On March the thirtieth, spring visited her room with southwest airs, a small bowl of the first spring flowers, some pussy6 willows7 and a sprig of gorse. She was picking up rapidly now, and three days later was out of doors. For everything in nature she felt a zest8 such as she had not known for a long time. Crocuses, daffodil clumps9, swelling10 buds, sun on the fantails’ wings, shapes and colour of the clouds, scent11 of the wind, all affected12 her with an almost painful emotion. Yet she had no desire to do anything or see anybody. In this queer apathy13 she accepted an invitation from Adrian to go abroad with him on his short holiday.
The memorable14 things about their fortnight’s stay at Argelès in the Pyrenees, were the walks they took, the flowers they picked, the Pyrenean sheep-dogs, the almond blossom they saw, the conversations they held. They were out all day, taking lunch with them, and the opportunities for talk were unlimited15. Adrian became eloquent16 on mountains. He had never got over his climbing days. Dinny suspected him of trying to rouse her from the lethargy in which she was sunk.
“When I went up ‘the little Sinner’ in the Dolomites with Hilary before the war,” he said one day, “I got as near to God as I ever shall. Nineteen years ago — dash it! What’s the nearest to God you ever got, Dinny?”
She did not answer.
“Look here, my dear, what are you now — twenty-seven?”
“Nearly twenty-eight.”
“On the threshold still. I suppose talking it out wouldn’t help?”
“You ought to know, Uncle, that talking one’s heart out is not in the family.”
“True! The more we’re hurt the silenter we get. But one mustn’t inbreed to sorrow, Dinny.”
Dinny said suddenly: “I understand perfectly17 how women go into convents, or give themselves up to good works. I always used to think it showed a lack of humour.”
“It can show a lack of courage, or too much courage, of the sort fanatical.”
“Or broken springs.”
Adrian looked at her.
“Yours are not broken, Dinny — badly bent18, not broken.”
“Let’s hope so, Uncle; but they ought to be straightening by now.”
“You’re beginning to look fine.”
“Yes, I’m eating enough even for Aunt Em. It’s taking interest in oneself that’s the trouble.”
“I agree. I wonder if —”
“Not iron, darling. It sews me up inside.”
Adrian smiled. “I was thinking more of children.”
“They’re not synthetic19, yet. I’m all right, and very lucky, as things go. Did I tell you old Betty died?”
“Good old soul! She used to give me bulls’-eyes.”
“SHE was the real thing. We read too many books, Uncle.”
“Indubitably. Walk more, read less! Let’s have our lunch.”
On the way back to England they stayed two nights in Paris at a little hotel over a restaurant near the Gare St. Lazare. They had wood fires, and their beds were comfortable.
“Only the French know what a bed should be,” said Adrian.
The cooking down below was intended for racing20 men and such as go where they can appreciate food. The waiters, who wore aprons21, looked, as Adrian expressed it, “like monks22 doing a spot of work,” pouring the wine and mixing the salads with reverence23. He and Dinny were the only foreigners in either hotel or restaurant, not far from being the only foreigners in Paris.
“Marvellous town, Dinny. Except for cars in place of fiacres and the Eiffel Tower, I don’t see any real change by daylight since I was first here in ‘88, when your grandfather was Minister at Copenhagen. There’s the same tang of coffee and wood smoke in the air; people have the same breadth of back, the same red buttons in their coats; there are the same tables outside the same cafés, the same affiches, the same funny little stalls for selling books, the same violently miraculous24 driving, the same pervading25 French grey, even in the sky; and the same rather ill-tempered look of not giving a damn for anything outside Paris. Paris leads fashion, and yet it’s the most conservative place in the world. They say the advanced literary crowd here regard the world as having begun in 1914 at earliest, have scrapped26 everything that came before the war, despise anything that lasts, are mostly Jews, Poles and Irishmen, and yet have chosen this changeless town to function in. The same with the painters and musicians, and every other extremist. Here they gather and chatter27 and experiment themselves to death. And good old Paris laughs and carries on, as concerned with reality and flavours and the past as it ever was. Paris produces anarchy28 exactly as stout29 produces froth.”
Dinny pressed his arm.
“That was a good effort, Uncle. I must say I feel more alive here than I have for ages.”
“Ah! Paris pets the senses. Let’s go in here — too cold to sit out. What’ll you have, tea or — absinthe?”
“Absinthe.”
“You won’t like it.”
“All right — tea with lemon.”
Waiting for her tea in the quiet hurly-burly of the Café de la Paix, Dinny watched her Uncle’s thin, bearded form, and thought that he looked quite ‘in his plate,’ but with a queer, interested contentment that identified him with the life around.
To be interested in life and not pet oneself! And she looked about her. Her neighbours were neither remarkable30 nor demonstrative, but they gave an impression of doing what they liked, not of being on the way to somewhere else.
