Her figure faded into the darkness, as pale things waver down into deep water, and as soon as she disappeared my sense of humour returned. The episode appeared more clearly, as a flirtation1 with an enigmatic, but decidedly charming, chance travelling companion. The girl was a riddle2, and a riddle once guessed is a very trivial thing. She, too, would be a very trivial thing when I had found a solution. It occurred to me that she wished me to regard her as a symbol, perhaps, of the future—as a type of those who are to inherit the earth, in fact. She had been playing the fool with me, in her insolent3 modernity. She had wished me to understand that I was old-fashioned; that the frame of mind of which I and my fellows were the inheritors was over and done with. We were to be compulsorily4 retired5; to stand aside superannuated6. It was obvious that she was better equipped for the swiftness of life. She had a something—not only quickness of wit, not only ruthless determination, but a something quite different and quite indefinably more impressive. Perhaps it was only the confidence of the superseder, the essential quality that makes for the empire of the Occidental. But I was not a negro—not even relatively7 a Hindoo. I was somebody, confound it, I was somebody.
As an author, I had been so uniformly unsuccessful, so absolutely unrecognised, that I had got into the way of regarding myself as ahead of my time, as a worker for posterity8. It was a habit of mind—the only revenge that I could take upon despiteful Fate. This girl came to confound me with the common herd—she declared herself to be that very posterity for which I worked.
She was probably a member of some clique9 that called themselves Fourth Dimensionists—just as there had been preRaphaelites. It was a matter of cant10 allegory. I began to wonder how it was that I had never heard of them. And how on earth had they come to hear of me!
“She must have read something of mine,” I found myself musing11: “the Jenkins story perhaps. It must have been the Jenkins story; they gave it a good place in their rotten magazine. She must have seen that it was the real thing, and. . . . ” When one is an author one looks at things in that way, you know.
By that time I was ready to knock at the door of the great Callan. I seemed to be jerked into the commonplace medium of a great, great—oh, an infinitely12 great—novelist’s home life. I was led into a well-lit drawing-room, welcomed by the great man’s wife, gently propelled into a bedroom, made myself tidy, descended13 and was introduced into the sanctum, before my eyes had grown accustomed to the lamp-light. Callan was seated upon his sofa surrounded by an admiring crowd of very local personages. I forget what they looked like. I think there was a man whose reddish beard did not become him and another whose face might have been improved by the addition of a reddish beard; there was also an extremely moody14 dark man and I vaguely15 recollect16 a person who lisped.
They did not talk much; indeed there was very little conversation. What there was Callan supplied. He—spoke17—very—slowly—and—very —authoritatively, like a great actor whose aim is to hold the stage as long as possible. The raising of his heavy eyelids18 at the opening door conveyed the impression of a dark, mental weariness; and seemed somehow to give additional length to his white nose. His short, brown beard was getting very grey, I thought. With his lofty forehead and with his superior, yet propitiatory19 smile, I was of course familiar. Indeed one saw them on posters in the street. The notables did not want to talk. They wanted to be spell-bound—and they were. Callan sat there in an appropriate attitude—the one in which he was always photographed. One hand supported his head, the other toyed with his watch-chain. His face was uniformly solemn, but his eyes were disconcertingly furtive20. He cross-questioned me as to my walk from Canterbury; remarked that the cathedral was a—magnificent—Gothic—Monument and set me right as to the lie of the roads. He seemed pleased to find that I remembered very little of what I ought to have noticed on the way. It gave him an opportunity for the display of his local erudition.
“A—remarkable woman—used—to—live—in-the—cottage—next—the—mill—at—Stelling,” he said; “she was the original of Kate Wingfield.”
“In your ‘Boldero?’” the chorus chorussed.
Remembrance of the common at Stelling—of the glimmering21 white faces of the shadowy cottages—was like a cold waft22 of mist to me. I forgot to say “Indeed!”
“She was—a very—remarkable—woman—She——”
I found myself wondering which was real; the common with its misty23 hedges and the blurred24 moon; or this room with its ranks of uniformly bound books and its bust25 of the great man that threw a portentous26 shadow upward from its pedestal behind the lamp.
Before I had entirely27 recovered myself, the notables were departing to catch the last train. I was left alone with Callan.
