, fresh, immaculate. What was odd in her, and perhaps in her brother, too, was that this crush and grasp of the finger was combined with a perpetual frustration18. So it was even now with the carnation. She had her hands on it; she pressed it; but she did not possess it, enjoy it, not entirely19 and altogether.
None of the Crayes had married, Fanny Wilmot remembered. She had in mind how one evening when the lesson had lasted longer than usual and it was dark, Julia Craye had said “it’s the use of men, surely, to protect us,” smiling at her that same odd smile, as she stood fastening her cloak, which made her, like the flower, conscious to her finger tips of youth and brilliance20, but, like the flower, too, Fanny suspected, made her feel awkward.
“Oh, but I don’t want protection,” Fanny had laughed, and when Julia Craye, fixing on her that extraordinary look, had said she was not so sure of that, Fanny positively21 blushed under the admiration in her eyes.
It was the only use of men, she had said. Was it for that reason then, Fanny wondered, with her eyes on the floor, that she had never married? After all, she had not lived all her life in Salisbury. “Much the nicest part of London,” she had said once, “(but I’m speaking of fifteen or twenty years ago) is Kensington. One was in the Gardens in ten minutes — it was like the heart of the country. One could dine out in one’s slippers22 without catching23 cold. Kensington — it was like a village then, you know,” she had said.
Here she broke off, to denounce acridly24 the draughts25 in the Tubes.
“It was the use of men,” she had said, with a queer wry26 acerbity27. Did that throw any light on the problem why she had not married? One could imagine every sort of scene in her youth, when with her good blue eyes, her straight firm nose, her air of cool distinction, her piano playing, her rose flowering with chaste28 passion in the bosom29 of her muslin dress, she had attracted first the young men to whom such things, the china tea cups and the silver candlesticks and the inlaid table, for the Crayes had such nice things, were wonderful; young men not sufficiently30 distinguished31; young men of the cathedral town with ambitions. She had attracted them first, and then her brother’s friends from Oxford32 or Cambridge. They would come down in the summer; row her on the river; continue the argument about Browning by letter; and arrange perhaps, on the rare occasions when she stayed in London, to show her — Kensington Gardens?
“Much the nicest part of London — Kensington (I’m speaking of fifteen or twenty years ago),” she had said once. One was in the gardens in ten minutes — in the heart of the country. One could make that yield what one liked, Fanny Wilmot thought, single out, for instance, Mr. Sherman, the painter, an old friend of hers; make him call for her, by appointment, one sunny day in June; take her to have tea under the trees. (They had met, too, at those parties to which one tripped in slippers without fear of catching cold.) The aunt or other elderly relative was to wait there while they looked at the Serpentine33. They looked at the Serpentine. He may have rowed her across. They compared it with the Avon. She would have considered the comparison very furiously. Views of rivers were important to her. She sat hunched34 a little, a little angular, though she was graceful35 then, steering36. At the critical moment, for he had determined37 that he must speak now — it was his only chance of getting her alone — he was speaking with his head turned at an absurd angle, in his great nervousness, over his shoulder — at that very moment she interrupted fiercely. He would have them into the Bridge, she cried. It was a moment of horror, of disillusionment, of revelation, for both of them. I can’t have it, I can’t possess it, she thought. He could not see why she had come then. With a great splash of his oar38 he pulled the boat round. Merely to snub him? He rowed her back and said good-bye to her.
The setting of that scene could be varied39 as one chose, Fanny Wilmot reflected. (Where had that pin fallen?) It might be Ravenna; or Edinburgh, where she had kept house for her brother. The scene could be changed; and the young man and the exact manner of it all, but one thing was constant — her refusal, and her frown, and her anger with herself afterwards, and her argument, and her relief — yes, certainly her immense relief. The very next day, perhaps, she would get up at six, put on her cloak, and walk all the way from Kensington to the river. She was so thankful that she had not sacrificed her right to go and look at things when they are at their best — before people are up, that is to say she could have her breakfast in bed if she liked. She had not sacrificed her independence.
Yes, Fanny Wilmot smiled, Julia had not endangered her habits. They remained safe; and her habits would have suffered if she had married. “They’re ogres,” she had said one evening, half laughing, when another pupil, a girl lately married, suddenly bethinking her that she would miss her husband, had rushed off in haste.
“They’re ogres,” she had said, laughing grimly. An ogre would have interfered40 perhaps with breakfast in bed; with walks at dawn down to the river. What would have happened (but one could hardly conceive this) had she had children? She took astonishing precautions against chills, fatigue41, rich food, the wrong food, draughts, heated rooms, journeys in the Tube. for she could never determine which of these it was exactly that brought on those terrible headaches that gave her life the semblance42 of a battlefield. She was always engaged in outwitting the enemy, until it seemed as if the pursuit had its interest; could she have beaten the enemy finally she would have found life a little dull. As it was, the tug-of-war was perpetual — on the one side the nightingale or the view which she loved with passion — yes, for views and birds she felt nothing less than passion; on the other the damp path or the horrid43 long drag up a steep hill which would certainly make her good for nothing next day and bring on one of her headaches. When, therefore, from time to time, she managed her forces adroitly44 and brought off a visit to Hampton Court the week the crocuses — those glossy45 bright flowers were her favourite — were at their best, it was a victory. It was something that lasted; something that mattered for ever. She strung the afternoon on the necklace of memorable46 days, which was not too long for her to be able to recall this one or that one; this view, that city; to finger it, to feel it, to savour, sighing, the quality that made it unique.
“It was so beautiful last Friday,” she said, “that I determined I must go there.” So she had gone off to Waterloo on her great undertaking47 — to visit Hampton Court — alone. Naturally, but perhaps foolishly, one pitied her for the thing she never asked pity for (indeed she was reticent48 habitually49, speaking of her health only as a warrior50 might speak of his foe)— one pitied her for always doing everything alone. Her brother was dead. Her sister was asthmatic. She found the climate of Edinburgh good for her. It was too bleak51 for Julia. Perhaps, too, she found the associations painful, for her brother, the famous archaeologist, had died there; and she had loved her brother. She lived in a little house off the Brompton Road entirely alone.
Fanny Wilmot saw the pin; she picked it up. She looked at Miss Craye. Was Miss Craye so lonely? No, Miss Craye was steadily52, blissfully, if only for that moment, a happy woman. Fanny had surprised her in a moment of ecstasy53. She sat there, half turned away from the piano, with her hands clasped in her lap holding the carnation upright, while behind her was the sharp square of the window, uncurtained, purple in the evening, intensely purple after the brilliant electric lights which burnt unshaded in the bare music room. Julia Craye, sitting hunched and compact holding her flower, seemed to emerge out of the London night, seemed to fling it like a cloak behind her, it seemed, in its bareness and intensity, the effluence of her spirit, something she had made which surrounded her. Fanny stared.
All seemed transparent54, for a moment, to the gaze of Fanny Wilmot, as if looking through Miss Craye, she saw the very fountain of her being spurting55 its pure silver drops. She saw back and back into the past behind her. She saw the green Roman vases stood in their case; heard the choristers playing cricket; saw Julia quietly descend56 the curving steps on to the lawn; then saw her pour out tea beneath the cedar57 tree; softly enclosed the old man’s hand in hers; saw her going round and about the corridors of that ancient Cathedral dwelling58 place with towels in her hand to mark them; lamenting59, as she went, the pettiness of daily life; and slowly ageing, and putting away clothes when summer came, because at her age they were too bright to wear; and tending her father’s sickness; and cleaving60 her way ever more definitely as her will stiffened61 towards her solitary62 goal; travelling frugally63; counting the cost and measuring out of her tight shut purse the sum needed for this journey or for that old mirror; obstinately64 adhering, whatever people might say, in choosing her pleasures for herself. She saw Julia ——
Julia blazed. Julia kindled65. Out of the night she burnt like a dead white star. Julia opened her arms. Julia kissed her on the lips. Julia possessed66 it.
“Slater’s pins have no points,” Miss Craye said, laughing queerly and relaxing her arms, as Fanny Wilmot pinned the flower to her breast with trembling fingers.
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coppers
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| 铜( copper的名词复数 )； 铜币 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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beetle
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| n.甲虫，近视眼的人 | |
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archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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urns
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| n.壶( urn的名词复数 )；瓮；缸；骨灰瓮 | |
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pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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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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endorsing
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| v.赞同( endorse的现在分词 )；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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ascertaining
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的现在分词 ) | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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carnation
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| n.康乃馨（一种花） | |
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voluptuously
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| adv.风骚地，体态丰满地 | |
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frustration
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| n.挫折，失败，失效，落空 | |
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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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brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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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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acridly
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| adj.辛辣的；刺鼻的；（性格、态度、言词等）刻薄的；尖刻的 | |
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draughts
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| n. <英>国际跳棋 | |
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wry
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| adj.讽刺的；扭曲的 | |
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acerbity
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| n.涩，酸，刻薄 | |
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chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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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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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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serpentine
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| adj.蜿蜒的，弯曲的 | |
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hunched
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| （常指因寒冷、生病或愁苦）耸肩弓身的，伏首前倾的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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adroitly
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| adv.熟练地，敏捷地 | |
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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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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undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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reticent
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| adj.沉默寡言的；言不如意的 | |
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habitually
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| ad.习惯地，通常地 | |
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50
warrior
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| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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51
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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52
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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54
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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55
spurting
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| （液体，火焰等）喷出，（使）涌出( spurt的现在分词 )； （短暂地）加速前进，冲刺； 溅射 | |
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56
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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58
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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59
lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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60
cleaving
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| v.劈开，剁开，割开( cleave的现在分词 ) | |
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stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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frugally
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| adv. 节约地, 节省地 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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65
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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