“They dig into the moment, don’t they?” said Adrian suddenly.
“Yes, I was thinking that.”
“The French make an art of living. We hope for the future or regret the past. Precious little ‘present’ about the English!”
“Why are these so different?”
“Less northern blood, more wine and oil; their heads are rounder than ours, their bodies more stocky, and their eyes are mainly brown.”
“Those are things we can’t alter, anyway.”
“The French are essentially31 the medium people. They’ve brought equilibrium32 to a high point. Their senses and intellects balance.”
“But they get fat, Uncle.”
“Yes, but all over; they don’t jut33, and they hold themselves up. I’d rather be English, of course; but if I weren’t, I’d rather be French.”
“Isn’t there anything in having an itch34 for something better than you’ve got?”
“Ah! Ever noticed, Dinny, that when we say ‘Be good!’ they say ‘Soyez sage35!’? There’s a lot in that. I’ve heard Frenchmen put our unease down to the Puritan tradition. But that’s to mistake effect for cause, symptoms for roots. I admit we’ve got an urge towards the promised land, but Puritanism was part of that urge, so’s our wanderlust and colonising quality; so’s our Protestantism, Scandinavian blood, the sea and the climate. None of that helps us in the art of living. Look at our industrialism, our old maids, cranks, humanitarianisms, poetry! We jut in every direction. We’ve got one or two highly mediumising institutions — the public schools, ‘cricket’ in its various forms — but as a people we’re chock-full of extremism. The average Briton is naturally exceptional, and underneath36 his dread37 of being conspicuous38, he’s really proud of it. Where, on earth, will you see more diverse bone formation than in England, and all of it peculiar39? We do our level best to be average, but, by George, we jut!”
“You’re inspired, Uncle.”
“Well, you look about you when you get home.”
“I will,” said Dinny.
They had a good crossing the next day, and Adrian dropped her at Mount Street.
In kissing him good-bye, she squeezed his little finger.
“You’ve done me a tremendous amount of good, Uncle.”
During those six weeks she had scarcely thought at all about Clare’s troubles, and she asked at once for the latest news. A defence had been delivered and issue joined; the case would probably be on in a few weeks.
“I’ve not seen either Clare or young Croom,” said Sir Lawrence, “but I gathered from Dornford that they go about as before. ‘Very young’ Roger still harps40 on the need for getting her to speak about her life out there. Lawyers seem to regard the Courts as confessional boxes in which to confess the sins of your opponent.”
“Well, aren’t they?”
“Judging by the papers, yes.”
“Well, Clare can’t and won’t. They’ll make a great mistake if they try to force her. Has anything been heard of Jerry?”
“He must have started, if he’s to be here in time.”
“Suppose they lose, what is to be done about Tony Croom?”
“Put yourself in his place, Dinny. Whatever happens, he’ll probably come in for a slating41 from the judge. He won’t be in a mood to accept favours. If he can’t pay up I don’t quite know what they can do to him; something unpleasant, no doubt. And there’s the question of Jack42 Muskham’s attitude — he’s queer.”
“Yes,” said Dinny under her breath.
Sir Lawrence dropped his monocle.
“Your Aunt suggests that young Croom should go gold-digging, come back rich, and marry Clare.”
“But Clare?”
“Isn’t she in love with him?”
Dinny shook her head. “She might be if he’s ruined.”
“H’m! And how are YOU, my dear? Really yourself again?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Michael would like to see you some time.”
“I’ll go round tomorrow.”
And that, meaning much, was all that was said about the news that had caused her illness.
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1
ebbed
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的过去式和过去分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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3
enticement
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| n.诱骗，诱人 | |
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4
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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pervasive
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| adj.普遍的；遍布的，(到处)弥漫的；渗透性的 | |
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6
pussy
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| n.(儿语)小猫，猫咪 | |
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7
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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clumps
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| n.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的名词复数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声v.（树、灌木、植物等的）丛、簇( clump的第三人称单数 )；（土、泥等）团；块；笨重的脚步声 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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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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12
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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14
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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15
unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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16
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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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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18
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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19
synthetic
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| adj.合成的，人工的；综合的；n.人工制品 | |
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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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21
aprons
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| 围裙( apron的名词复数 )； 停机坪，台口（舞台幕前的部份） | |
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monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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24
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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25
pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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26
scrapped
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| 废弃(scrap的过去式与过去分词)； 打架 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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28
anarchy
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| n.无政府状态；社会秩序混乱，无秩序 | |
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30
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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31
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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32
equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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33
jut
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| v.突出；n.突出，突出物 | |
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34
itch
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| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
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35
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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36
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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37
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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38
conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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39
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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40
harps
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| abbr.harpsichord 拨弦古钢琴n.竖琴( harp的名词复数 ) | |
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41
slating
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| 批评 | |
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42
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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