As he was crossing the park with his sandwiches, he met Augusta coming back from Mass. “Are you still going to the old house, Professor?” she asked reproachfully, her face smiling at him between her stiff black fur collar and her stiff black hat.
“Oh, yes Augusta, but it’s not the same. I miss you. There are never any new dresses on my ladies in the evening now. Won’t you come in sometime and deck them out, as a surprise for me? I like to see them looking smart.”
Augusta laughed. “You are a funny man, Doctor St. Peter. If anyone else said the things you do to your classes, I’d be scandalized. But I always tell people you don’t mean half you say.”
“And how do you know what I say to my classes, may I ask?”
“Why, of course, they go out and talk about it when you say slighting things about the Church,” she said gravely.
“But, really, Augusta, I don’t think I ever do.”
“Well, they take it that way. They are not as smart as you, and you ought to be careful.”
“It doesn’t matter. What they think today, they’ll forget tomorrow.” He was walking beside Augusta, with a slack, indifferent stride, very unlike the step he had when he was full of something. “That reminds me: I’ve been wanting to ask you a question. That passage in the service about the Mystical Rose, Lily of Zion, Tower of Ivory — is that the Magnificat?”
Augusta stopped and looked at him. “Why, Professor! Did you receive no religious instruction at all?”
“How could I, Augusta? My mother was a Methodist, there was no Catholic church in our town in Kansas, and I guess my father forgot his religion.”
“That happens, in mixed marriages.” Augusta spoke4 meaningly.
“Ah, yes, I suppose so. But tell me, what is the Magnificat, then?”
“The Magnificat begins, My soul doth magnify the Lord; you must know that.”
“But I thought the Magnificat was about the Virgin5?”
“Oh, no, Professor! The Blessed Virgin composed the Magnificat.”
St. Peter became intensely interested. “Oh, she did?”
Augusta spoke gently, as if she were prompting him and did not wish to rebuke6 his ignorance too sharply. “Why, yes, just as soon as the angel had announced to her that she would be the mother of our Lord, the Blessed Virgin composed the Magnificat. I always think of you as knowing everything, Doctor St. Peter!”
“And you’re always finding out how little I know. Well, you don’t give me away. You are very discreet7.”
Their ways parted, and both went on more cheerful than when they met. The Professor climbed to his study feeling quite as though Augusta had been there and brightened it up for him. (Surely she had said that the Blessed Virgin sat down and composed the Magnificat!) Augusta had been with them often in the holiday season, back in the years when holidays were holidays indeed. He had grown to like the reminders8 of herself that she left in his workroom — especially the toilettes upon the figures. Sometimes she made those terrible women entirely9 plausible10!
In the early years, no matter how hard he was working, he had always felt the sense of holiday, of a special warmth and fragrance11 in the air, steal up to his study from the house below. When he was writing his best, he was conscious of pretty little girls in fresh dresses — of flowers and greens in the comfortable, shabby sitting-room12 — of his wife’s good looks and good taste — even of a better dinner than usual under preparation downstairs. All the while he had been working so fiercely at his eight big volumes, he was not insensible to the domestic drama that went on beneath him. His mind had played delightedly with all those incidents. Just as, when Queen Mathilde was doing the long tapestry13 now shown at Bayeux, — working her chronicle of the deeds of knights14 and heroes, — alongside the big pattern of dramatic action she and her women carried the little playful pattern of birds and beasts that are a story in themselves; so, to him, the most important chapters of his history were interwoven with personal memories.
On this Christmas morning, with that sense of the past in his mind, the Professor went mechanically to work, and the morning disappeared. Before he knew it was passing, the bells from Augusta’s church across the park rang out and told him it was gone. He pushed back his papers and arranged his writing-table for lunch.
