ANATOLE FRANCE.
UPON a day Bennett Lawrie escaped early from his office, leaving his day’s work to be finished by a co-junior clerk on a promise to do as much for him when he should require it. He was feeling very tired, having had only a walk and two cigarettes for dinner, a practice so common among junior clerks that they have a name for it—Flag Hash. Twice during Gertrude’s absence he had taken Annette and her mother to the theatre—three dress-circle seats at five shillings—a heavy drain upon his income, which was now one pound fifteen shillings a week, paid monthly. His mother knew nothing of the advance of five shillings a week that he had obtained on the third application with the plea that he was engaged to be married. That helped a little, but, even so, his position was serious, and at moments made him feel very sick at heart. He had been making efforts to save money when Mrs. Folyat’s expression of regret that she had not been to the theatre plunged1 him into the rash offer to pay for seats. He had no thought but that she would pay for two of them at least. But no; Mrs. Folyat regarded it as the feminine privilege to enjoy entertainment at the expense of the masculine pocket.
Further cause had Bennett for anxiety in that his correspondence with Gertrude had dwindled4 from the devoted5 daily letter to an effusion with great difficulty squeezed out twice a week. That her letter had come at longer and longer intervals6 comforted him not at all. He had never asked testimony7 of devotion from his [Pg 201]betrothed8; it was enough that she should so far stoop as to be engaged to him. . . . Also, as he walked to the station through the dark railway arches, through Town Hall Square with its statues of John Bright, the late Bishop9, the Prince Consort10, and a local philanthropic sweater, past the Infirmary, he was dogged by an unhappy realisation that it gave him no pleasure to be going to meet Gertrude. She had written him a romantic little note:
“Dear, I am coming back to you. I have no thought but for you. I shall arrive by the 5.45. Yours, G. F.”
Bennett rehearsed the meeting. He would greet her warmly and with dignity. He would kiss her hand; not her cheek. He would then silently convey that he was fully11 aware of his delinquences, but asked no pardon for them. Scoundrel as he had shown himself, he would have her “pass on and thank God she was rid of a knave12.” . . . However, he reflected that upon former occasions his most eloquent13 silence had conveyed nothing at all to Gertrude, and he began to rehearse the scene from another standpoint. He would say; “You bade me come. I have come. In spite of what has happened, in spite of my sins of thought and deed, I will be loyal. I will keep my troth.” That was better, but not altogether appropriate from a station platform. He was still rehearsing when the train came in. He stood by the engine thinking that there he would be sure not to miss his quarry14. There was a considerable crowd to meet the train, for in those days a journey from London was an important affair, and travellers were welcomed by their nearest and dearest, glad that they had escaped the perils15 of the way, hopeful that they had not succumbed16 to its fatigues17, and mindful of the presents that would be in bag or trunk. . . . Bennett Lawrie thought not at all of presents. He was only bothered because he had not yet discovered the right mode of address.
The image of Gertrude that he had always chivalrously18 borne upon his mind, and what he was pleased to call his heart, bore very little resemblance to her features and figure. It happened that in London she had bought [Pg 202]a new hat of a new fashion, so that in the throng19 he did not recognise her. She saw his blank eyes upon her and petulantly20 walked past him without giving a sign. She also had been rehearsing their meeting, but she had solved all difficulties by relying upon the dog-like devotion that he had always given her. He would, she had thought, come forward with his sad eyes glowing, take her by the hand and with that solemn dignity of his stoop, kiss, and, if he lingered long enough over it, be kissed in return. He would take her baggage, and carry it, as he always carried her parcels or her umbrella, as though it were a Divine trust, and they would take a four-wheeled cab. By that time one or other would have found the correct words or the inevitable21 gesture of love, and all would be as it had been.
Absence may make the heart grow fonder, but, where the heart is not very deeply implicated22, absence sometimes has the effect of driving love out altogether. Lovers like to vow23 that they will never change, but they vow the impossible, wherein lies half their pleasure. As Gertrude Folyat had gone farther and farther away from her boy-lover, she had seen him dwindling24 in stature25, but with a microscopic26 clarity. Having a very human dislike of seeing things as they were presented to her she pumped up a sea of sentiment, dived into it and saw blurred27 the newly-revealed figure. That sufficed until in the gaieties of Folkestone—she never questioned the gaiety of what was presented to her for pleasure—and the excitement and opulence28 of life at Sydenham, near the Crystal Palace, she was able to forget him altogether. It had been in a sudden dread29 that he might be injured and morose30 when she next saw him that on the eve of her departure she had written to bid him come to meet her. She thought that would please him. As soon as she had done so she regretted it. It seemed to place him in the stronger position which she had always striven to reserve for herself. Her visits had shaken her resignation to marriage with him, for she had been staying with snobs31 and was ashamed that he should be only a clerk, but all the same she wished to cling to him to avoid solicitude32 [Pg 203]and the horrible possibility which had begun to shadow her of no marriage at all. She told herself that she loved Bennett, and the thought of love was quite enough for her. She never doubted that the thing itself was hers. She was not very intelligent.
