Richard, of course, sniffed8 at Ocock’s layman-ish account of his wife’s end. And he was right. For Tilly’s gloss9 on the affair ran: PURD HEARD FROM A MAN WHO WAS ON BOARD THE SAME SHIP. IT’S TRUE SHE DID TRIP OVER A ROPE AND COME A CROPPER (AND NOT THE FIRST TIME NEITHER, AS WE KNOW) AND THIS BROUGHT ON A VIOLENT ATTACK OF D.T.‘S WHICH CARRIED HER OFF: HENRY HASN’T LOOKED THE SAME MAN SINCE. HIS RELIEF IS IMMENSE— SIMPLY IMMENSE.
But Mary’s faithful stubborn heart rebelled. For Agnes’s own sake, her death was perhaps, pitifully enough, the best solution. But that, of all who had known her, none should mourn her passing; that even among her nearest it should stir only a sense of good riddance and relief: the tragedy of such a finish moved Mary to the depths. Tenderly she laid away the keepsake Mr. Henry sent her for remembrance: a large cameo-brooch, at the back of which, under glass, was twined a golden curl, cut from the head of the little child whose untimely end had cost Agnes her bitterest tears.
A day or two later there came into her possession a still more pathetic memento10: a letter from the dead, which had to be opened and read though the hand that wrote it was lying cold at the bottom of a grave. It had been found by Mr. Henry amongst his wife’s belongings12 — found sealed and addressed but never posted — a blotted13 and scrawled14 production and more than a little confused, but full of love and kindness; though written with the firm conviction that they would never meet again. Poor thing, poor thing! And having read, Mary hid it away at the back of a drawer, where no eyes but her own would ever see it. She could not have borne Richard’s sarcastic15 comments on Agnes’s poor spelling and poorer penmanship.
But there was nothing new in this secretiveness: she was falling more and more into the way of keeping Richard in the dark. A smash of china by the clumsy servant; Miss Prestwick’s airs and insufficiencies; the exorbitant16 price of the children’s new boots; disturbing gossip retailed17 by the girl: of vexations such as these, which were her daily portion, he heard not a word. It left her, of course, much freer to deal with things. But it also spared him the exhaustion18 of many a towering rage (under the influence of which he was quite capable of writing to the bootmaker and calling him a thief); saved him, too, from going off into one of his fits of depression when he imagined the whole world in league against him. The real truth was, he hadn’t enough to occupy him; and not a soul to speak to . . . except his dreadful patients. Nor did he ever write or receive a letter. In coming here he seemed to have had but one desire: to forget and be forgotten.
She it was who sat up at night, spinning out the letters necessary to make people remember you. And it fell to her to write the note of welcome when Baron20 von Krause, the well-known botanist21, proposed to break his journey from Sydney to Melbourne, solely22 to pay them a visit. — Though putting up a visitor nowadays meant considerable inconvenience: they had to turn out of their own room, she going in with the children, Richard making shift with the dining-room sofa. Still, in this case she thought the upset worth while: for Richard’s sake. He had been as friendly with the Baron as it was in his nature to be with anybody; and the latter had once spoken to her, in warm terms, of Richard’s intimate knowledge of the native flora24, and lamented25 the fact that he should not have found time to systematise his studies.
The next morning, while Richard was out, she climbed the step-ladder and unearthed26 the glass cases that contained his collections of plants, minerals and butterflies: for the first time on moving into a new house, he had not set them up in his room. But she wasn’t going to let people think that, because he had come to live up-country, he was therefore running to seed. And having dusted and rubbed and polished, she ranged the cases along the walls of the passage and on the dining-room sideboard. To the delight of the children.
But she might have spared her pains. As far as Richard was concerned, the visit was a failure.
Baron von Krause arrived during the forenoon. Richard was on his rounds, and did not reach home till they were half through dinner. And then he tried to get out of coming to table! Going in search of him on his non-appearance, she found him sunk in his armchair, from which he vowed27 he was too tired to stir . . . let alone exert himself to entertain strangers.
“Strangers? There’s only him! And he’s just as nice as he always was. We’re getting on capitally. The children, too.”
