Roger had objected to a band. He didn’t see in the least what they wanted with a band; he wouldn’t go to the expense, and there was an end of it. Francie (her mother, whom Roger had long since reduced to chronic6 dyspepsia, went to bed on such occasions), had been obliged to content herself with supplementing the piano by a young man who played the cornet, and she so arranged with palms that anyone who did not look into the heart of things might imagine there were several musicians secreted7 there. She made up her mind to tell them to play loud — there was a lot of music in a cornet, if the man would only put his soul into it.
In the more cultivated American tongue, she was ‘through’ at last — through that tortuous8 labyrinth9 of make-shifts, which must be traversed before fashionable display can be combined with the sound economy of a Forsyte. Thin but brilliant, in her maize-coloured frock with much tulle about the shoulders, she went from place to place, fitting on her gloves, and casting her eye over it all.
To the hired butler (for Roger only kept maids) she spoke10 about the wine. Did he quite understand that Mr. Forsyte wished a dozen bottles of the champagne11 from Whiteley’s to be put out? But if that were finished (she did not suppose it would be, most of the ladies would drink water, no doubt), but if it were, there was the champagne cup, and he must do the best he could with that.
She hated having to say this sort of thing to a butler, it was so infra dig.; but what could you do with father? Roger, indeed, after making himself consistently disagreeable about the dance, would come down presently, with his fresh colour and bumpy12 forehead, as though he had been its promoter; and he would smile, and probably take the prettiest woman in to supper; and at two o’clock, just as they were getting into the swing, he would go up secretly to the musicians and tell them to play ‘God Save the Queen,’ and go away.
Francie devoutly13 hoped he might soon get tired, and slip off to bed.
The three or four devoted14 girl friends who were staying in the house for this dance had partaken with her, in a small, abandoned room upstairs, of tea and cold chicken-legs, hurriedly served; the men had been sent out to dine at Eustace’s Club, it being felt that they must be fed up.
Punctually on the stroke of nine arrived Mrs. Small alone. She made elaborate apologies for the absence of Timothy, omitting all mention of Aunt Hester, who, at the last minute, had said she could not be bothered. Francie received her effusively15, and placed her on a rout seat, where she left her, pouting16 and solitary17 in lavender-coloured satin — the first time she had worn colour since Aunt Ann’s death.
The devoted maiden18 friends came now from their rooms, each by magic arrangement in a differently coloured frock, but all with the same liberal allowance of tulle on the shoulders and at the bosom19 — for they were, by some fatality20, lean to a girl. They were all taken up to Mrs. Small. None stayed with her more than a few seconds, but clustering together talked and twisted their programmes, looking secretly at the door for the first appearance of a man.
Then arrived in a group a number of Nicholases, always punctual — the fashion up Ladbroke Grove21 way; and close behind them Eustace and his men, gloomy and smelling rather of smoke.
Three or four of Francie’s lovers now appeared, one after the other; she had made each promise to come early. They were all clean-shaven and sprightly22, with that peculiar23 kind of young-man sprightliness24 which had recently invaded Kensington; they did not seem to mind each other’s presence in the least, and wore their ties bunching out at the ends, white waistcoats, and socks with clocks. All had handkerchiefs concealed25 in their cuffs26. They moved buoyantly, each armoured in professional gaiety, as though he had come to do great deeds. Their faces when they danced, far from wearing the traditional solemn look of the dancing Englishman, were irresponsible, charming, suave27; they bounded, twirling their partners at great pace, without pedantic28 attention to the rhythm of the music.
At other dancers they looked with a kind of airy scorn — they, the light brigade, the heroes of a hundred Kensington ‘hops’— from whom alone could the right manner and smile and step be hoped.
After this the stream came fast; chaperones silting29 up along the wall facing the entrance, the volatile30 element swelling31 the eddy32 in the larger room.
Men were scarce, and wallflowers wore their peculiar, pathetic expression, a patient, sourish smile which seemed to say: “Oh, no! don’t mistake me, I know you are not coming up to me. I can hardly expect that!” And Francie would plead with one of her lovers, or with some callow youth: “Now, to please me, do let me introduce you to Miss Pink; such a nice girl, really!” and she would bring him up, and say: “Miss Pink — Mr. Gathercole. Can you spare him a dance?” Then Miss Pink, smiling her forced smile, colouring a little, answered: “Oh! I think so!” and screening her empty card, wrote on it the name of Gathercole, spelling it passionately33 in the district that he proposed, about the second extra.
