As a matter of fact, though, there was not a breath of wind that afternoon. It was almost as mild as spring. Gordon repeated to himself the poem he had begun yesterday, in a cadenced1 whisper, simply for the pleasure of the sound of it. He was pleased with the poem at this moment. It was a good poem — or would be when it was finished, anyway. He had forgotten that last night it had almost made him sick.
The plane trees brooded motionless, dimmed by faint wreaths of mist. A tram boomed in the valley far below. Gordon walked up Malkin Hill, rustling3 instep-deep through the dry, drifted leaves. All down the pavement they were strewn, crinkly and golden, like the rustling flakes5 of some American breakfast cereal; as though the queen of Brobdingnag had upset her packet of Truweet Breakfast Crisps down the hillside.
Jolly, the windless winter days! Best time of all the year — or so Gordon thought at this moment. He was as happy as you can be when you haven’t smoked all day and have only three-halfpence and a Joey in the world. This was Thursday, early-closing day and Gordon’s afternoon off. He was going to the house of Paul Doring, the critic, who lived in Coleridge Grove6 and gave literary tea-parties.
It had taken him an hour or more to get himself ready. Social life is so complicated when your income is two quid a week. He had had a painful shave in cold water immediately after dinner. He had put on his best suit — three years old but just passable when he remembered to press the trousers under his mattress7. He had turned his collar inside out and tied his tie so that the torn place didn’t show. With the point of a match he had scraped enough blacking from the tin to polish his shoes. He had even borrowed a needle from Lorenheim and darned his socks — a tedious job, but better than inking the places where your ankle shows through. Also he had procured8 an empty Gold Flake4 packet and put into it a single cigarette extracted from the penny-in-the-slot-machine. That was just for the look of the thing. You can’t, of course, go to other people’s houses with NO cigarettes. But if you have even one it’s all right, because when people see one cigarette in a packet they assume that the packet has been full. It is fairly easy to pass the thing off as an accident.
‘Have a cigarette?’ you say casually9 to someone.
‘Oh — thanks.’
You push the packet open and then register surprise. ‘Hell! I’m down to my last. And I could have sworn I had a full packet.’
‘Oh, I won’t take your last. Have one of MINE,’ says the other.
‘Oh — thanks.’
And after that, of course, your host and hostess press cigarettes upon you. But you must have ONE cigarette, just for honour’s sake.
Sharply the menacing wind sweeps over. He would finish that poem presently. He could finish it whenever he chose. It was queer, how the mere10 prospect11 of going to a literary tea-party bucked12 him up. When your income is two quid a week you at least aren’t jaded13 by too much human contact. Even to see the inside of somebody else’s house is a kind of treat. A padded armchair under your bum14, and tea and cigarettes and the smell of women — you learn to appreciate such things when you are starved of them. In practice, though, Doring’s parties never in the least resembled what Gordon looked forward to. Those wonderful, witty15, erudite conversations that he imagined beforehand — they never happened or began to happen. Indeed there was never anything that could properly be called conversation at all; only the stupid clacking that goes on at parties everywhere, in Hampstead or Hong Kong. No one really worth meeting ever came to Doring’s parties. Doring was such a very mangy lion himself that his followers16 were hardly even worthy17 to be called jackals. Quite half of them were those hen-witted middle-aged18 women who have lately escaped from good Christian19 homes and are trying to be literary. The star exhibits were troops of bright young things who dropped in for half an hour, formed circles of their own, and talked sniggeringly about the other bright young things to whom they referred by nicknames. For the most part Gordon found himself hanging about on the edges of conversations. Doring was kind in a slapdash way and introduced him to everybody as ‘Gordon Comstock — YOU know; the poet. He wrote that dashed clever book of poems called Mice. YOU know.’ But Gordon had never yet encountered anybody who DID know. The bright young things summed him up at a glance and ignored him. He was thirtyish, moth-eaten, and obviously penniless. And yet, in spite of the invariable disappointment, how eagerly he looked forward to those literary tea-parties! They were a break in his loneliness, anyway. That is the devilish thing about poverty, the ever-recurrent thing — loneliness. Day after day with never an intelligent person to talk to; night after night back to your godless room, always alone. Perhaps it sounds rather fun if you are rich and sought-after; but how different it is when you do it from necessity!
Sharply the menacing wind sweeps over. A stream of cars hummed easily up the hill. Gordon eyed them without envy. Who wants a car, anyway? The pink doll-faces of upper-class women gazed at him through the car window. Bloody21 nit-witted lapdogs. Pampered22 bitches dozing23 on their chains. Better the lone20 wolf than the cringing24 dogs. He thought of the Tube stations at early morning. The black hordes25 of clerks scurrying26 underground like ants into a hole; swarms27 of little ant-like men, each with dispatch-case in right hand, newspaper in left hand, and the fear of the sack like a maggot in his heart. How it eats at them, that secret fear! Especially on winter days, when they hear the menace of the wind. Winter, the sack, the workhouse, the Embankment benches! Ah!
Sharply the menacing wind sweeps over The bending poplars, newly bare, And the dark ribbons of the chimneys Veer28 downward; flicked29 by whips of air, Torn posters flutter; Coldly sound The boom of trains and the rattle30 of hooves, And the clerks who hurry to the station Look, shuddering31, over the eastern rooves, Thinking —
What do they think? Winter’s coming. Is my job safe? The sack means the workhouse. Circumcise ye your foreskins, saith the Lord. Suck the blacking off the boss’s boots. Yes!
Thinking each one, ‘Here comes the winter! Please God I keep my job this year!’ And bleakly32, as the cold strikes through Their entrails like an icy spear, They think —
‘Think’ again. No matter. What do they think? Money, money! Rent, rates, taxes, school bills, season tickets, boots for the children. And the life insurance policy and the skivvy’s wages. And, my God, suppose the wife gets in the family way again! And did I laugh loud enough when the boss made that joke yesterday? And the next instalment on the vacuum cleaner.
Neatly33, taking a pleasure in his neatness, with the sensation of dropping piece after piece of a jigsaw34 puzzle into place, he fashioned another stanza35:
They think of rent, rates, season tickets, Insurance, coal, the skivvy’s wages, Boots, school bills, and the next instalment Upon the two twin beds from Drage’s.
Not bad, not bad at all. Finish it presently. Four or five more stanzas36. Ravelston would print it.
A starling sat in the naked boughs37 of a plane tree, crooning self-pitifully as starlings do on warm winter days when they believe spring is in the air. At the foot of the tree a huge sandy cat sat motionless, mouth open, gazing upwards38 with rapt desire, plainly expecting that the starling would drop into its mouth. Gordon repeated to himself the four finished stanzas of his poem. It was GOOD. Why had he thought last night that it was mechanical, weak, and empty? He was a poet. He walked more upright, arrogantly39 almost, with the pride of a poet. Gordon Comstock, author of Mice. ‘Of exceptional promise,’ The Times Lit. Supp. had said. Author also of London Pleasures. For that too would be finished quite soon. He knew now that he could finish it when he chose. Why had he ever despaired of it? Three months it might take; soon enough to come out in the summer. In his mind’s eye he saw the ‘slim’ white buckram shape of London Pleasures; the excellent paper, the wide margins40, the good Caslon type, the refined dust-jacket, and the reviews in all the best papers. ‘An outstanding achievement’— The Times Lit. Supp. ‘A welcome relief from the Sitwell school’— Scrutiny42.
Coleridge Grove was a damp, shadowy, secluded43 road, a blind alley2 and therefore void of traffic. Literary associations of the wrong kind (Coleridge was rumoured44 to have lived there for six weeks in the summer of 1821) hung heavy upon it. You could not look at its antique decaying houses, standing41 back from the road in dank gardens under heavy trees, without feeling an atmosphere of outmoded ‘culture’ envelop45 you. In some of those houses, undoubtedly46, Browning Societies still flourished, and ladies in art serge sat at the feet of extinct poets talking about Swinburne and Walter Pater. In spring the gardens were sprinkled with purple and yellow crocuses, and later with harebells, springing up in little Wendy rings among the anaemic grass; and even the trees, it seemed to Gordon, played up to their environment and twisted themselves into whimsy47 Rackhamesque attitudes. It was queer that a prosperous hack48 critic like Paul Doring should live in such a place. For Doring was an astonishingly bad critic. He reviewed novels for the Sunday Post and discovered the great English novel with Walpolean regularity49 once a fortnight. You would have expected him to live in a flat on Hyde Park Corner. Perhaps it was a kind of penance50 that he had imposed upon himself, as though by living in the refined discomfort51 of Coleridge Grove he propitiated52 the injured gods of literature.
Gordon came round the corner, turning over in his mind a line from London Pleasures. And then suddenly he stopped short. There was something wrong about the look of the Dorings’ gate. What was it? Ah, of course! There were no cars waiting outside.
He paused, walked on a step or two, and stopped again, like a dog that smells danger. It was all wrong. There OUGHT to be some cars. There were always quite a lot of people at the Dorings’ parties, and half of them came in cars. Why had nobody else arrived? Could he be too early? But no! They had said half past three and it was at least twenty to four.
He hastened towards the gate. Already he felt practically sure that the party HAD been put off. A chill like the shadow of a cloud had fallen across him. Suppose the Dorings weren’t at home! Suppose the party had been put off! And this thought, though it dismayed him, did not strike him as in the least improbable. It was his special bugbear, the especial childish dread53 he carried about with him, to be invited to people’s houses and then find them not at home. Even when there was no doubt about the invitation he always half expected that there would be some hitch54 or other. He was never quite certain of his welcome. He took it for granted that people would snub him and forget about him. Why not, indeed? He had no money. When you have no money your life is one long series of snubs.
He swung the iron gate open. It creaked with a lonely sound. The dank mossy path was bordered with chunks55 of some Rackhamesque pinkish stone. Gordon inspected the house-front narrowly. He was so used to this kind of thing. He had developed a sort of Sherlock Holmes technique for finding out whether a house was inhabited or not. Ah! Not much doubt about it this time. The house had a deserted56 look. No smoke coming from the chimneys, no windows lighted. It must be getting darkish indoors — surely they would have lighted the lamps? And there was not a single footmark on the steps; that settled it. Nevertheless with a sort of desperate hope he tugged57 at the bell. An old-fashioned wire bell, of course. In Coleridge Grove it would have been considered low and unliterary to have an electric bell.
Clang, clang, clang! went the bell.
Gordon’s last hope vanished. No mistaking the hollow clangour of a bell echoing through an empty house. He seized the handle again and gave it a wrench58 that almost broke the wire. A frightful59, clamorous60 peal61 answered him. But it was useless, quite useless. Not a foot stirred within. Even the servants were out. At this moment he became aware of a lace cap, some dark hair, and a pair of youthful eyes regarding him furtively62 from the basement of the house next door. It was a servant-girl who had come out to see what all the noise was about. She caught his eye and gazed into the middle distance. He looked a fool and knew it. One always does look a fool when one rings the bell of an empty house. And suddenly it came to him that that girl knew all about him — knew that the party had been put off and that everyone except Gordon had been told of it — knew that it was because he had no money that he wasn’t worth the trouble of telling. SHE knew. Servants always know.
He turned and made for the gate. Under the servant’s eye he had to stroll casually away, as though this were a small disappointment that scarcely mattered. But he was trembling so with anger that it was difficult to control his movements. The sods! The bloody sods! To have played a trick like that on him! To have invited him, and then changed the day and not even bothered to tell him! There might be other explanations — he just refused to think of them. The sods, the bloody sods! His eye fell upon one of the Rackhamesque chunks of stone. How he’d love to pick that thing up and bash it through the window! He grasped the rusty63 gate-bar so hard that he hurt his hand and almost tore it. The physical pain did him good. It counteracted64 the agony at his heart. It was not merely that he had been cheated of an evening spent in human company, though that was much. It was the feeling of helplessness, of insignificance65, of being set aside, ignored — a creature not worth worrying about. They’d changed the day and hadn’t even bothered to tell him. Told everybody else, but not him. That’s how people treat you when you’ve no money! Just wantonly, cold-bloodedly insult you. It was likely enough, indeed, that the Dorings’ had honestly forgotten, meaning no harm; it was even possible that he himself had mistaken the date. But no! He wouldn’t think of it. The Dorings’ had done it on purpose. Of COURSE they had done it on purpose! Just hadn’t troubled to tell him, because he had no money and consequently didn’t matter. The sods!
He walked rapidly away. There was a sharp pain in his breast. Human contact, human voices! But what was the good of wishing? He’d have to spend the evening alone, as usual. His friends were so few and lived so far away. Rosemary would still be at work; besides, she lived at the back of beyond, in West Kensington, in a women’s hostel66 guarded by female dragons. Ravelston lived nearer, in the Regent’s Park district. But Ravelston was a rich man and had many engagements; the chances were always against his being at home. Gordon could not even ring him up, because he hadn’t the necessary two pennies; only three halfpence and the Joey. Besides, how could he go and see Ravelston when he had no money? Ravelston would be sure to say ‘Let’s go to a pub,’ or something! He couldn’t let Ravelston pay for his drinks. His friendship with Ravelston was only possible on the understanding that he paid his share of everything.
He took out his single cigarette and lighted it. It gave him no pleasure to smoke, walking fast; it was a mere reckless gesture. He did not take much notice of where he was going. All he wanted was to tire himself, to walk and walk till the stupid physical fatigue67 had obliterated68 the Dorings’ snub. He moved roughly southward — through the wastes of Camden Town, down Tottenham Court Road. It had been dark for some time now. He crossed Oxford69 Street, threaded through Covent Garden, found himself in the Strand70, and crossed the river by Waterloo Bridge. With night the cold had descended71. As he walked his anger grew less violent, but his mood could not fundamentally improve. There was a thought that kept haunting him — a thought from which he fled, but which was not to be escaped. It was the thought of his poems. His empty, silly, futile72 poems! How could he ever have believed in them? To think that actually he had imagined, so short a time ago, that even London Pleasures might one day come to something! It made him sick to think of his poems now. It was like remembering last night’s debauch73. He knew in his bones that he was no good and his poems were no good. London Pleasures would never be finished. If he lived to be a thousand he would never write a line worth reading. Over and over, in self-hatred75, he repeated those four stanzas of the poem he had been making up. Christ, what tripe76! Rhyme to rhyme — tinkle77, tinkle, tinkle! Hollow as an empty biscuit tin. THAT was the kind of muck he had wasted his life on.
He had walked a long way, five or seven miles perhaps. His feet were hot and swollen78 from the pavements. He was somewhere in Lambeth, in a slummy quarter where the narrow, puddled street plunged79 into blackness at fifty yards’ distance. The few lamps, mist-ringed, hung like isolated80 stars, illumining nothing save themselves. He was getting devilishly hungry. The coffee-shops tempted81 him with their steamy windows and their chalked signs: ‘Good Cup of Tea, 2d. No Urns82 Used.’ But it was no use, he couldn’t spend his Joey. He went under some echoing railway arches and up the alley on to Hungerford Bridge. On the miry water, lit by the glare of skysigns, the muck of East London was racing83 inland. Corks84, lemons, barrel-staves, a dead dog, hunks of bread. Gordon walked along the Embankment to Westminster. The wind made the plane trees rattle. Sharply the menacing wind sweeps over. He winced85. That tripe again! Even now, though it was December, a few poor draggled old wrecks86 were settling down on the benches, tucking themselves up in sort of parcels of newspaper. Gordon looked at them callously87. On the bum, they called it. He would come to it himself some day. Better so, perhaps? He never felt any pity for the genuine poor. It is the black-coated poor, the middle-middle class, who need pitying.
He walked up to Trafalgar Square. Hours and hours to kill. The National Gallery? Ah, shut long ago, of course. It would be. It was a quarter past seven. Three, four, five hours before he could sleep. He walked seven times round the square, slowly. Four times clockwise, three times widdershins. His feet were sore and most of the benches were empty, but he would not sit down. If he halted for an instant the longing88 for tobacco would come upon him. In the Charing89 Cross Road the teashops called like sirens. Once the glass door of a Lyons swung open, letting out a wave of hot cake-scented air. It almost overcame him. After all, why NOT go in? You could sit there for nearly an hour. A cup of tea twopence, two buns a penny each. He had fourpence halfpenny, counting the Joey. But no! That bloody Joey! The girl at the cash desk would titter. In a vivid vision he saw the girl at the cash desk, as she handled his threepenny-bit, grin sidelong at the girl behind the cake-counter. They’d KNOW it was your last threepence. No use. Shove on. Keep moving.
In the deadly glare of the Neon lights the pavements were densely90 crowded. Gordon threaded his way, a small shabby figure, with pale face and unkempt hair. The crowd slid past him; he avoided and was avoided. There is something horrible about London at night; the coldness, the anonymity91, the aloofness92. Seven million people, sliding to and fro, avoiding contact, barely aware of one another’s existence, like fish in an aquarium93 tank. The street swarmed94 with pretty girls. By scores they streamed past him, their faces averted95 or unseeing; cold nymph-creatures, dreading96 the eyes of the male. It was queer how many of them seemed to be alone, or with another girl. Far more women alone than women with men, he noted97. That too was money. How many girls alive wouldn’t be manless sooner than take a man who’s moneyless?
The pubs were open, oozing98 sour whiffs of beer. People were trickling99 by ones and twos into the picture-houses. Gordon halted outside a great garish100 picture-house, under the weary eye of the commissionaire, to examine the photographs. Greta Garbo in The Painted Veil. He yearned101 to go inside, not for Greta’s sake, but just for the warmth and the softness of the velvet102 seat. He hated the pictures, of course, seldom went there even when he could afford it. Why encourage the art that is destined103 to replace literature? But still, there is a kind of soggy attraction about it. To sit on the padded seat in the warm smoke-scented darkness, letting the flickering104 drivel on the screen gradually overwhelm you — feeling the waves of its silliness lap you round till you seem to drown, intoxicated105, in a viscous106 sea — after all, it’s the kind of drug we need. The right drug for friendless people. As he approached the Palace Theatre a tart107 on sentry-go under the porch marked him down, stepped forward, and stood in his path. A short, stocky Italian girl, very young, with big black eyes. She looked agreeable, and, what tarts108 so seldom are, merry. For a moment he checked his step, even allowing himself to catch her eye. She looked up at him, ready to break out into a broad-lipped smile. Why not stop and talk to her? She looked as though she might understand him. But no! No money! He looked away and side-stepped her with the cold haste of a man whom poverty makes virtuous109. How furious she’d be if he stopped and then she found he had no money! He pressed on. Even to talk costs money.
Up Tottenham Court Road and Camden Road it was a dreary110 drudge111. He walked slower, dragging his feet a little. He had done ten miles over pavements. More girls streamed past, unseeing. Girls alone, girls with youths, girls with other girls, girls alone. Their cruel youthful eyes went over him and through him as though he had not existed. He was too tired to resent it. His shoulders surrendered to their weariness; he slouched, not trying any longer to preserve his upright carriage and his you-be-damned air. They flee from me that someone did me seek. How could you blame them? He was thirty, moth-eaten, and without charm. Why should any girl ever look at him again?
He reflected that he must go home at once if he wanted any food — for Ma Wisbeach refused to serve meals after nine o’clock. But the thought of his cold womanless bedroom sickened him. To climb the stairs, light the gas, flop112 down at the table with hours to kill and nothing to do, nothing to read, nothing to smoke — no, NOT endurable. In Camden Town the pubs were full and noisy, though this was only Thursday. Three women, red-armed, squat113 as the beer mugs in their hands, stood outside a pub door, talking. From within came hoarse114 voices, fag-smoke, the fume115 of beer. Gordon thought of the Crichton Arms. Flaxman might be there. Why not risk it? A half of bitter, threepence halfpenny. He had fourpence halfpenny counting the Joey. After all, a Joey IS legal tender.
He felt dreadfully thirsty already. It had been a mistake to let himself think of beer. As he approached the Crichton, he heard voices singing. The great garish pub seemed to be more brightly lighted than usual. There was a concert of something going on inside. Twenty ripe male voices were chanting in unison116:
‘Fo — or REE’S a jorrigoo’ fellow, For REE’S a jorrigoo’ fellow, For REE’S a jorrigoo’ fe — ELL— OW— And toori oori us!’
At least, that was what it sounded like. Gordon drew nearer, pierced by a ravishing thirst. The voices were so soggy, so infinitely117 beery. When you heard them you saw the scarlet118 faces of prosperous plumbers119. There was a private room behind the bar where the Buffaloes120 held their secret conclaves121. Doubtless it was they who were singing. They were giving some kind of commemorative booze to their president, secretary, Grand Herbivore, or whatever he is called. Gordon hesitated outside the Saloon bar. Better to go to the public bar, perhaps. Draught122 beer in the public, bottled beer in the saloon. He went round to the other side of the pub. The beer-choked voices followed him:
‘With a toori oori ay. An’ a toori oori ay!
‘Fo — or REE’S a jorrigoo’ fellow, For REE’S a jorrigoo’ fellow —’
He felt quite faint for a moment. But it was fatigue and hunger as well as thirst. He could picture the cosy123 room where those Buffaloes were singing; the roaring fire, the big shiny table, the bovine124 photographs on the wall. Could picture also, as the singing ceased, twenty scarlet faces disappearing into pots of beer. He put his hand into his pocket and made sure that the threepenny-bit was still there. After all, why not? In the public bar, who would comment? Slap the Joey down on the bar and pass it off as a joke. ‘Been saving that up from the Christmas pudding — ha, ha!’ Laughter all round. Already he seemed to have the metallic125 taste of draught beer on his tongue.
He fingered the tiny disc, irresolute126. The Buffaloes had tuned127 up again:
‘With a toori oori ay, An’ a toori oori ay!
‘Fo — or REE’S a jorrigoo’ fellow —’
Gordon moved back to the saloon bar. The window was frosted, and also steamy from the heat inside. Still, there were chinks where you could see through. He peeped in. Yes, Flaxman was there.
The saloon bar was crowded. Like all rooms seen from the outside, it looked ineffably128 cosy. The fire that blazed in the grate danced, mirrored, in the brass129 spittoons. Gordon thought he could almost smell the beer through the glass. Flaxman was propping130 up the bar with two fish-faced pals131 who looked like insurance-touts of the better type. One elbow on the bar, his foot on the rail, a beer-streaked glass in the other hand, he was swapping132 backchat with the blonde cutie barmaid. She was standing on a chair behind the bar, ranging the bottled beer and talking saucily133 over her shoulder. You couldn’t hear what they were saying, but you could guess. Flaxman let fall some memorable134 witticism135. The fish-faced men bellowed136 with obscene laughter. And the blonde cutie, tittering down at him, half shocked and half delighted, wriggled137 her neat little bum.
