“The plot?” inquired Rosemary, half understanding. “Is there a plot?”
“My dear, we don’t KNOW,” said Mrs. Abrams, with a convulsive, stout2 woman’s chuckle3. “We’re not in it. We’re the gallery.”
Mr. Dumphry, a tow-headed effeminate young man, remarked: “Mama Abrams is a plot in herself,” and Campion shook his monocle at him, saying: “Now, Royal, don’t be too ghastly for words.” Rosemary looked at them all uncomfortably, wishing her mother had come down here with her. She did not like these people, especially in her immediate4 comparison of them with those who had interested her at the other end of the beach. Her mother’s modest but compact social gift got them out of unwelcome situations swiftly and firmly. But Rosemary had been a celebrity5 for only six months, and sometimes the French manners of her early adolescence6 and the democratic manners of America, these latter superimposed, made a certain confusion and let her in for just such things.
Mr. McKisco, a scrawny, freckle-and-red man of thirty, did not find the topic of the “plot” amusing. He had been staring at the sea — now after a swift glance at his wife he turned to Rosemary and demanded aggressively:
“Been here long?”
“Only a day.”
“Oh.”
Evidently feeling that the subject had been thoroughly7 changed, he looked in turn at the others.
“Going to stay all summer?” asked Mrs. McKisco, innocently. “If you do you can watch the plot unfold.”
“For God’s sake, Violet, drop the subject!” exploded her husband. “Get a new joke, for God’s sake!”
Mrs. McKisco swayed toward Mrs. Abrams and breathed audibly:
“He’s nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” disagreed McKisco. “It just happens I’m not nervous at all.”
He was burning visibly — a grayish flush had spread over his face, dissolving all his expressions into a vast ineffectuality. Suddenly remotely conscious of his condition he got up to go in the water, followed by his wife, and seizing the opportunity Rosemary followed.
Mr. McKisco drew a long breath, flung himself into the shallows and began a stiff-armed batting of the Mediterranean8, obviously intended to suggest a crawl — his breath exhausted9 he arose and looked around with an expression of surprise that he was still in sight of shore.
“I haven’t learned to breathe yet. I never quite understood how they breathed.” He looked at Rosemary inquiringly.
“I think you breathe out under water,” she explained. “And every fourth beat you roll your head over for air.”
“The breathing’s the hardest part for me. Shall we go to the raft?”
The man with the leonine head lay stretched out upon the raft, which tipped back and forth10 with the motion of the water. As Mrs. McKisco reached for it a sudden tilt11 struck her arm up roughly, whereupon the man started up and pulled her on board.
“I was afraid it hit you.” His voice was slow and shy; he had one of the saddest faces Rosemary had ever seen, the high cheekbones of an Indian, a long upper lip, and enormous deep-set dark golden eyes. He had spoken out of the side of his mouth, as if he hoped his words would reach Mrs. McKisco by a circuitous12 and unobtrusive route; in a minute he had shoved off into the water and his long body lay motionless toward shore.
Rosemary and Mrs. McKisco watched him. When he had exhausted his momentum13 he abruptly14 bent15 double, his thin thighs16 rose above the surface, and he disappeared totally, leaving scarcely a fleck17 of foam18 behind.
“He’s a good swimmer,” Rosemary said.
Mrs. McKisco’s answer came with surprising violence.
“Well, he’s a rotten musician.” She turned to her husband, who after two unsuccessful attempts had managed to climb on the raft, and having attained19 his balance was trying to make some kind of compensatory flourish, achieving only an extra stagger. “I was just saying that Abe North may be a good swimmer but he’s a rotten musician.”
“Yes,” agreed McKisco, grudgingly20. Obviously he had created his wife’s world, and allowed her few liberties in it.
“Antheil’s my man.” Mrs. McKisco turned challengingly to Rosemary, “Anthiel and Joyce. I don’t suppose you ever hear much about those sort of people in Hollywood, but my husband wrote the first criticism of Ulysses that ever appeared in America.”
“I wish I had a cigarette,” said McKisco calmly. “That’s more important to me just now.”
“He’s got insides — don’t you think so, Albert?”
Her voice faded off suddenly. The woman of the pearls had joined her two children in the water, and now Abe North came up under one of them like a volcanic21 island, raising him on his shoulders. The child yelled with fear and delight and the woman watched with a lovely peace, without a smile.