The Baron was a short, sturdy little man, bronzed brown with the sun — beside him Richard, who never tanned, looked almost transparent28 — dark of hair and beard, and with a pair of kindly29 blue eyes that beamed at you from behind large gold spectacles. Veteran colonist30 though he was, he still spoke23 a jargon31 all his own, coupled with a thick, foreign accent. He also expressed himself with extreme deliberation, using odd, archaic32 words (“Like the Bible,” thought Cuffy); and, could he not at once find the word he sought, he paused in what he was saying and scoured33 his mind till he had captured it. This, added to the fact that he did things at table that were strictly34 forbidden them, made him an object of enormous interest to the children; and three pairs of eyes hung entranced on him as he ate and spoke, to the detriment35 of their owners’ own table-manners. In waiting, too, for him to be delivered of a word, three little faces went pink with a mixture of embarrassment36 and anticipation37. In vain did Mary privately38 frown and shake her head. A knifeful of peas, “meLANcholy39” for melancholy, and all three were agog40 again. It was a real drawback, at a time like this, to have such NOTICING children.
But with their father’s entry a change came over their behaviour. Cuffy kept his eyes fixed41 on his plate and minded what he was doing, and Lallie and Lucie faithfully followed suit. The fun was at an end. For it wasn’t at all the same when Papa forgot, in the middle of a sentence, what he was going to say (because Mamma interrupted him with a potato) and tried and tried his hardest to remember and couldn’t, and got very cross with himself. Mamma thought it was funny though, for she laughed and said she believed he’d forget his head if it weren’t screwed on; and then she told a story about Papa nearly going out without his collar, and how she had rushed after him and saved him . . . which made Papa cross with her as well.
It was too hot to go walking. And after dinner, Mahony having been called back to the surgery, the Baron strayed to the drawing-room, opened the piano, and put his hairy, knuckly42 hands on the keys. Mary thought this an excellent chance to slip away and “see to things”; but Richard, the patient gone, first set his door ajar, then came along the passage and sat down in an armchair by the drawing-room window. Cuffy, at ball on the verandah, also crept in and took up his position close to the piano, leaning against it and staring fixedly43 at the player — listening, that is to say, after the fashion of children, as much with the eyes as with the ears (as if only by keeping the maker19 of the sounds in view can they grasp the sounds themselves)— the while he continued mechanically to tip his ball from hand to hand.
The Baron was playing something hard and ugly . . . like five-finger exercises but with more notes, oh! LOTS of notes in it . . . and to and fro went the ball, to and fro. This lasted a long time, and the Baron was hot when he’d finished, and had to wipe his neck and clean his glasses. Then he did some more; and this time it was prettier, with a tune44 to it, and it danced in little squirts up the piano; and Cuffy was obliged to smile . . . he didn’t know why, his mouth just smiled by itself. He also left off fiddling45 with the ball. By now the Baron had become aware of his small listener. Musician-wise had noted46, too, the child’s instinctive47 response to the tripping scherzo. Pausing, he peered at Cuffy through his large round spectacles; and before putting his fingers in place for the third piece, leant over and patted the boy’s cheek, murmuring as he did: “Let us see then . . . yes, let us see!” To Cuffy he said: “Hearken now, my little one . . . hearken well to this. Here I shall give you food for the heart as well as for the head.”— And then he began to play music that was quite, quite different to that before . . . and wasn’t LIKE music any more. It whispered in the bass48, and while it whispered it growled50; but the treble didn’t growl49: it cried.
And now something funny happened to Cuffy. He began to feel as if he’d like to run away; he didn’t WANT to listen . . . and his heart started to beat fast. Like if he HAD run. The Baron ‘d said he was playing to it . . . perhaps that was why . . . for it seemed to be getting bigger . . . till it was almost too tight for his chest. Letting his ball fall, he pressed his fists close to where he thought his heart must be. Something hurt him in there . . . he didn’t LIKE this music, he wanted to call out to it to stop. But the piano didn’t care: it went on and on, and though it tried once to be different, it always came back and did the same thing over again . . . a dreadful thing . . . oh! something WOULD burst in him if it didn’t leave off . . . he felt all swollen51 . . . yes, he was going to burst . . . .
Then, without so much as taking his fingers off the keys, the Baron began to make a lot of little notes that sounded just like a wind, and throwing back his head and opening his mouth wide, he sang funny things . . . in ever such a funny voice.
UBER’M GARTEN DURCH DIE LUFTE HORT’ ICH WANDERVOGEL ZIEH’N, DAS BEDEUTET FRUHLINGSDUFTE, UNTEN FANGT’S SCHON AN ZU BLUH’N!
The relief, the ecstatic relief that surged through Cuffy at these lovely sounds, was too much for him. His eyes ran over and tears ran down his cheeks; nor could he help it, or stop them, when he found what they were doing.
Mamma — she had come back — made ever such big eyes at him.
“CUFFY! What on earth . . . Is THIS how you say thank-you for the pretty music?” (If only he was not going off before a visitor into one of his tantrums!)
“Nay, chide52 him not!” said the Baron, and smiled as he spoke: a very peculiar53 smile indeed, to Mary’s way of thinking. And then he took no more notice of her, but bent54 over Cuffy and asked, in quite a POLITE voice: “Will you that I play you again, my little one?”
“No . . . NO!” As rude as the Baron was polite, Cuffy gave a great gulp55 and bolted from the room to the bottom of the garden; where he hid among the raspberry-bushes. He didn’t know what the matter was; but he felt all sore; humiliated56 beyond the telling.
When he went back, aggressively sheepish and ashamed, Papa had gone. But Mamma and the Baron were talking, and he heard Mamma say: “ . . . without the least difficulty . . . ever since he was a tiny tot. — Oh, here we are, are we? — Now, Baron, he shall play to you.”
Something turned over in Cuffy at these words. “NO! I won’t!”
But Mamma threw him a look which he knew better than to disobey. Besides, she already had his music-book on the rack, the stool screwed up, and herself stood behind it to turn the pages. Ungraciously Cuffy climbed to the slippery leather top, from which his short legs dangled57. Very well then if he must play, he must, he didn’t care; but he wouldn’t look at his notes, or listen to what he did. Instead, he’d count how many flies he could see in front of him, on the wall and the ceiling. One . . . two. . .
The piece — it dated from Mary’s own schooldays — at an end, his mother waited in vain for the customary panegyric58.
But the Baron merely said: “H’m,” and again: “H’m!” Adding as a kind of afterthought: “Habile little fingers.”
When he turned to Cuffy, however, it was with quite a different voice. “Well, and how many were then the flies on the PLAFOND my little one?”
Colouring to his hair-roots (NOW he was going to catch it!) Cuffy just managed to stammer60 out: “Twelve blowflies and seventeen little flies.”
But the Baron only threw back his head and laughed, and laughed. “Ha-ha, ha-ha! Twelve big and seventeen little! That is good . . . that is very good!” To add mysteriously: “Surely this, too, is a sign . . . this capacity for to escape! — But now come hither, my son, and let us play the little game. The bad little boy who counts the flies, so long he plays the bad piece, shall stand so, with his face to the wall. I strike the notes — SO! — and he is telling me their names — if Mr. G or Mrs. A— yes? List now, if you can hear what is this.”
“Huh, that’s easy! That’s C.”
“And this fellow, so grey he?”
“A-E-B.” Cuffy liked this: it was fun.
“And now how many I strike? D, F . . . right! B, D sharp . . . good! And here this — an ugly one, this fellow! He agree not with his neighbour.”
“That’s two together . . . close, I mean. G and A.”
“ACH, HIMMEL!” cried the Baron. “The ear, it, too, is perfect.” And swiftly crossing the room, he took Cuffy’s face in his hands and turned it up. For a moment he stood looking down at it; and his brown, bearded face was very solemn. Then, stooping, he kissed the boy on the forehead. “May the good God bless you, my child, and prosper61 His most precious gift!”— And this, just when Cuffy (after the fly episode) had begun to think him rather a nice old man!
Then he was free to run away and play; which he did with all his might. But later in the afternoon when it was cool enough to go walking, it was Cuffy the Baron invited to accompany him. “Nay, we leave the little sisters at home with the good Mamma, and make the promenade62 alone, just we both!”
Cuffy remembered the flies, forgave the kiss, and off they set. They walked a long way into the bush, further than they were allowed to go with Miss Prestwick; and the Baron told him about the trees and poked63 among the scrub, and used a spyglass like Papa, and showed him things through it. It WAS fun.
Then they sat down on a log to rest. And while they were there, the Baron suddenly picked up his right hand and looked at it, as if it was funny, and turned it over to the back, and stretched out the fingers and felt the tips, and where the thumb joined on. And when he had done this he didn’t let it go, but kept hold of it; and putting his other hand on Cuffy’s shoulder said: “And now say, my little man, say me why you did weep when I have played?”
Cuffy, all boy again, blushed furiously. He didn’t like having his hand held either. So he only looked away, and kicked his heels against the tree so hard they hurt him. “I dunno.”
Mamma would have said: “Oh, yes, you do.” But the Baron wasn’t cross. He just gave the hand a little squeeze, and then he began to talk, and he talked and talked. It lasted so long that it was like being in church, and was very dull, all about things Cuffy didn’t know. So he hardly listened. He was chiefly intent on politely wriggling64 his hand free.
But the Baron looked so nice and kind, even when he’d done this, that he plucked up courage to ask something he wanted very much to know; once before when he had tried it everybody had laughed at him, and made fun.
“What does music SAY?”
But the Baron wasn’t like that. He looked as solemn as church again, and nodded his head. “Aha! It commences to stir itself . . . the inward apperception. The music, it says what is in the heart, my little one, to each interprets the OWN heart. That is, as you must comprehend, if the one who is making it is the GENIE65, and has what in his own heart to say. That bad piece you have played me have said nothing — nothing at all . . . oh, how wise, how wise to count the little flies! But that what you have flowed tears for, my child, that were the sufferings of a so unhappy man — the fears that are coming by night to devour66 the peace — oh, I will not say them to one so tender! . . . but these, so great were they, so unhappy he, that at the last his brain has burst” (There! he KNEW he had been going to burst) “and he have become mad. But then, see, at once I have given you the consolation67. I have sung you of the nightingale, and moonshine, and first love . . . all, all of which the youth is full. Our dear madman he has that made, too. His name was Schumann. Mark that, my little one . . . mark it well!”
“Shooh man. — What’s mad?”
“ACH! break not the little head over such as this. Have no care. The knowledge will soon enough come of pain and suffering.”
Cuffy’s legs were getting VERY tired with sitting still. Sliding down from the log, he jumped and danced, feeling now somehow all glad inside. “I will say music, too, when I am big.”
“JA JA! but so easy is it not to shake the music out of the sleeve. Man must study hard. It belongs a whole lifetime thereto . . . and much, much courage. But this I will tell you, my little ambitious one! Here is lying”— and the Baron waved his arm all round him —“a great, new music hid. He who makes it, he will put into it the thousand feelings awoken in him by this emptiness and space, this desolation; with always the serene68 blue heaven above, and these pale, sad, so grotesque69 trees that weep and rave11. He puts the golden wattle in it when it blooms and reeks70, and this melancholy bush, oh, so old, so old, and this silence as of death that nothing stirs. No birdleins will sing in his Musik. But will you be that one, my son, you must first have given up all else for it . . . all the joys and pleasures that make the life glad. These will be for the others not for you, my dear . . . you must only go wizout . . . renounce71 . . . look on. — But come, let us now home, and I will speak . . . yes, I shall speak of it to the good Mamma and Papa!”
“Preposterous, I call it!” said Mary warmly and threw the letter on the table. The Baron’s departure was three days old by now, and the letter she had just read was written in his hand. “Only a man could propose such a thing. Why don’t you say something, Richard? Surely you don’t . . .”
“No, I can see it’s out of the question.”
“I should think so! At HIS age! . . . why, he’s a mere59 baby. How the Baron could think for a moment we should let a tot like that leave home . . . to live among strangers — with these Hermanns or Germans or whatever he calls them — why, it’s almost too silly to discuss. As for his offer to defray all expenses out of his own pocket . . . no doubt he means it well . . . but it strikes me as very tactless. Does he think we can’t afford to pay for our own children?”