Gordon’s heart sickened. To be in there, just to be in there! In the warmth and light, with people to talk to, with beer and cigarettes and a girl to flirt138 with! After all, why NOT go in? You could borrow a bob off Flaxman. Flaxman would lend it to you all right. He pictured Flaxman’s careless assent139 —‘What ho, chappie! How’s life? What? A bob? Sure! Take two. Catch, chappie!’— and the florin flicked along the beer-wet bar. Flaxman was a decent sort, in his way.
Gordon put his hand against the swing door. He even pushed it open a few inches. The warm fog of smoke and beer slipped through the crack. A familiar, reviving smell; nevertheless as he smelled it his nerve failed him. No! Impossible to go in. He turned away. He couldn’t go shoving in that saloon bar with only fourpence halfpenny in his pocket. Never let other people buy your drinks for you! The first commandment of the moneyless. He made off, down the dark pavement.
‘For REE’S a jorrigoo’ fe — ELL— OW— And toori oori us!
‘With a toori oori, ay! An’ a-’
The voices, diminishing with distance, rolled after him, bearing faint tidings of beer. Gordon took the threepenny-bit from his pocket and sent it skimming away into the darkness.
He was going home, if you could call it ‘going’. At any rate he was gravitating in that direction. He did not want to go home, but he had got to sit down. His legs ached and his feet were bruised140, and that vile141 bedroom was the sole place in London where he had purchased the right to sit down. He slipped in quietly, but, as usual, not quite so quietly that Mrs Wisbeach failed to hear him. She gave him a brief nosy142 glance round the corner of her door. It would be a little after nine. She might get him a meal if he asked her. But she would grizzle and make a favour of it, and he would go to bed hungry sooner than face that.
He started up the stairs. He was half way up the first flight when a double knock behind made him jump. The post! Perhaps a letter from Rosemary!
Forced from outside, the letter flap lifted, and with an effort, like a heron regurgitating a flatfish, vomited143 a bunch of letters on to the mat. Gordon’s heart bounded. There were six or seven of them. Surely among all that lot there must be one for himself! Mrs Wisbeach, as usual, had darted144 from her lair145 at the sound of the postman’s knock. As a matter of fact, in two years Gordon had never once succeeded in getting hold of a letter before Mrs Wisbeach laid hands on it. She gathered the letters jealously to her breast, and then, holding them up one at a time, scanned their addresses. From her manner you could gather that she suspected each one of them of containing a writ74, an improper146 love letter, or an ad for Amen Pills.
‘One for you, Mr Comstock,’ she said sourly, handing him a letter.
His heart shrank and paused in its beat. A long-shaped envelope. Not from Rosemary, therefore. Ah! It was addressed in his own handwriting. From the editor of a paper, then. He had two poems ‘out’ at present. One with the Californian Review, the other with the Primrose147 Quarterly. But this wasn’t an American stamp. And the Primrose had had his poem at least six weeks! Good God, supposing they’d accepted it!
He had forgotten Rosemary’s existence. He said ‘Thanks!’, stuck the letter in his pocket, and started up the stairs with outward calm, but no sooner was he out of Mrs Wisbeach’s sight that he bounded up three steps at a time. He had got to be alone to open that letter. Even before he reached the door he was feeling for his matchbox, but his fingers were trembling so that in lighting148 the gas he chipped the mantle149. He sat down, took the letter from his pocket, and then quailed150. For a moment he could not nerve himself to open it. He held it up to the light and felt it to see how thick it was. His poem had been two sheets. Then, calling himself a fool, he ripped the envelope open. Out tumbled his own poem, and with it a neat — oh, so neat! — little printed slip of imitation parchment:
The Editor regrets that he is unable to make use of the enclosed contribution.
The slip was decorated with a design of funereal151 laurel leaves.
Gordon gazed at the thing with wordless hatred. Perhaps no snub in the world is so deadly as this, because none is so unanswerable. Suddenly he loathed152 his own poem and was acutely ashamed of it. He felt it the weakest, silliest poem ever written. Without looking at it again he tore it into small bits and flung them into the wastepaper basket. He would put that poem out of his mind for ever. The rejection153 slip, however, he did not tear up yet. He fingered it, feeling its loathly sleekness154. Such an elegant little thing, printed in admirable type. You could tell at a glance that it came from a ‘good’ magazine — a snooty highbrow magazine with the money of a publishing house behind it. Money, money! Money and culture! It was a stupid thing that he had done. Fancy sending a poem to a paper like the Primrose! As though they’d accept poems from people like HIM. The mere fact that the poem wasn’t typed would tell them what kind of person he was. He might as well have dropped a card on Buckingham Palace. He thought of the people who wrote for the Primrose; a coterie156 of moneyed highbrows — those sleek155, refined young animals who suck in money and culture with their mother’s milk. The idea of trying to horn in among that pansy crowd! But he cursed them all the same. The sods! The bloody sods! ‘The Editor regrets!’ Why be so bloody mealy-mouthed about it? Why not say outright157, ‘We don’t want your bloody poems. We only take poems from chaps we were at Cambridge with. You proletarians keep your distance’? The bloody, hypocritical sods!