“Is that his wife?” Rosemary asked.
“No, that’s Mrs. Diver. They’re not at the hotel.” Her eyes, photographic, did not move from the woman’s face. After a moment she turned vehemently22 to Rosemary.
“Have you been abroad before?”
“Yes — I went to school in Paris.”
“Oh! Well then you probably know that if you want to enjoy yourself here the thing is to get to know some real French families. What do these people get out of it?” She pointed23 her left shoulder toward shore. “They just stick around with each other in little cliques24. Of course, we had letters of introduction and met all the best French artists and writers in Paris. That made it very nice.”
“I should think so.”
“My husband is finishing his first novel, you see.”
Rosemary said: “Oh, he is?” She was not thinking anything special, except wondering whether her mother had got to sleep in this heat.
“It’s on the idea of Ulysses,” continued Mrs. McKisco. “Only instead of taking twenty-four hours my husband takes a hundred years. He takes a decayed old French aristocrat25 and puts him in contrast with the mechanical age —”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Violet, don’t go telling everybody the idea,” protested McKisco. “I don’t want it to get all around before the book’s published.”
Rosemary swam back to the shore, where she threw her peignoir over her already sore shoulders and lay down again in the sun. The man with the jockey cap was now going from umbrella to umbrella carrying a bottle and little glasses in his hands; presently he and his friends grew livelier and closer together and now they were all under a single assemblage of umbrellas — she gathered that some one was leaving and that this was a last drink on the beach. Even the children knew that excitement was generating under that umbrella and turned toward it — and it seemed to Rosemary that it all came from the man in the jockey cap.
Noon dominated sea and sky — even the white line of Cannes, five miles off, had faded to a mirage26 of what was fresh and cool; a robin-breasted sailing boat pulled in behind it a strand27 from the outer, darker sea. It seemed that there was no life anywhere in all this expanse of coast except under the filtered sunlight of those umbrellas, where something went on amid the color and the murmur28.
Campion walked near her, stood a few feet away and Rosemary closed her eyes, pretending to be asleep; then she half-opened them and watched two dim, blurred29 pillars that were legs. The man tried to edge his way into a sand-colored cloud, but the cloud floated off into the vast hot sky. Rosemary fell really asleep.
She awoke drenched30 with sweat to find the beach deserted31 save for the man in the jockey cap, who was folding a last umbrella. As Rosemary lay blinking, he walked nearer and said:
“I was going to wake you before I left. It’s not good to get too burned right away.”
“Thank you.” Rosemary looked down at her crimson32 legs.
“Heavens!”
She laughed cheerfully, inviting33 him to talk, but Dick Diver was already carrying a tent and a beach umbrella up to a waiting car, so she went into the water to wash off the sweat. He came back and gathering34 up a rake, a shovel35, and a sieve36, stowed them in a crevice37 of a rock. He glanced up and down the beach to see if he had left anything.
“Do you know what time it is?” Rosemary asked.
“It’s about half-past one.”
They faced the seascape together momentarily.
“It’s not a bad time,” said Dick Diver. “It’s not one of worst times of the day.”
He looked at her and for a moment she lived in the bright blue worlds of his eyes, eagerly and confidently. Then he shouldered his last piece of junk and went up to his car, and Rosemary came out of the water, shook out her peignoir and walked up to the hotel.
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1
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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adolescence
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| n.青春期，青少年 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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tilt
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| v.(使)倾侧；(使)倾斜；n.倾侧；倾斜 | |
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circuitous
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| adj.迂回的路的，迂曲的，绕行的 | |
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momentum
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| n.动力，冲力，势头；动量 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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fleck
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| n.斑点，微粒 vt.使有斑点，使成斑驳 | |
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foam
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| v./n.泡沫，起泡沫 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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grudgingly
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volcanic
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| adj.火山的；象火山的；由火山引起的 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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cliques
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| n.小集团，小圈子，派系( clique的名词复数 ) | |
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25
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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mirage
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
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strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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31
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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32
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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33
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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34
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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35
shovel
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| n.铁锨，铲子，一铲之量；v.铲，铲出 | |
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36
sieve
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| n.筛，滤器，漏勺 | |
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crevice
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| n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝；缺口 | |
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