He had been working hard, he judged, because he was so hungry. He peered with interest into the basket his wife had given him — a wicker bag, it was, really, that he had once bought full of strawberries at Gibraltar. Chicken sandwiches with lettuce15 leaves, red California grapes, and two shapely, long-necked russet pears. That would do very well; and Lillian had thoughtfully put in one of her best dinner napkins, knowing he hated ugly linen16. From the chest he took out a round of cheese, and a bottle of his wine, and began to polish a sherry glass.
While he was enjoying his lunch, he was thinking of certain holidays he had spent alone in Paris, when he was living at Versailles, with the Thieraults, as tutor to their boys. There was one All Souls’ Day when he had gone into Paris by an early train and had a magnificent breakfast on the Rue17 de Vaugirard — not at Foyot’s, he hadn’t money enough in those days to put his nose inside the place. After breakfast he went out to walk in the soft rainfall. The sky was of such an intense silvery grey that all the grey stone buildings along the Rue St. Jacques and the Rue Sufflot came out in that silver shine stronger than in sunlight. The shop windows were shut; on the bleak18 ascent19 to the Pantheon there was not a spot of colour, nothing but wet, shiny, quick-silvery grey, accented by black crevices20, and weatherworn bosses white as wood-ash. All at once, from somewhere behind the Pantheon itself, a man and woman, pushing a hand-cart, came into the empty street. The cart was full of pink dahlias, all exactly the same colour. The young man was fair and slight, with a pale face; the woman carried a baby. Both they and the heels of their barrow were splashed with mud. They must have come from a good way in the country, and were a weary, anxious-looking pair. They stopped at a corner before the Pantheon and fearfully scanned the bleak, silvery, deserted21 streets. The man went into a bakery, and his wife began to spread out the flowers, which were done up in large bouquets22 with fresh green chestnut-leaves. Young St. Peter approached and asked the price.
“Deux francs cinquante, Monsieur,” she said with a kind of desperate courage.
He took a bunch and handed her a five-franc note. She had no change. Her husband, watching from the bakery, came running across with a loaf of bread under his arm.
“Deux francs cinquante,” she called to him as he came up. He put his hand into his pocket and fumbled24.
“Deux francs cinquante,” she repeated with painful tension. The price agreed upon had probably been a franc or a franc fifty. The man counted out the change to the student and looked at his wife with admiration25. St. Peter was so pleased with his flowers that it hadn’t occurred to him to get more; but all his life he had regretted that he didn’t buy two bunches, and push their fortunes a little further. He had never again found dahlias of such a beautiful colour, or so charmingly arranged with bright chestnut-leaves.
A moment later he was strolling down the hill, wondering to whom he could give his bouquet23, when a pathetic procession filed past him through the rain. The girls of a charity school came walking two and two, in hideous26 dark uniforms and round felt hats without ribbon or bow, marshalled by four black-bonneted nuns27. They were all looking down, all but one — the pretty one, naturally — and she was looking sidewise, directly at the student and his flowers. Their eyes met, she smiled, and just as he put out his hand with the bouquet, one of the sisters flapped up like a black crow and shut the girl’s pretty face from him. She would have to pay for that smile, he was afraid. Godfrey spent his day in the Luxembourg Gardens and walked back to the Gare St. Lazare at evening with nothing but his return ticket in his pocket, very glad to get home to Versailles in time for the family dinner.
When he first went to live with the Thieraults, he had found Madame Thierault severe and exacting28, stingy about his laundry and grudging29 about the cheese and fruit he ate for dinner. But in the end she was very kind to him; she never pampered30 him, but he could depend upon her. Her three sons had always been his dearest friends. Gaston, the one he loved best, was dead — killed in the Boxer31 uprising in China. But Pierre still lived at Versailles, and Charles had a business in Marseilles. When he was in France their homes were his. They were much closer to him than his own brothers. It was one summer when he was in France, with Lillian and the two little girls, that the idea of writing a work upon the early Spanish explorers first occurred to him, and he had turned at once to the Thieraults. After giving his wife enough money to finish the summer and get home, he took the little that was left and went down to Marseilles to talk over his project with Charles Thierault fils, whose mercantile house did a business with Spain in cork32. Clearly St. Peter would have to be in Spain as much as possible for the next few years, and he would have to live there very cheaply. The Thieraults were always glad of a chance to help him. Not with money, — they were too French and too logical for that. But they would go to any amount of trouble and no inconsiderable expense to save him a few thousand francs.