It gave her a curious pleasure to ignore Bennett’s presence on the station platform. She had never thought of being angry with him, but when anger took possession of her she welcomed and fed it, for it solved her problem. She would overwhelm him with her displeasure and enslave him with a tender reconciliation33.
She drove home alone in a four-wheeled cab to Fern Square and enjoyed an extremely pleasant evening with her mother talking about the William Folyats and the Folkestone Folyats, their friends and their refined manner of living. The house in Fern Square struck her as dingy34 and undistinguished, and she did not trouble to conceal35 her impression. She had brought a present for each member of her family, except Minna, and, being rather warmly received, complained that no one had come to meet her.
“We thought Bennett darling would be there,” said Minna.
“Was he not?” asked Mrs. Folyat.
Bennett arrived to answer the question. He too had found in anger the solvent36 of his qualms37. He was one of those people who suffer cold tortures in sudden glimpses of their dead selves, and as he had paced up and down the station long after the crowd to meet the London train had dispersed38 he saw himself in his old relation with his betrothed, callow, docile40, sheep-like; in a word, unfledged. The day on the river with Serge and Annette—(the rest counted for nothing in his memory of it)—had wrought41 a greater change in him that he knew. The shrill42 resentment43 at his old self that suddenly swept through and took possession of him was his first intimation of it. It was rather more than he could bear, and he shifted the burden of his animosity from himself to Gertrude. If she had not come by the train, well and good. She might perhaps have been kept in London, though a telegram [Pg 204]could have saved him from the discomfort44 of a long wait at the station. He had risked incurring45 the displeasure of his senior at the office to please her. If she had come and had not looked out for him, that was not lightly to be borne. His anger was just. She should be made to feel that he was not—so he phrased it—“dirt beneath her feet.” He resolved that he would not go to Fern Square until she wrote to him.
This resolve oozed46 away almost as soon as it was made. He had no money to pay for an evening’s entertainment, and, if he did not go to Fern Square he must perforce go home and spend the evening with his mother and sisters.
The hobgoblin opened the door to him.
“Has Miss Gertrude returned?” he asked.
“Oopstairs,” said the hobgoblin, and she shuffled47 away to the kitchen, leaving him to close the door.
He went upstairs to find the whole family assembled, with the exception of Frederic, who was at the Clibran-Bells. They all seemed so jolly that he felt that he had done wrong in coming and wished he had adhered to his first resolve. He felt that he was intruding48, and by sheer force of the numbers present his old part of the humble49, devoted and grateful lover was pressed upon him. In no other r?le could he find room in the company. Once again circumstances had played into Gertrude’s hands and she became, what to her family she had always been, the romantic mistress of an unhappy lowly lover.
Before very long their own skill in the playing of these parts and the general feeling of the family had driven them out of the room into the peace and solitude50 of the study. There silence fell upon them and they stole uneasy glances at each other. Gertrude sat in her father’s great chair, Bennett stood with his back against the mantelpiece under the portrait of Gertrude’s paternal51 grandmother.
“I went to meet you,” said Bennett at length.
“I didn’t see you.”
“If you had looked for me you must have seen me. I am tall enough.”
There was considerable irritation52 behind his words.
[Pg 205]
“Am I then,” said Gertrude, “am I so very short that you could not see me?”
“I waited,” returned Bennett. “You didn’t.”
“I did. I waited quite five minutes.”
“I waited half an hour.”
Gertrude took her courage in both hands and said:
“If you had cared for me, you would have seen me.”
“I waited,” mumbled53 Bennett, obstinately54.
They were silent again. Gertrude began to feel uneasy. They had quarrelled before, but always when she had touched on his affection for her his opposition55 had been broken. She could not take his stubbornness seriously even now. A little maliciously56 she was thinking:
“After all he is ten years younger than I am.”
Unhappily for her, Bennett, with more malice57, was thinking:
“After all, she is ten years older than I am.”
For the first time he had become dimly aware that the advantage lay with himself. He said:
“I left the office earlier than I had any right to do to meet you. You could not have looked for me.”
“Why will you go on arguing about it?”
“I’ve no wish to argue.”