He did not trouble to resume his attitude for me, and when he did speak, spoke faster.
“Interesting man, Mr. Jinks?” he said; “you recognised him?”
“No,” I said; “I don’t think I ever met him.”
Callan looked annoyed.
“I thought I’d got him pretty well. He’s Hector Steele. In my ‘Blanfield,’” he added.
“Indeed!” I said. I had never been able to read “Blanfield.” “Indeed, ah, yes—of course.”
There was an awkward pause.
“The whiskey will be here in a minute,” he said, suddenly. “I don’t have it in when Whatnot’s here. He’s the Rector, you know; a great temperance man. When we’ve had a—a modest quencher—we’ll get to business.”
“Oh,” I said, “your letters really meant—”
“Of course,” he answered. “Oh, here’s the whiskey. Well now, Fox was down here the other night. You know Fox, of course?”
“Didn’t he start the rag called—?”
“Yes, yes,” Callan answered, hastily, “he’s been very successful in launching papers. Now he’s trying his hand with a new one. He’s any amount of backers—big names, you know. He’s to run my next as a feuilleton. This—this venture is to be rather more serious in tone than any that he’s done hitherto. You understand?”
“Why, yes,” I said; “but I don’t see where I come in.”
Callan took a meditative28 sip29 of whiskey, added a little more water, a little more whiskey, and then found the mixture to his liking30.
“You see,” he said, “Fox got a letter here to say that Wilkinson had died suddenly—some affection of the heart. Wilkinson was to have written a series of personal articles on prominent people. Well, Fox was nonplussed31 and I put in a word for you.”
“I’m sure I’m much—” I began.
“Not at all, not at all,” Callan interrupted, blandly32. “I’ve known you and you’ve known me for a number of years.”
A sudden picture danced before my eyes—the portrait of the Callan of the old days—the fawning34, shady individual, with the seedy clothes, the furtive eyes and the obliging manners.
“Why, yes,” I said; “but I don’t see that that gives me any claim.”
Callan cleared his throat.
“The lapse35 of time,” he said in his grand manner, “rivets what we may call the bands of association.”
He paused to inscribe36 this sentence on the tablets of his memory. It would be dragged in-to form a purple patch—in his new serial37.
“You see,” he went on, “I’ve written a good deal of autobiographical matter and it would verge38 upon self-advertisement to do more. You know how much I dislike that. So I showed Fox your sketch39 in the Kensington.”
“The Jenkins story?” I said. “How did you come to see it?”
“Then send me the Kensington,” he answered. There was a touch of sourness in his tone, and I remembered that the Kensington I had seen had been ballasted with seven goodly pages by Callan himself—seven unreadable packed pages of a serial.
“As I was saying,” Callan began again, “you ought to know me very well, and I suppose you are acquainted with my books. As for the rest, I will give you what material you want.”
“But, my dear Callan,” I said, “I’ve never tried my hand at that sort of thing.”
Callan silenced me with a wave of his hand.
“It struck both Fox and myself that your—your ‘Jenkins’ was just what was wanted,” he said; “of course, that was a study of a kind of broken-down painter. But it was well done.”
I bowed my head. Praise from Callan was best acknowledged in silence.
“You see, what we want, or rather what Fox wants,” he explained, “is a kind of series of studies of celebrities40 chez eux. Of course, they are not broken down. But if you can treat them as you treated Jenkins —get them in their studies, surrounded by what in their case stands for the broken lay figures and the faded serge curtains—it will be exactly the thing. It will be a new line, or rather—what is a great deal better, mind you—an old line treated in a slightly, very slightly different way. That’s what the public wants.”
“Ah, yes,” I said, “that’s what the public wants. But all the same, it’s been done time out of mind before. Why, I’ve seen photographs of you and your arm-chair and your pen-wiper and so on, half a score of times in the sixpenny magazines.”
Callan again indicated bland33 superiority with a wave of his hand.
“You undervalue yourself,” he said.
I murmured—“Thanks.”
“This is to be-not a mere41 pandering42 to curiosity—but an attempt to get at the inside of things—to get the atmosphere, so to speak; not merely to catalogue furniture.”
He was quoting from the prospectus43 of the new paper, and then cleared his throat for the utterance44 of a tremendous truth.
“Photography—is not—Art,” he remarked.
The fantastic side of our colloquy45 began to strike me.
“After all,” I thought to myself, “why shouldn’t that girl have played at being a denizen46 of another sphere? She did it ever so much better than Callan. She did it too well, I suppose.”
“The price is very decent,” Callan chimed in. “I don’t know how much per thousand, . . . but. . . . ”
I found myself reckoning, against my will as it were.
“You’ll do it, I suppose?” he said.
I thought of my debts . . . “Why, yes, I suppose so,” I answered. “But who are the others that I am to provide with atmospheres?”
Callan shrugged47 his shoulders.
“Oh, all sorts of prominent people—soldiers, statesmen, Mr. Churchill, the Foreign Minister, artists, preachers—all sorts of people.”
“All sorts of glory,” occurred to me.
“The paper will stand expenses up to a reasonable figure,” Callan reassured48 me.
“It’ll be a good joke for a time,” I said. “I’m infinitely obliged to you.”
He warded49 off my thanks with both hands.
“I’ll just send a wire to Fox to say that you accept,” he said, rising. He seated himself at his desk in the appropriate attitude. He had an appropriate attitude for every vicissitude50 of his life. These he had struck before so many people that even in the small hours of the morning he was ready for the kodak wielder51. Beside him he had every form of labour-saver; every kind of literary knick-knack. There were book-holders that swung into positions suitable to appropriate attitudes; there were piles of little green boxes with red capital letters of the alphabet upon them, and big red boxes with black small letters. There was a writing-lamp that cast an ?sthetic glow upon another appropriate attitude—and there was one typewriter with note-paper upon it, and another with MS. paper already in position.
“My God!” I thought—“to these heights the Muse52 soars.”
As I looked at the gleaming pillars of the typewriters, the image of my own desk appeared to me; chipped, ink-stained, gloriously dusty. I thought that when again I lit my battered53 old tin lamp I should see ashes and match-ends; a tobacco-jar, an old gnawed54 penny penholder, bits of pink blotting-paper, match-boxes, old letters, and dust everywhere. And I knew that my attitude—when I sat at it—would be inappropriate.
Callan was ticking off the telegram upon his machine. “It will go in the morning at eight,” he said.
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1
flirtation
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| n.调情，调戏，挑逗 | |
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riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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compulsorily
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| 强迫地，强制地 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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superannuated
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| adj.老朽的，退休的；v.因落后于时代而废除，勒令退学 | |
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relatively
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| adv.比较...地，相对地 | |
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posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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clique
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| n.朋党派系，小集团 | |
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cant
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| n.斜穿，黑话，猛扔 | |
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musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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moody
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| adj.心情不稳的，易怒的，喜怒无常的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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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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18
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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propitiatory
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| adj.劝解的；抚慰的；谋求好感的；哄人息怒的 | |
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furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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waft
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| v.飘浮，飘荡；n.一股；一阵微风；飘荡 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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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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meditative
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| adj.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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sip
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| v.小口地喝，抿，呷；n.一小口的量 | |
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30
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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31
nonplussed
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| adj.不知所措的，陷于窘境的v.使迷惑( nonplus的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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fawning
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| adj.乞怜的，奉承的v.（尤指狗等）跳过来往人身上蹭以示亲热( fawn的现在分词 )；巴结；讨好 | |
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lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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inscribe
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| v.刻；雕；题写；牢记 | |
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serial
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| n.连本影片，连本电视节目；adj.连续的 | |
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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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celebrities
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| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
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41
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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pandering
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| v.迎合（他人的低级趣味或淫欲）( pander的现在分词 )；纵容某人；迁就某事物 | |
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prospectus
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| n.计划书；说明书；慕股书 | |
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utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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colloquy
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| n.谈话，自由讨论 | |
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46
denizen
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| n.居民，外籍居民 | |
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47
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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48
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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49
warded
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| 有锁孔的，有钥匙榫槽的 | |
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vicissitude
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| n.变化，变迁，荣枯，盛衰 | |
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51
wielder
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| 行使者 | |
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52
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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53
battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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54
gnawed
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| 咬( gnaw的过去式和过去分词 )； （长时间） 折磨某人； （使）苦恼； （长时间）危害某事物 | |
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