That summer Charles kept him for three weeks in his oleander-buried house in the Prado, until his little brig, L’Espoir, sailed out of the new port with a cargo33 for Algeciras. The captain was from the Hautes–Pyrénées, and his spare crew were all Proven?als, seamen34 trained in that hard school of the Gulf35 of Lyons. On the voyage everything seemed to feed the plan of the work that was forming in St. Peter’s mind; the skipper, the old Catalan second mate, the sea itself. One day stood out above the others. All day long they were skirting the south coast of Spain; from the rose of dawn to the gold of sunset the ranges of the Sierra Nevadas towered on their right, snow peak after snow peak, high beyond the flight of fancy, gleaming like crystal and topaz. St. Peter lay looking up at them from a little boat riding low in the purple water, and the design of his book unfolded in the air above him, just as definitely as the mountain ranges themselves. And the design was sound. He had accepted it as inevitable36, had never meddled37 with it, and it had seen him through.
It was late on Christmas afternoon when the Professor got back to the new house, but he was in such a happy frame of mind that he feared nothing, not even a family dinner. He quite looked forward to it, on the contrary. His wife heard him humming his favorite air from Matrimonio Segreto while he was dressing38.
That evening the two daughters of the house arrived almost at the same moment. When Rosamond threw off her cloak in the hall, her father noticed that she was wearing her new necklace. Kathleen stood looking at it, and was evidently trying to find courage to say something about it, when Louie helped her by breaking in.
“And, Kitty, you haven’t seen our jewels! What do you think? Just look at it.”
“I was looking. It’s too lovely!”
“It’s very old, you see, the gold. What a work I had finding it! She doesn’t like anything showy, you know, and she doesn’t care about intrinsic values. It must be beautiful, first of all.”
“Well, it is that, surely.”
Louie walked up and down, admiring his wife. “She carries off things like that, doesn’t she? And yet, you know, I like her in simple things, too.” He dropped into reflection, just as if her were alone and talking to himself. “I always remember a little bracelet40 she wore the night I first met her. A turquoise41 set in silver, wasn’t it? Yes, a turquoise set in dull silver. Have you it yet, Rosie?”
“I think so.” There was a shade of displeasure in Rosamond’s voice, and she turned back into the hall to look for something. “Where are the violets you brought for Mamma?”
Mrs. St. Peter came in, followed by the maid and the cocktails42. Scott began the usual Prohibition lament43.
“Why don’t you journalists tell the truth about it in print?” Louie asked him. “It’s a case where you could do something.”
“And lose my job? Not much! This country’s split in two, socially, and I don’t know if it’s ever coming together. It’s not so hard on me, I can drink hard liquor. But you and the Professor like wine and fancy stuff.”
“Oh, it’s nothing to us! We’re going to France for the summer,” Louie put his arm round his wife and rubbed his cheek against hers, saying caressingly44, “and drink Burgundy, Burgundy, Burgundy!”
“Please take me with you, Louie,” Mrs. St. Peter pleaded, to distract him from his wife. Nothing made the McGregors so uncomfortable and so wrathful as the tender moments which sometimes overtook the Marselluses in public.
“We are going to take you, and Papa too. That’s our plan. I take him for safety. If I travelled on the Continent alone with two such handsome women, it wouldn’t be tolerated. There would be a trumped-up quarrel, and a stiletto, and then somebody would be a widow,” turning again to his wife.