He only wished to avoid silence, to avoid facing what was irresistibly58 being borne in upon him, that all his relations with this woman had been a phantasm, a thing of the mists of yesterday. It was a hateful shock to all his theories, to all his ideals of constancy and single-minded devotion. He had worshipped this woman, set her—(at her own suggestion, though he did not know it)—on a pedestal, and lo! a day had come when she was no longer there. The pedestal remained, but the goddess was spirited away. He was very unhappy.
Gertrude was exasperated59. She could have slapped him with infinite pleasure. She tapped with her foot on the ground.
“You are being too ridiculous,” she said.
“Am I ever anything else?” returned Bennett, with a sudden plunge2 into self-torment.
Pat came the reply:
[Pg 206]
“Never!”
Bennett felt savage60, turned on her and cried:
“Now I know what you think of me.”
Gertrude was sorely tempted61 to let him think so, but she had in mind the difficulty of confessing to the women upstairs, her mother and three sisters, her return to unplighted maidenhood62. She could not face that. She began to mop at her eyes, ate her words humbly64, and declared that he had made her utterly65 miserable66. She had so looked forward to seeing him again. It had made her so happy to be with him in the study once more, like old times, and all he could do was to snarl67 and growl68; and if he was going to be like that before, what would he be like after. . . . Bennett pacified69 her as best he could, abused himself, said that he was not worthy70 to touch the hem3 of her garment, and, just as she was prepared for the final redeeming71 sinking into tenderness, amazed her—(himself too)—by announcing that he must go and help Annette prepare the supper.
He left her gasping72. She hated him in that moment. Never, never, would she forgive him. All the same she followed him. He was almost as aghast at his conduct as she, and it was a relief to him to see her enter the kitchen before he had time to explain his entry to Annette. He stood and smiled weakly—a little vacantly—and, with a forced joviality73, he said: “We—we’ve come to help you with the supper.” Gertrude took his arm and said, “Yes, she had come to show Annette how to make a real Indian curry74 as Uncle William had it done, according to a native recipe, at Sydenham.” Annette explained that she was not making a curry, and had not the ingredients for it, but she said how glad she would be of their help, as she was rather late. Bennett and Gertrude selected activities which were necessarily separate. Bennett chose to help at the oven. Gertrude took the heaped-up tray into the dining-room.
Bennett was filled with an extraordinary elation39 as he saw her go. He had asserted himself more forcibly than he had intended, and, so far as he could see, with a success beyond all anticipation75. It went to his head, he [Pg 207]brandished a piece of bread on the end of a toasting-fork and chanted to himself:
“I shall be twenty next March, twenty-one next year, twenty-two the year after—twenty-nine in . . . But there. How old are you Annette?”
“Nineteen.”
“Have you been confirmed?”
“Of course. Ages ago. At school.”
“I wasn’t confirmed until I was sixteen. It made a great change in my life.”
“You must be very glad to have Gertrude back again.”
“I am.” He let the toasting-fork drop against the grate. Annette rushed at him:
“You mustn’t burn it. It’s for pa’s toast-and-water. It must never be burned.”
The tricksy spirit which is ever lying in wait for the moment when a man is swollen76 with vanity pounced77 on Bennett, and out of buffoonery and high spirits he dodged78 Annette and held the toasting-fork out of her reach. She clutched at it; he dodged again. In her eagerness she tripped and lunged against him. His arm went round her shoulder and he caught her arm. . . . They stood like that for a second and then he found that he could not let her go. His hand gripped tight and hurt her, but she too had passed from laughing excitement to another strange and melting emotion. . . .
She could see the door; he could not. She saw Gertrude, and wrenched79 away. He followed her, and in a curious strangled voice that he hardly knew for his own he cried:
“Annette . . . I . . .”
But Annette had rushed out of the kitchen and he was alone with Gertrude. He picked up the toasting-fork and held the bread before the glowing coals.
“What are you doing?” asked Gertrude.
“Making toast for your father’s toast-and-water.”
“So I see. And what was Annette doing?”
“Annette was showing me how to make it.”
Gertrude drew herself up heroically, and with what she took for dramatic intensity80 she said:
[Pg 208]
“Bennett, do you love me?”
“No,” said he, startled into truth.
Gertrude sat down with emphatic81 suddenness. His answer had crumpled82 her up, but also it acted boomerang-fashion, flew back and knocked the wind out of Bennett. (In a world of liars83 truth always acts like that.) He was the first to recover and he approached Gertrude with contrition84.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t feel myself to-night. Queer things going on inside me and outside. It isn’t quite true what I said just now. I do love you. I do, really. But love isn’t what I thought it was. I don’t know what it is, but it isn’t what I thought it was.”
Miserably85 enough Gertrude murmured:
“Are you in love with Annette?”
Hotly and indignantly he answered:
“No, I am not.”
“But you . . .”
“I was not making love to Annette. It was an accident.”
Gertrude jumped at the occasion for magnanimity and said:
“I believe you.”
“Thank you.” His heart leaped within him, and privately86 to his own innermost conscience he whispered delightedly:
“I am in love with Annette; in love, in love, in love with Annette.”
This new idea, the admission of the new fact, so absorbed him that he became oblivious87 of Gertrude. He had not even any regret for the months of folly88 through which she had dragged him. He was ashamed, not because he had turned from Gertrude, but because he had desired Annette.
True love can never tolerate secrecy89. The true lover must cry his emotion from the house-tops, for a new glory has come to the world and it is well that all men should know of it.
A prophet of those days has said: “The woman should not venture to hope for or think for perfectness in [Pg 209]him she would love, but he should believe the maiden63 to be purity and perfection absolute and unqualified.”—The shadow of that prophet had been on Gertrude and Bennett, unknown to them, and they had gone to the God of Love and asked him to make up the prescription90, with this result, that with one little word of truth he had kicked down the slender props91 of their castle in Spain and brought him to the reality of himself, her to emptiness. She suffered most, for she had a highly developed instinct of possession, lived altogether in her possessions, and was left like a dismantled92 hulk when any of them were taken from her.
She wept copiously93, and Bennett tried to comfort her. He kissed her, and found a sort of pleasure in the salt savour of her tears. He soothed94 her at last, and with more common sense than he had anticipated she said only:
“You won’t let anybody know just yet.”
She drew the trumpery95 little engagement-ring he had given her—(she had not worn it at Folkestone or Sydenham)—from her finger and laid it on the table. He took it up, and after a moment’s hesitation96, restored it to its place.
“I want you,” he said, returning to the old romantic mood that had served them so well in the past, “I want you always to be my friend.”
“Always. Always.” replied Gertrude with no less fervour, and she took his hand and pressed it against her cheek and kissed it.
She was smiling and cheerful when Annette returned. Bennett took another slice of bread and toasted it a beautiful brown, perfect for the toast-and-water of Annette’s father.
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1
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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dwindled
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| v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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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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12
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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13
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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16
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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17
fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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chivalrously
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| adv.象骑士一样地 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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petulantly
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21
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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22
implicated
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| adj.密切关联的；牵涉其中的 | |
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23
vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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dwindling
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| adj.逐渐减少的v.逐渐变少或变小( dwindle的现在分词 ) | |
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25
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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microscopic
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| adj.微小的，细微的，极小的，显微的 | |
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27
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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opulence
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| n.财富，富裕 | |
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29
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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30
morose
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| adj.脾气坏的，不高兴的 | |
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31
snobs
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| （谄上傲下的）势利小人( snob的名词复数 )； 自高自大者，自命不凡者 | |
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32
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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35
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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36
solvent
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| n.溶剂；adj.有偿付能力的 | |
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37
qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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39
elation
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| n.兴高采烈，洋洋得意 | |
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40
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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41
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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42
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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43
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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44
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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45
incurring
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| 遭受，招致，引起( incur的现在分词 ) | |
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46
oozed
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的过去式和过去分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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47
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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48
intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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49
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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50
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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51
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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52
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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53
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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maliciously
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| adv.有敌意地 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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exasperated
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| adj.恼怒的 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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maidenhood
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| n. 处女性, 处女时代 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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snarl
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| v.吼叫，怒骂，纠缠，混乱；n.混乱，缠结，咆哮 | |
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growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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pacified
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| 使（某人）安静( pacify的过去式和过去分词 )； 息怒； 抚慰； 在（有战争的地区、国家等）实现和平 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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redeeming
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| 补偿的，弥补的 | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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joviality
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| n.快活 | |
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curry
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| n.咖哩粉，咖哩饭菜；v.用咖哩粉调味，用马栉梳，制革 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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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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pounced
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的过去式和过去分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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dodged
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| v.闪躲( dodge的过去式和过去分词 )；回避 | |
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wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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liars
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| 说谎者( liar的名词复数 ) | |
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contrition
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| n.悔罪，痛悔 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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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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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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props
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| 小道具； 支柱( prop的名词复数 )； 支持者； 道具； （橄榄球中的）支柱前锋 | |
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dismantled
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| 拆开( dismantle的过去式和过去分词 )； 拆卸； 废除； 取消 | |
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copiously
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| adv.丰富地，充裕地 | |
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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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trumpery
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| n.无价值的杂物；adj.（物品）中看不中用的 | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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