“I’ll warrant such an idea never entered his head. My dear, you don’t understand.”
“It’s you I don’t understand. As a rule you flare72 up at the mere mention of money. Yet you take this quite calmly.”
“Good Lord, Mary! the man means it for a compliment. He not only took a liking73 to the boy, but he’s a connoisseur74 in music, a thoroughly75 competent judge. Surely it ought to flatter you, my dear, to hear his high opinion of our child’s gift.”
“I don’t need an outsider to tell me that. If any one knows Cuffy is clever it’s me. I ought to: I’ve done everything for him.”
“This has nothing to do with cleverness.”
“Why not? What else is it?”
“It’s music, my dear!” cried Mahony, waxing impatient. “Music, and the musical faculty76 . . . ear, instinct, inborn77 receptivity.”
“WELL?”
“Good God, Mary! . . . it sometimes seems as if we spoke a different language. The fact of the matter is, you haven’t a note of music in you.”
Mary was deeply hurt. “I, who have taught the child everything he knows? He wouldn’t even be able to read his notes yet, if it had been left to you. Haven’t I stood over him, and drummed things into him, and kept him at the piano? And all the thanks I get for it is to hear that I’m not capable of judging . . . haven’t a note of music in me! The truth is, I’m good enough to work and slave to make ends meet. But when it comes to anything else, anything CLEVERER . . . then the first outsider knows better than I do. Thank God, I’ve still got my children. They at least look up to me. And that brings me back to where I started. I’ve got them, and I mean to keep them. Nothing shall part me from them. If Cuffy goes, I go too!”
On the verandah the three in question played a game of their own devising. They poked at each other round a corner of the house, with sticks for swords, advancing and retreating to the cry of “Shooh, man!” from the army of the twins, to which Cuffy made vigorous response: “Shooh, woman!”
And this phrase, which remained in use long after its origin was forgotten, was the sole trace left on Cuffy’s life by the Baron’s visit.
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1
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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cape
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| n.海角，岬；披肩，短披风 | |
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bereft
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| adj.被剥夺的 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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orphaned
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| [计][修]孤立 | |
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7
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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8
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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gloss
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| n.光泽，光滑；虚饰；注释；vt.加光泽于；掩饰 | |
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memento
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| n.纪念品，令人回忆的东西 | |
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rave
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| vi.胡言乱语；热衷谈论；n.热情赞扬 | |
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belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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exorbitant
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| adj.过分的；过度的 | |
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retailed
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| vt.零售（retail的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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botanist
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| n.植物学家 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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spoke
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| 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 | |
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flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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unearthed
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| 出土的（考古） | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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colonist
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| n.殖民者，移民 | |
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jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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archaic
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| adj.(语言、词汇等)古代的，已不通用的 | |
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scoured
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| 走遍（某地）搜寻（人或物）( scour的过去式和过去分词 )； （用力）刷； 擦净； 擦亮 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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detriment
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| n.损害；损害物，造成损害的根源 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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agog
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| adj.兴奋的，有强烈兴趣的； adv.渴望地 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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knuckly
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| n.（指人）指关节；（指动物）膝关节，肘；铰结，肘形接；铜指节套vt.用指关节打、压、碰、擦 | |
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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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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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45
fiddling
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| 微小的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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48
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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49
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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50
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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51
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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52
chide
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| v.叱责；谴责 | |
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53
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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54
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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55
gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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panegyric
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| n.颂词，颂扬 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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stammer
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| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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prosper
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| v.成功，兴隆，昌盛；使成功，使昌隆，繁荣 | |
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promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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63
poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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wriggling
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的现在分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等）；蠕蠕 | |
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genie
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| n.妖怪，神怪 | |
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devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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reeks
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| n.恶臭( reek的名词复数 )v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的第三人称单数 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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71
renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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72
flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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73
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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connoisseur
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| n.鉴赏家，行家，内行 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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inborn
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| adj.天生的，生来的，先天的 | |
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