“Come here, Louie.” Mrs. St. Peter beckoned45 him. “I have a confession46 to make. I’m afraid there’s no dinner for you tonight.”
“No dinner for me?”
“No. There’s nothing either you or Godfrey will like. It’s Scott’s dinner to-night. Your tastes are so different, I can’t compromise. And this is his, from the cream soup to the frozen pudding.”
“But who said I didn’t like cream soup and frozen pudding?” Louie held out his hands to show their guiltlessness. “And are there haricots verts in the cream sauce? I thought so! And I like those, too. The truth is, Dearest,” he stood before her and tapped her chin with his finger, “the truth is that I like all Scott’s dinners, it’s he who doesn’t like mine! He’s the intolerant one.”
“True for you, Louie,” laughed the Professor.
“And it’s that way about lots of things,” said Louie a little plaintively47.
“Kitty,” said Scott as they were driving home that night, Kathleen in the drivers seat beside him, “that silver bracelet Louie spoke of was one of Tom’s trinkets, wasn’t it? Do you suppose she has some feeling for him still, under all this pompuosity?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care. But, oh, Scott, I do love you very much!” she cried vehemently48.
He pinched off his driving-glove between his knees and snuggled his hand over hers, inside her muff. “Sure?” he muttered.
“Yes, I do!” she said fiercely, squeezing his knuckles49 together with all her might.
“Awful nice of you to have told me all about it at the start, Kitty. Most girls wouldn’t have thought it necessary. I’m the only one who knows, ain’t I?”
“The only one who ever has known.”
“And I’m just the one another girl wouldn’t have told. Why did you, Kit39?”
“I don’t know. I suppose even then I must have had a feeling that you were the real one.” Her head dropped on his shoulder. “You know you are the real one, don’t you?”
“I guess!”
点击
收听单词发音
收听单词发音 |
1
foresight
|
|
| n.先见之明，深谋远虑 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
prohibition
|
|
| n.禁止；禁令，禁律 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
auction
|
|
| n.拍卖；拍卖会；vt.拍卖 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
spoke
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
virgin
|
|
| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
rebuke
|
|
| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
discreet
|
|
| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
reminders
|
|
| n.令人回忆起…的东西( reminder的名词复数 )；提醒…的东西；（告知该做某事的）通知单；提示信 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
plausible
|
|
| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
fragrance
|
|
| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
sitting-room
|
|
| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
tapestry
|
|
| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
knights
|
|
| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
lettuce
|
|
| n.莴苣；生菜 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
linen
|
|
| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
rue
|
|
| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
bleak
|
|
| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
ascent
|
|
| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
crevices
|
|
| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
deserted
|
|
| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
bouquets
|
|
| n.花束( bouquet的名词复数 )；（酒的）芳香 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
bouquet
|
|
| n.花束，酒香 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
fumbled
|
|
| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
admiration
|
|
| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
hideous
|
|
| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
nuns
|
|
| n.（通常指基督教的）修女， （佛教的）尼姑( nun的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
exacting
|
|
| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
grudging
|
|
| adj.勉强的，吝啬的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
pampered
|
|
| 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 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
boxer
|
|
| n.制箱者，拳击手 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
cork
|
|
| n.软木，软木塞 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
cargo
|
|
| n.(一只船或一架飞机运载的)货物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
seamen
|
|
| n.海员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
gulf
|
|
| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
inevitable
|
|
| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
meddled
|
|
| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
dressing
|
|
| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
kit
|
|
| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
bracelet
|
|
| n.手镯，臂镯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
turquoise
|
|
| n.绿宝石；adj.蓝绿色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
cocktails
|
|
| n.鸡尾酒( cocktail的名词复数 )；餐前开胃菜；混合物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
lament
|
|
| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
caressingly
|
|
| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
beckoned
|
|
| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
confession
|
|
| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
plaintively
|
|
| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
vehemently
|
|
| adv. 热烈地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
knuckles
|
|
| 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 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |