He pictured her as he had sometimes seen her reading books, very intent, turning the pages slowly, judging, pausing to think with a peculiar1 characteristic stillness. Her eyes would be hidden; you would just see the lashes2 on her cheek. So he remembered her reading in their garden. How clear and lucid3 was her mind, like a pool of crystalline water. He thought about the life he had led with her so far and the life they were going to lead together. He thought of the way in which all his interests and purposes had been turned about through her unpremeditated reaction upon his mind. He thought of the way in which fragility and courage interwove to make her at the same time delicate and powerful. So that for all that she was to him the frailest4, most fastidious and inaggressive of women, she was plainly and surely his salvation5. A wave of gratitude6 swept over his mind, gratitude for certain exquisite7 traits, for the marvellous softness of her hair, for her smile, for her fine hands and her characteristic movements, for moments of tenderness, for moments when he had seen her happy unawares and had rejoiced that she existed.
And as he thought of the steady, grave determination with which she must have set about this Vinciguerra business, of the touch of invincible8 humour that he knew must have mitigated10 her fear and steadied her mind, it was borne in upon him that never in their life, never for one moment, had he shown her the value he set upon her and given his love full expression. This letter he had so recently sent her was, he discovered abruptly11, a shocking letter, altogether the wrong sort of letter to send at this time, full of his soul and his needs and his own egotistical purposes and taking no heed12 of how things might present themselves to her.
Was this the time to talk of leaving Casa Terragena and fighting all the powers of confusion in the world? Was this the time to foreshadow a harder life in England? To wave flags of revolution in her sick-room and blow bugle13 calls in her ear? She would be ailing14, she would be a little faint and fearful, and she would be needing all her strength to face this initial tearing crisis of motherhood that was now so close upon her. And nothing from him but this clamour for support! She helped him; yes; and he took it as a matter of course. Now for the first time he perceived how little he had ever troubled to help her. That letter had gone, gone beyond recall, a day’s start it would have and no telegram could correct a matter of tone and attitude, but he could at least send another after it to mitigate9 its hard preoccupation with the future, its hard disregard of any possible softening15 and fear in her. A love letter, it would have to be, a rich and tender love letter. Not mere16 “rubbidge” and caressing17 fun, but a frank and heartening confession18 of the divinity — for it was divinity — he found in her. Why do we lovers never tell these things? The real things? He began to search his mind for words and phrases to express his gathering19 emotion, but these words and phrases were difficult to find.
He sat down at his table and even as he pulled the writing paper towards him a telegram came, a telegram from Mrs. McManus.
A telegram so urgent it was, that he never wrote that letter. His intentions remained phantoms20 but half embodied21 in words which still flitted in his mind during most of his headlong journey to Italy. Latterly he had been finding far less difficulty in writing than at first; the necessity to affect whimsicality and defend his poor phrasing with funny sketches22 had disappeared, but now that it came to conveying the subtle and fluctuating motives23 of his heart, simply and sincerely, no words, no phrases contented24 him. Shadow and reflection and atmosphere, impossible to convey. Phrases that seemed at the first glance to say exactly what he needed became portentous25, excessive, unreal, directly they were definitely written down. For this business, “rubbidge,” the little language, peeping intimations and snatches of doggerel26, seemed better adapted than the most earnestly chosen sentences. And still insufficient27. He was pervaded28 by the idea that all his difference of spirit from the common Rylands strain was a gift from her. “Wife of my heart and Mother of my Soul,” flitting into his thoughts like an inspiration, passed muster29, and sat down and in two minutes had become preposterous30. “You are my Salvation” became a monstrous31 egotism, when one thought of it as written on paper. But indeed she was his salvation, she was the light of his life, for him she was not only the dearest but the best of all things. Was he never to tell her these intense and primary facts?
“My life hangs on yours. My soul dies with yours. . . . We Rylands are things of metal and drive, unless a soul is given us. . . . With you I can be a living man. . . . It’s Undine but the other way about. . . . ”
It was profoundly true but it would read like rant32.
“The world is a thing of cold fat, opaque33 and stupid, without your touch. You make it like a hand held up to a bright light; one sees it then as nerve and blood and life. . . . ”
Would he never be able to tell her of such things as this? Never say more than “Cinna-kins” and “pet wife” to this firm and delicate spirit that could lead his by the hand? No better than dumb beasts we are, all of us who love, using just “dear” or “darling” as a dog must yap to express ten thousand different things! “The fireflies must be back at Terragena?” he wrote in this imagined letter, with an impotent poetic34 desire to liken her quick vivid thoughts, her swift deliberations, to those flashes in the darkness, in their brightness and their constant surprise. . . .
He was still thinking of that unwritten letter as he came through the little sitting-room35 at Casa Terragena to where she lay white and still, and looking now smaller than she had ever looked before. The weary little body curled up in that big bed reminded him grotesquely36 of a toy dog. A thing for infinite tenderness; “Wife, dear wife and Mother of my Soul!” Why had he never told her that?
“I was just going to write to her,” he whispered to Mrs. McManus. “I was just going to write to her. A real letter. I was sitting down to write. That last one — wasn’t much good. And then your message came.”
That last one was there on the toilet table. He saw it as he came in to her. That stupid heavy letter!
He threw himself down on his knees by the bed and very gently put his arm over that fragile body. “My darling!” he whispered. She had not seemed to know that he had come, but now very lazily one eye opened, searched its field of vision and regarded him with an inexpressive stare.
“Cinna dear! speak to me.”
“Dju finka vim37?” she murmured, dropping the aspirate from sheer inability to carry it. The eye closed again. Still so heavy with an?sthetics.
“That’s all right,” said Mrs. McManus with an experienced hand on the young master’s shoulder. “Now let her have her sleep out and then ye can call her darling to your heart’s content. Aren’t you in the least bit curious to see what sort of first-born son she’s given you? A fine fine boy it is and sparring at the world already with his little fists. There! D’you hear him?”
“And she is out of the least bit of danger?” he insisted, regardless of the Rylands’ future.
“Just healthy fatigue38. . . . After all, it’s a thing a woman is made for.”
The End
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1
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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2
lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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frailest
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| 脆弱的( frail的最高级 )； 易损的； 易碎的 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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9
mitigate
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| vt.（使）减轻，（使）缓和 | |
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mitigated
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| v.减轻，缓和( mitigate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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12
heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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13
bugle
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| n.军号，号角，喇叭；v.吹号，吹号召集 | |
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14
ailing
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| v.生病 | |
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softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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18
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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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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doggerel
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| n.拙劣的诗，打油诗 | |
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insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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30
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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31
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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rant
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| v.咆哮；怒吼；n.大话；粗野的话 | |
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opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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35
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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36
grotesquely
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| adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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37
vim
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| n.精力，活力 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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