He had read somewhere that a persistently12 jealous husband may not improbably end by irritating an innocent wife into affording real ground for jealousy13. A man with small knowledge of the world is much impressed by dicta such as there; they get into the crannies of his mind, and thence direct the course of his thinking. Widdowson, before his marriage, had never suspected the difficulty of understanding a woman; had he spoken his serious belief on that subject, it would have been found to represent the most primitive14 male conception of the feminine being. Women were very like children; it was rather a task to amuse them and to keep them out of mischief16. Therefore the blessedness of household toil17, in especial the blessedness of child-bearing and all that followed. Intimacy18 with Monica had greatly affected19 his views, yet chiefly by disturbing them; no firmer ground offered itself to his threading when he perforce admitted that his former standpoint was every day assailed20 by some incontestable piece of evidence. Woman had individual characters; that discovery, though not a very profound one, impressed him with the force of something arrived at by independent observation. Monica often puzzled him gravely; he could not find the key to her satisfactions and discontents. To regard her simply as a human being was beyond the reach of his intelligence. He cast the blame of his difficulties upon sex, and paid more attention to the hints on such afforded him by his reading. He would endeavour to keep his jealousy out of sight, lest the mysterious tendency of the female nature might prompt Monica to deliberate wrongdoing.
To-day for the first time there flashed across him the thought that already he might have been deceived. It originated in a peculiarity21 of Monica’s behaviour at luncheon22. She ate scarcely anything; she seemed hurried, frequently glancing at the clock; and she lost herself in reverie. Discovering that his eye was upon her, she betrayed uneasiness, and began to talk without considering what she meant to say. All this might mean nothing more than her barely-concealed regret at being obliged to leave London; but Widdowson remarked it with a vivacity23 of feeling perhaps due to the excitement in which he had lived for the past week. Perhaps the activity, the resolution to which he had urged himself, caused a sharpening of his perceptions. And the very thought, never out of his mind, that only a few days had to elapse before he carried off his wife from the scene of peril24, tended to make him more vividly25 conscious of that peril. Certain it was that a moment’s clairvoyance26 assailed his peace, and left behind it all manner of ugly conjectures27. Woman — so said the books — are adepts28 at dissimulation29. Was it conceivable that Monica had taken advantage of the liberty he had of late allowed her? If a woman could not endure a direct, searching gaze, must it not imply some enormous wickedness? — seeing that nature has armed them for this very trial.
In her setting forth30 for the railway station hurry was again evident, and disinclination to exchange parting words. If the eagerness were simple and honest, would she not have accepted his suggestion and have gone in the morning?
For five minutes after her departure he stood in the hall, staring before him. A new jealousy, a horrible constriction32 of the heart, had begun to torture him. He went and walked about in the library, but could not dispel33 his suffering. Vain to keep repeating that Monica was incapable34 of baseness. Of that he was persuaded, but none the less a hideous35 image returned upon his mental vision — a horror — a pollution of thought.
One thing he could do to restore his sanity36. He would walk over to Lavender Hill, and accompany his wife on her return home. Indeed, the mere4 difficulty of getting through the afternoon advised this project. He could not employ himself, and knew that his imagination, once inflamed37, would leave him not a moment’s rest. Yes, he would walk to Lavender Hill, and ramble38 about that region until Monica had had reasonable time for talk with her sister.
About three o’clock there fell a heavy shower of rain. Strangely against his habits, Widdowson turned into a quiet public-house, and sat for a quarter of an hour at the bar, drinking a glass of whisky. During the past week he had taken considerably39 more wine than usual at meals; he seemed to need the support. Whilst sipping40 at his glass of spirits, he oddly enough fell into talk with the barmaid, a young woman of some charms, and what appeared to be unaffected modesty41. Not for twenty years had Widdowson conversed42 with a member of this sisterhood. Their dialogue was made up of the most trifling43 of trivialities — weather, a railway accident, the desirability of holidays at this season. And when at length he rose and put an end to the chat it was with appreciable44 reluctance45.
‘A good, nice sort of girl,’ he went away saying to himself. ‘Pity she should be serving at a bar — hearing doubtful talk, and seeing very often vile46 sights. A nice, soft-spoken little girl.’