At last he crumpled158 up the rejection slip, threw it away, and stood up. Better get to bed while he had the energy to undress. Bed was the only place that was warm. But wait. Wind the clock, set the alarm. He went through the familiar action with a sense of deadly staleness. His eye fell upon the aspidistra. Two years he had inhabited this vile room; two mortal years in which nothing had been accomplished159. Seven hundred wasted days, all ending in the lonely bed. Snubs, failures, insults, all of them unavenged. Money, money, all is money! Because he had no money the Dorings’ snubbed him, because he had no money the Primrose had turned down his poem, because he had no money Rosemary wouldn’t sleep with him. Social failure, artistic160 failure, sexual failure — they are all the same. And lack of money is at the bottom of them all.
He must hit back at somebody or something. He could not go to bed with that rejection slip as the last thing in his mind. He thought of Rosemary. It was five days now since she had written. If there had been a letter from her this evening even that rap over the knuckles161 from the Primrose Quarterly would have mattered less. She declared that she loved him, and she wouldn’t sleep with him, wouldn’t even write to him! She was the same as all the others. She despised him and forgot about him because he had no money and therefore didn’t matter. He would write her an enormous letter, telling her what it felt like to be ignored and insulted, making her see how cruelly she had treated him.
He found a clean sheet of paper and wrote in the top right-hand corner:
‘31 Willowbed Road, NW, 1 December, 9.30 p.m.’
But having written that much, he found that he could write no more. He was in the defeated mood when even the writing of a letter is too great an effort. Besides, what was the use? She would never understand. No woman ever understands. But he must write something. Something to wound her — that was what he most wanted, at this moment. He meditated162 for a long time, and at last wrote, exactly in the middle of the sheet:
You have broken my heart.
No address, no signature. Rather neat it looked, all by itself, there in the middle of the sheet, in his small ‘scholarly’ handwriting. Almost like a little poem in itself. This thought cheered him up a little.
He stuck the letter in an envelope and went out and posted it at the post office on the corner, spending his last three halfpence on a penny stamp and a halfpenny stamp out of the slot machine.
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1
cadenced
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| adj.音调整齐的，有节奏的 | |
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alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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3
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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4
flake
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| v.使成薄片；雪片般落下；n.薄片 | |
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5
flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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6
grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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7
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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8
procured
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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9
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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10
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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11
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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12
bucked
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| adj.快v.（马等）猛然弓背跃起( buck的过去式和过去分词 )；抵制；猛然震荡；马等尥起后蹄跳跃 | |
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13
jaded
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| adj.精疲力竭的；厌倦的；（因过饱或过多而）腻烦的；迟钝的 | |
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14
bum
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| n.臀部；流浪汉，乞丐；vt.乞求，乞讨 | |
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15
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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16
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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17
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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18
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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19
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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20
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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21
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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22
pampered
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| adj.饮食过量的，饮食奢侈的v.纵容，宠，娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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23
dozing
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| v.打瞌睡,假寐 n.瞌睡 | |
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24
cringing
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| adj.谄媚，奉承 | |
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25
hordes
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| n.移动着的一大群( horde的名词复数 )；部落 | |
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26
scurrying
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| v.急匆匆地走( scurry的现在分词 ) | |
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27
swarms
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| 蜂群，一大群( swarm的名词复数 ) | |
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28
veer
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| vt.转向，顺时针转，改变；n.转向 | |
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29
flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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30
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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31
shuddering
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| v.战栗( shudder的现在分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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32
bleakly
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| 无望地，阴郁地，苍凉地 | |
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33
neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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34
jigsaw
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| n.缕花锯，竖锯，拼图游戏；vt.用竖锯锯，使互相交错搭接 | |
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35
stanza
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| n.（诗）节，段 | |
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36
stanzas
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| 节，段( stanza的名词复数 ) | |
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37
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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38
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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39
arrogantly
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| adv.傲慢地 | |
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40
margins
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| 边( margin的名词复数 )； 利润； 页边空白； 差数 | |
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41
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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42
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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43
secluded
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| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
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44
rumoured
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| adj.谣传的；传说的；风 | |
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45
envelop
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| vt.包，封，遮盖；包围 | |
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46
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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47
whimsy
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| n.古怪，异想天开 | |
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48
hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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49
regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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50
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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51
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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52
propitiated
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| v.劝解，抚慰，使息怒( propitiate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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54
hitch
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| v.免费搭(车旅行)；系住；急提；n.故障；急拉 | |
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55
chunks
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| 厚厚的一块( chunk的名词复数 )； （某物）相当大的数量或部分 | |
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56
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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57
tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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58
wrench
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| v.猛拧；挣脱；使扭伤；n.扳手；痛苦，难受 | |
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59
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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60
clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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61
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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62
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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63
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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64
counteracted
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| 对抗，抵消( counteract的过去式 ) | |
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65
insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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66
hostel
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| n.（学生）宿舍，招待所 | |
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67
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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68
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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69
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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70
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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71
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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72
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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73
debauch
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| v.使堕落，放纵 | |
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74
writ
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| n.命令状，书面命令 | |
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75
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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76
tripe
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| n.废话，肚子, 内脏 | |
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77
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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78
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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79
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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80
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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81
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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82
urns
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| n.壶( urn的名词复数 )；瓮；缸；骨灰瓮 | |
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83
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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84
corks
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| n.脐梅衣；软木( cork的名词复数 )；软木塞 | |
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85
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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86
wrecks
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| n.沉船( wreck的名词复数 )；（事故中）遭严重毁坏的汽车（或飞机等）；（身体或精神上）受到严重损伤的人；状况非常糟糕的车辆（或建筑物等）v.毁坏[毁灭]某物( wreck的第三人称单数 )；使（船舶）失事，使遇难，使下沉 | |
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87
callously
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88
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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89
charing
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| n.炭化v.把…烧成炭，把…烧焦( char的现在分词 )；烧成炭，烧焦；做杂役女佣 | |
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90
densely
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| ad.密集地；浓厚地 | |
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91
anonymity
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| n.the condition of being anonymous | |
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92
aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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93
aquarium
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| n.水族馆，养鱼池，玻璃缸 | |
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94
swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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95
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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96
dreading
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| v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的现在分词 ) | |
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97
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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98
oozing
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的现在分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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99
trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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100
garish
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| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
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101
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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102
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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103
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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104
flickering
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| adj.闪烁的，摇曳的，一闪一闪的 | |
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105
intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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106
viscous
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| adj.粘滞的，粘性的 | |
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107
tart
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| adj.酸的；尖酸的，刻薄的；n.果馅饼；淫妇 | |
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108
tarts
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| n.果馅饼( tart的名词复数 )；轻佻的女人；妓女；小妞 | |
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109
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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110
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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111
drudge
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| n.劳碌的人；v.做苦工，操劳 | |
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112
flop
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| n.失败(者)，扑通一声；vi.笨重地行动，沉重地落下 | |
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113
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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114
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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115
fume
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| n.(usu pl.)(浓烈或难闻的)烟，气，汽 | |
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116
unison
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| n.步调一致，行动一致 | |
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117
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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118
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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119
plumbers
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| n.管子工，水暖工( plumber的名词复数 )；[美][口]（防止泄密的）堵漏人员 | |
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120
buffaloes
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| n.水牛（分非洲水牛和亚洲水牛两种）( buffalo的名词复数 )；（南非或北美的）野牛；威胁；恐吓 | |
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121
conclaves
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| n.秘密会议，教皇选举会议，红衣主教团( conclave的名词复数 ) | |
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122
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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123
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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124
bovine
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| adj.牛的；n.牛 | |
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125
metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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126
irresolute
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| adj.无决断的，优柔寡断的，踌躇不定的 | |
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127
tuned
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| adj.调谐的，已调谐的v.调音( tune的过去式和过去分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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128
ineffably
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| adv.难以言喻地，因神圣而不容称呼地 | |
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129
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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130
propping
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| 支撑 | |
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131
pals
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| n.朋友( pal的名词复数 )；老兄；小子；（对男子的不友好的称呼）家伙 | |
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132
swapping
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| 交换，交换技术 | |
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133
saucily
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| adv.傲慢地，莽撞地 | |
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134
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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135
witticism
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| n.谐语，妙语 | |
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136
bellowed
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| v.发出吼叫声，咆哮（尤指因痛苦）( bellow的过去式和过去分词 )；（愤怒地）说出（某事），大叫 | |
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137
wriggled
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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138
flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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139
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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140
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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141
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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142
nosy
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| adj.鼻子大的，好管闲事的，爱追问的；n.大鼻者 | |
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143
vomited
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144
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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145
lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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146
improper
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| adj.不适当的，不合适的，不正确的，不合礼仪的 | |
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147
primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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148
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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149
mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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150
quailed
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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151
funereal
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| adj.悲哀的；送葬的 | |
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152
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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153
rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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154
sleekness
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| 油滑； 油光发亮； 时髦阔气； 线条明快 | |
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155
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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156
coterie
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| n.(有共同兴趣的)小团体，小圈子 | |
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157
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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158
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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159
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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160
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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161
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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162
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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