But when the youth had murmured that it was hot, and passed, she relapsed into her attitude of hopeless expectation, into her patient, sourish smile.
Mothers, slowly fanning their faces, watched their daughters, and in their eyes could be read all the story of those daughters’ fortunes. As for themselves, to sit hour after hour, dead tired, silent, or talking spasmodically — what did it matter, so long as the girls were having a good time! But to see them neglected and passed by! Ah! they smiled, but their eyes stabbed like the eyes of an offended swan; they longed to pluck young Gathercole by the slack of his dandified breeches, and drag him to their daughters — the jackanapes!
And all the cruelties and hardness of life, its pathos34 and unequal chances, its conceit35, self-forgetfulness, and patience, were presented on the battle-field of this Kensington ball-room.
Here and there, too, lovers — not lovers like Francie’s, a peculiar breed, but simply lovers — trembling, blushing, silent, sought each other by flying glances, sought to meet and touch in the mazes36 of the dance, and now and again dancing together, struck some beholder37 by the light in their eyes.
Not a second before ten o’clock came the Jameses — Emily, Rachel, Winifred (Dartie had been left behind, having on a former occasion drunk too much of Roger’s champagne), and Cicely, the youngest, making her debut38; behind them, following in a hansom from the paternal39 mansion40 where they had dined, Soames and Irene.
All these ladies had shoulder-straps and no tulle — thus showing at once, by a bolder exposure of flesh, that they came from the more fashionable side of the Park.
Soames, sidling back from the contact of the dancers, took up a position against the wall. Guarding himself with his pale smile, he stood watching. Waltz after waltz began and ended, couple after couple brushed by with smiling lips, laughter, and snatches of talk; or with set lips, and eyes searching the throng41; or again, with silent, parted lips, and eyes on each other. And the scent42 of festivity, the odour of flowers, and hair, of essences that women love, rose suffocatingly43 in the heat of the summer night.
Silent, with something of scorn in his smile, Soames seemed to notice nothing; but now and again his eyes, finding that which they sought, would fix themselves on a point in the shifting throng, and the smile die off his lips.
He danced with no one. Some fellows danced with their wives; his sense of ‘form’ had never permitted him to dance with Irene since their marriage, and the God of the Forsytes alone can tell whether this was a relief to him or not.
She passed, dancing with other men, her dress, iris-coloured, floating away from her feet. She danced well; he was tired of hearing women say with an acid smile: “How beautifully your wife dances, Mr. Forsyte — it’s quite a pleasure to watch her!” Tired of answering them with his sidelong glance: “You think so?”
A young couple close by flirted44 a fan by turns, making an unpleasant draught45. Francie and one of her lovers stood near. They were talking of love.
He heard Roger’s voice behind, giving an order about supper to a servant. Everything was very second-class! He wished that he had not come! He had asked Irene whether she wanted him; she had answered with that maddening smile of hers “Oh, no!”
Why had he come? For the last quarter of an hour he had not even seen her. Here was George advancing with his Quilpish face; it was too late to get out of his way.
“Have you seen ‘The Buccaneer’?” said this licensed46 wag; “he’s on the warpath — hair cut and everything!”
Soames said he had not, and crossing the room, half-empty in an interval47 of the dance, he went out on the balcony, and looked down into the street.
A carriage had driven up with late arrivals, and round the door hung some of those patient watchers of the London streets who spring up to the call of light or music; their faces, pale and upturned above their black and rusty48 figures, had an air of stolid49 watching that annoyed Soames. Why were they allowed to hang about; why didn’t the bobby move them on?
But the policeman took no notice of them; his feet were planted apart on the strip of crimson50 carpet stretched across the pavement; his face, under the helmet, wore the same stolid, watching look as theirs.
Across the road, through the railings, Soames could see the branches of trees shining, faintly stirring in the breeze, by the gleam of the street lamps; beyond, again, the upper lights of the houses on the other side, so many eyes looking down on the quiet blackness of the garden; and over all, the sky, that wonderful London sky, dusted with the innumerable reflection of countless51 lamps; a dome52 woven over between its stars with the refraction of human needs and human fancies — immense mirror of pomp and misery53 that night after night stretches its kindly54 mocking over miles of houses and gardens, mansions55 and squalor, over Forsytes, policemen, and patient watchers in the streets.
Soames turned away, and, hidden in the recess56, gazed into the lighted room. It was cooler out there. He saw the new arrivals, June and her grandfather, enter. What had made them so late? They stood by the doorway57. They looked fagged. Fancy Uncle Jolyon turning out at this time of night! Why hadn’t June come to Irene, as she usually did, and it occurred to him suddenly that he had seen nothing of June for a long time now.
Watching her face with idle malice58, he saw it change, grow so pale that he thought she would drop, then flame out crimson. Turning to see at what she was looking, he saw his wife on Bosinney’s arm, coming from the conservatory59 at the end of the room. Her eyes were raised to his, as though answering some question he had asked, and he was gazing at her intently.
Soames looked again at June. Her hand rested on old Jolyon’s arm; she seemed to be making a request. He saw a surprised look on his uncle’s face; they turned and passed through the door out of his sight.
The music began again — a waltz — and, still as a statue in the recess of the window, his face unmoved, but no smile on his lips, Soames waited. Presently, within a yard of the dark balcony, his wife and Bosinney passed. He caught the perfume of the gardenias60 that she wore, saw the rise and fall of her bosom, the languor61 in her eyes, her parted lips, and a look on her face that he did not know. To the slow, swinging measure they danced by, and it seemed to him that they clung to each other; he saw her raise her eyes, soft and dark, to Bosinney’s, and drop them again.
Very white, he turned back to the balcony, and leaning on it, gazed down on the Square; the figures were still there looking up at the light with dull persistency62, the policeman’s face, too, upturned, and staring, but he saw nothing of them. Below, a carriage drew up, two figures got in, and drove away. . . .
That evening June and old Jolyon sat down to dinner at the usual hour. The girl was in her customary high-necked frock, old Jolyon had not dressed.
At breakfast she had spoken of the dance at Uncle Roger’s, she wanted to go; she had been stupid enough, she said, not to think of asking anyone to take her. It was too late now.
Old Jolyon lifted his keen eyes. June was used to go to dances with Irene as a matter of course! and deliberately63 fixing his gaze on her, he asked: “Why don’t you get Irene?”
No! June did not want to ask Irene; she would only go if — if her grandfather wouldn’t mind just for once for a little time!
At her look, so eager and so worn, old Jolyon had grumblingly64 consented. He did not know what she wanted, he said, with going to a dance like this, a poor affair, he would wager66; and she no more fit for it than a cat! What she wanted was sea air, and after his general meeting of the Globular Gold Concessions67 he was ready to take her. She didn’t want to go away? Ah! she would knock herself up! Stealing a mournful look at her, he went on with his breakfast.
June went out early, and wandered restlessly about in the heat. Her little light figure that lately had moved so languidly about its business, was all on fire. She bought herself some flowers. She wanted — she meant to look her best. He would be there! She knew well enough that he had a card. She would show him that she did not care. But deep down in her heart she resolved that evening to win him back. She came in flushed, and talked brightly all lunch; old Jolyon was there, and he was deceived.
In the afternoon she was overtaken by a desperate fit of sobbing68. She strangled the noise against the pillows of her bed, but when at last it ceased she saw in the glass a swollen69 face with reddened eyes, and violet circles round them. She stayed in the darkened room till dinner time.
All through that silent meal the struggle went on within her.
She looked so shadowy and exhausted70 that old Jolyon told ‘Sankey’ to countermand71 the carriage, he would not have her going out. . . . She was to go to bed! She made no resistance. She went up to her room, and sat in the dark. At ten o’clock she rang for her maid.
“Bring some hot water, and go down and tell Mr. Forsyte that I feel perfectly72 rested. Say that if he’s too tired I can go to the dance by myself.”
The maid looked askance, and June turned on her imperiously. “Go,” she said, “bring the hot water at once!”
Her ball-dress still lay on the sofa, and with a sort of fierce care she arrayed herself, took the flowers in her hand, and went down, her small face carried high under its burden of hair. She could hear old Jolyon in his room as she passed.
Bewildered and vexed73, he was dressing74. It was past ten, they would not get there till eleven; the girl was mad. But he dared not cross her — the expression of her face at dinner haunted him.
With great ebony brushes he smoothed his hair till it shone like silver under the light; then he, too, came out on the gloomy staircase.
June met him below, and, without a word, they went to the carriage.
When, after that drive which seemed to last for ever, she entered Roger’s drawing-room, she disguised under a mask of resolution a very torment75 of nervousness and emotion. The feeling of shame at what might be called ‘running after him’ was smothered76 by the dread77 that he might not be there, that she might not see him after all, and by that dogged resolve — somehow, she did not know how — to win him back.
The sight of the ballroom78, with its gleaming floor, gave her a feeling of joy, of triumph, for she loved dancing, and when dancing she floated, so light was she, like a strenuous79, eager little spirit. He would surely ask her to dance, and if he danced with her it would all be as it was before. She looked about her eagerly.
The sight of Bosinney coming with Irene from the conservatory, with that strange look of utter absorption on his face, struck her too suddenly. They had not seen — no one should see — her distress80, not even her grandfather.
She put her hand on Jolyon’s arm, and said very low:
“I must go home, Gran; I feel ill.”
He hurried her away, grumbling65 to himself that he had known how it would be.
To her he said nothing; only when they were once more in the carriage, which by some fortunate chance had lingered near the door, he asked her: “What is it, my darling?”
Feeling her whole slender body shaken by sobs81, he was terribly alarmed. She must have Blank to-morrow. He would insist upon it. He could not have her like this. . . . There, there!
June mastered her sobs, and squeezing his hand feverishly82, she lay back in her corner, her face muffled83 in a shawl.
He could only see her eyes, fixed84 and staring in the dark, but he did not cease to stroke her hand with his thin fingers.
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收听单词发音
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1
parquet
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| n.镶木地板 | |
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constellations
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| n.星座( constellation的名词复数 )；一群杰出人物；一系列（相关的想法、事物）；一群（相关的人） | |
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3
spaciousness
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| n.宽敞 | |
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appendages
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| n.附属物( appendage的名词复数 )；依附的人；附属器官；附属肢体（如臂、腿、尾等） | |
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rout
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| n.溃退，溃败；v.击溃，打垮 | |
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chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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7
secreted
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| v.（尤指动物或植物器官）分泌( secrete的过去式和过去分词 )；隐匿，隐藏 | |
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tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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10
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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11
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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bumpy
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| adj.颠簸不平的，崎岖的 | |
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13
devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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14
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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effusively
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| adv.变溢地，热情洋溢地 | |
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pouting
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的现在分词 ) | |
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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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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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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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fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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sprightly
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| adj.愉快的，活泼的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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sprightliness
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| n.愉快，快活 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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cuffs
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| n.袖口( cuff的名词复数 )v.掌打，拳打( cuff的第三人称单数 ) | |
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27
suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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pedantic
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| adj.卖弄学问的；迂腐的 | |
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silting
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| n.淤积，淤塞，充填v.（河流等）为淤泥淤塞( silt的现在分词 )；（使）淤塞 | |
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volatile
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| adj.反复无常的，挥发性的，稍纵即逝的，脾气火爆的；n.挥发性物质 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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mazes
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| 迷宫( maze的名词复数 )； 纷繁复杂的规则； 复杂难懂的细节； 迷宫图 | |
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beholder
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| n.观看者，旁观者 | |
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debut
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| n.首次演出，初次露面 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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suffocatingly
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| 令人窒息地 | |
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44
flirted
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
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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46
licensed
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| adj.得到许可的v.许可，颁发执照(license的过去式和过去分词) | |
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47
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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48
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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49
stolid
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| adj.无动于衷的，感情麻木的 | |
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50
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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51
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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52
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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53
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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54
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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55
mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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56
recess
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| n.短期休息，壁凹（墙上装架子，柜子等凹处） | |
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57
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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58
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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59
conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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60
gardenias
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| n.栀子属植物，栀子花( gardenia的名词复数 ) | |
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61
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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62
persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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grumblingly
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| 喃喃报怨着，发牢骚着 | |
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grumbling
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| adj. 喃喃鸣不平的, 出怨言的 | |
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wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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67
concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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69
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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countermand
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| v.撤回(命令)，取消(订货) | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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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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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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ballroom
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| n.舞厅 | |
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strenuous
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| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
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80
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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81
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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83
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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