And he mused47 upon her remembered face with a complacency which soothed48 his feelings.
Of a sudden he was checked by the conversion49 of his sentiment into thought. Would he not have been a much happier man if he had married a girl distinctly his inferior in mind and station? Provided she were sweet, lovable, docile50 — such a wife would have spared him all the misery51 he had known with Monica. From the first he had understood that Monica was no representative shopgirl, and on that very account he had striven so eagerly to win her. But it was a mistake. He had loved her, still loved her, with all the emotion of which he was capable. How many hours’ genuine happiness of soul had that love afforded him? The minutest fraction of the twelve months for which she had been his wife. And of suffering, often amounting to frantic52 misery, he could count many weeks. Could such a marriage as this be judged a marriage at all, in any true sense of the word?
‘Let me ask myself a question. If Monica were absolutely free to choose between continuing to live with me and resuming her perfect liberty, can I persuade myself that she would remain my wife? She would not. Not for a day, not for an hour. Of that I am morally convinced. And I acknowledge the grounds of her dissatisfaction. We are unsuited to each other. We do not understand each other. Our marriage is physical and nothing more. My love — what is my love? I do not love her mind, her intellectual part. If I did, this frightful53 jealousy from which I suffer would be impossible. My ideal of the wife perfectly suited to me is far liker that girl at the public-house bar than Monica. Monica’s independence of thought is a perpetual irritation54 to me. I don’t know what her thoughts really are, what her intellectual life signifies. And yet I hold her to me with the sternest grasp. If she endeavoured to release herself I should feel capable of killing55 her. Is not this a strange, a brutal56 thing?’
Widdowson had never before reached this height of speculation57. In the moment, by the very fact, of admitting that Monica and he ought not to be living together, he became more worthy58 of his wife’s companionship than ever hitherto.
Well, he would exercise greater forebearance. He would endeavour to win her respect by respecting the freedom she claimed. His recent suspicions of her were monstrous59. If she knew them, how her soul would revolt from him! What if she took an interest in other men, perchance more her equals than he? Why, had he not just been thinking of another woman, reflecting that she, or one like her, would have made him a more suitable wife than Monica? Yet this could not reasonably be called unfaithfulness.
They were bound together for life, and their wisdom lay in mutual60 toleration, the constant endeavour to understand each other aright — not in fierce restraint of each other’s mental liberty. How many marriages were anything more than mutual forbearance? Perhaps there ought not to be such a thing as enforced permanence of marriage. This was daring speculation; he could not have endured to hear it from Monica’s lips. But — perhaps, some day, marriage would be dissoluble at the will of either party to it. Perhaps the man who sought to hold a woman when she no longer loved him would be regarded with contempt and condemnation61.
What a simple thing marriage had always seemed to him, and how far from simple he had found it! Why, it led him to musings which overset the order of the world, and flung all ideas of religion and morality into wildest confusion. It would not do to think like this. He was a man wedded62 to a woman very difficult to manage — there was the practical upshot of the matter. His duty was to manage her. He was responsible for her right conduct. With intentions perfectly harmless, she might run into unknown jeopardy63 — above all, just at this time when she was taking reluctant leave of her friends. The danger justified64 him in exceptional vigilance.
So, from his excursion into the realms of reason did he return to the safe sphere of the commonplace. And now he might venture to press on towards Mrs. Conisbee’s house, for it was half-past four, and already Monica must have been talking with her sister for a couple of hours.
His knock at the door was answered by the landlady65 herself. She told of Mrs. Widdowson’s arrival and departure. Ah, then Monica had no doubt gone straight home again. But, as Miss Madden had returned, he would speak with her.
‘The poor lady isn’t very well, sir,’ said Mrs. Conisbee, fingering the hem15 of her apron66.
‘Not very well? But couldn’t I see her for a moment?’
Virginia answered this question by appearing on the staircase.
‘Some one for me, Mrs. Conisbee?’ she called from above. ‘Oh, is it you, Edmund? So very glad! I’m sure Mrs. Conisbee will have the kindness to let you come into her sitting-room67. What a pity I was away when Monica called! I’ve had — business to see to in town; and I’ve walked and walked, until I’m really — hardly able —’
She sank upon a chair in the room, and looked fixedly68 at the visitor with a broad, benevolent69 smile, her head moving up and down. Widdowson was for a moment in perplexity. If the evidence of his eyes could be trusted, Miss Madden’s indisposition pointed70 to a cause so strange that it seemed incredible. He turned to look for Mrs. Conisbee, but the landlady had hurriedly withdrawn71, closing the door behind her.
‘It is so foolish of me, Edmund,’ Virginia rambled72 on, addressing him with a familiarity she had never yet used. ‘When I am away from home I forget all about my meals — really forget — and then all at once I find that I am quite exhausted73 — quite exhausted — as you see. And the worst of it is I have altogether lost my appetite by the time I get back. I couldn’t eat a mouthful of food — not a mouthful — I assure you I couldn’t. And it does so distress74 good Mrs. Conisbee. She is exceedingly kind to me — exceedingly careful about my health. Oh, and in Battersea Park Road I saw such a shocking sight; a great cart ran over a poor little dog, and it was killed on the spot. It unnerved me dreadfully. I do think, Edmund, those drivers ought to be more careful. I was saying to Mrs. Conisbee only the other day — and that reminds me, I do so want to know all about your visit to Clevedon. Dear, dear Clevedon! And have you really taken a house there, Edmund? Oh, if we could all end our days at Clevedon! You know that our dear father and mother are buried in the old churchyard. You remember Tennyson’s lines about the old church at Clevedon? Oh, and what did Monica decide about — about — really, what was I going to ask? It is so foolish of me to forget that dinner-time has come and gone. I get so exhausted, and even my memory fails me.’
He could doubt no longer. This poor woman had yielded to one of the temptations that beset75 a life of idleness and solitude76. His pity was mingled77 with disgust.
‘I only wished to tell you,’ he said gravely, ‘that we have taken a house at Clevedon —’
‘You really have!’ She clasped her hands together. ‘Whereabouts?’
‘Near Dial Hill.’
Virginia began a rhapsody which her brother-inlaw had no inclination31 to hear. He rose abruptly78.
‘Perhaps you had better come and see us tomorrow.’
‘But Monica left a message that she wouldn’t be at home for the next few days, and that I wasn’t to come till I heard from her.’
‘Not at home —? I think there’s a mistake.’
‘Oh, impossible! We’ll ask Mrs. Conisbee.’
She went to the door and called. From the landlady Widdowson learnt exactly what Monica had said. He reflected for a moment.
‘She shall write to you then. Don’t come just yet. I mustn’t stay any longer now.’
And with a mere pretence79 of shaking hands he abruptly left the house.
Suspicions thickened about him. He would have thought it utterly80 impossible for Miss Madden to disgrace herself in this vulgar way, and the appalling81 discovery affected his view of Monica. They were sisters; they had characteristics in common, family traits, weaknesses. If the elder woman could fall into this degradation82, might there not be possibilities in Monica’s character such as he had refused to contemplate83? Was there not terrible reason for mistrusting her? What did she mean by her message to Virginia.
Black and haggard, he went home as fast as a hansom could take him. It was half-past five when he reached the house. His wife was not here, and had not been here.
At this moment Monica was starting by train from Bayswater, after her parting with Bevis. Arrived at Victoria, she crossed to the main station, and went to the ladies’ waiting-room for the purpose of bathing her face. She had red, swollen84 eyes, and her hair was in slight disorder85. This done, she inquired as to the next train for Herne Hill. One had just gone; another would leave in about a quarter of an hour.
A dreadful indecision was harassing86 her. Ought she, did she dare, to return home at all? Even if her strength sufficed for simulating a natural manner, could she consent to play so base a part?
There was but one possible alternative. She might go to Virginia’s lodgings87, and there remain, writing to her husband that she had left him. The true cause need not be confessed. She would merely declare that life with him had become intolerable to her, that she demanded a release. Their approaching removal to Clevedon offered the occasion. She would say that her endurance failed before that prospect88 of solitude, and that, feeling as she did, it was dishonourable to make longer pretence of doing her duty as a wife. Then, if Bevis wrote to her in such a way as to revive her love, if he seriously told her to come to him, all difficulties could be solved by her disappearance90.
Was such revival91 of disheartened love a likely or a possible thing? At this moment she felt that to flee in secret, and live with Bevis as he proposed, would be no less dishonour89 than abiding92 with the man who had a legal claim upon her companionship. Her lover, as she had thought of him for the past two or three months, was only a figment of her imagination; Bevis had proved himself a complete stranger to her mind; she must reshape her knowledge of him. His face was all that she could still dwell upon with the old desire; nay93, even that had suffered a change.
Insensibly the minutes went by. Whilst she sat in the waiting-room her train started; and when she had become aware of that, her irresolution94 grew more tormenting95.
Suddenly there came upon her a feeling of illness, of nausea96. Perspiration97 broke out on her forehead; her eyes dazzled; she had to let her head fall back. It passed, but in a minute or two the fit again seized her, and with a moan she lost consciousness.
Two or three women who were in the room rendered assistance. The remarks they exchanged, though expressing uncertainty98 and discreetly99 ambiguous, would have been significant to Monica. On her recovery, which took place in a few moments, she at once started up, and with hurried thanks to those about her, listening to nothing that was said and answering no inquiry100, went out on to the platform. There was just time to catch the train now departing for Herne Hill.
She explained her fainting fit by the hours of agitation101 through which she had passed. There was no room for surprise. She had suffered indescribably, and still suffered. Her wish was to get back into the quietness of home, to rest and to lose herself in sleep.
On entering, she saw nothing of her husband. His hat hung on the hall-tree, and he was perhaps sitting in the library; the more genial102 temper would account for his not coming forth at once to meet her, as had been his custom when she returned from an absence alone.
She changed her dress, and disguised as far as was possible the traces of suffering on her features. Weakness and tremor103 urged her to lie down, but she could not venture to do this until she had spoken to her husband. Supporting herself by the banisters, she slowly descended104, and opened the library door. Widdowson was reading a newspaper. He did not look round, but said carelessly —
‘So you are back?’
‘Yes. I hope you didn’t expect me sooner.’
‘Oh, it’s all right.’ He threw a rapid glance at her over his shoulder. ‘Had a long talk with Virginia, I suppose?’
‘Yes. I couldn’t get away before.’
Widdowson seemed to be much interested in some paragraph. He put his face closer to the paper, and was silent for two or three seconds. Then he again looked round, this time observing his wife steadily105, but with a face that gave no intimation of unusual thoughts.
‘Does she consent to go?’
Monica replied that it was still uncertain; she thought, however, that Virginia’s objections would be overcome.
‘You look very tired,’ remarked the other.
‘I am, very.’
And thereupon she withdrew, unable to command her countenance, scarce able to remain standing7 for another moment.
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收听单词发音
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1
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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militant
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| adj.激进的，好斗的；n.激进分子，斗士 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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licentious
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| adj.放纵的，淫乱的 | |
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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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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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8
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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10
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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15
hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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16
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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17
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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clairvoyance
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| n.超人的洞察力 | |
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conjectures
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| 推测，猜想( conjecture的名词复数 ) | |
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28
adepts
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| n.专家，能手( adept的名词复数 ) | |
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dissimulation
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| n.掩饰，虚伪，装糊涂 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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constriction
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| 压缩； 紧压的感觉； 束紧； 压缩物 | |
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dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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34
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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sanity
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| n.心智健全，神智正常，判断正确 | |
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inflamed
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| adj.发炎的，红肿的v.（使）变红，发怒，过热( inflame的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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38
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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40
sipping
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的现在分词 ) | |
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41
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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42
conversed
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的过去式 ) | |
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43
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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44
appreciable
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| adj.明显的，可见的，可估量的，可觉察的 | |
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45
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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46
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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47
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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48
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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49
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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50
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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51
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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52
frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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53
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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54
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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55
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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56
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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57
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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58
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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59
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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60
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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61
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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62
wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
jeopardy
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| n.危险；危难 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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rambled
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| （无目的地）漫游( ramble的过去式和过去分词 )； （喻）漫谈； 扯淡； 长篇大论 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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harassing
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| v.侵扰，骚扰( harass的现在分词 )；不断攻击（敌人） | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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irresolution
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| n.不决断，优柔寡断，犹豫不定 | |
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tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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