She was a continual source of pleasure and surprise, for her mood was forever changing. She could be as naughty as a French novel and as solemn as the Church of England Prayer Book. When she tried to be both together she was at her drollest; it was like Handel played on a mouth-organ.
She would never let me take her seriously. There lay the safety of our comradeship. At the first hint of sentiment, she flew like a hare before a greyhound; the way she showed her alarm was by converting what should have been pathos1 into absurdity2.
Day after day of memorable3 beauty I spent with her in that blowy Cotswold country. We would usually appoint our place of meeting somewhere on the outskirts4 of Oxford5. It was not necessary to let everyone know just how much of our time was lived together. This care for public opinion lent our actions the zest6 of indiscretion.
As I set out to meet her, I would pass crowds of undergrads, capped and gowned, sauntering off to their morning lectures. I was playing truant7, and that gave an added spice to adventure. Each college doorway8 frowned on my frivolity9, calling me back to a sense of duty. But the young foliage10 glittered and the spring wind romped11 down the street, and the shadows quivered and jumped aside as the sunlight splashed them. The lure12 of the feminine beckoned13. Where the houses grew wider apart I would find her, and we would commence our climb out of the valley. Now we would come to a farm-house, standing14 gray and mediaeval in a sea of tossing green. Now we would pass by flowery orchards15, smoking with scattered16 bloom. Brooks17 tinkled18; birds sang; across the hedge a plowman called to his horses and started them up a new furrow19. And through all this commotion20 of new-found life and clamorous21 hearts we two wandered, glad in one another.
Only the atmosphere of what we talked about remains22 with me. There were moments when we skirted the seashore of affection, and perhaps pushed out from land a little way, speculating on love’s audacities23 and dangers. But these moments were rare, for Fiesole delighted in love’s pursuit and not in its certainty. We made no pretense24 that our attraction for one another was more than friendly and temporary. If we played occasionally at being lovers, it was understood that we were only playing.
Fiesole never admitted that she had prolonged her stay in Oxford for my sake. She kept me in constant attendance by the threat that this might be my last chance of being with her. The supposition that her visit was shortly to end gave us the excuse we needed for being always together. We lived the hours which we shared intensely, as friends do who must soon go their separate ways.
But beneath her veneer25 of wit and frivolity I began to discover a truer and kinder Fiesole. These flashes of self-revelation came when she was off her guard. They were betrayed by a tremor27 in her tone or a hesitancy in her gaiety. After a day of exquisite28 sensations, her independence would break down and the fear of loneliness would look out from her eyes. She would prolong her departure, again postponing30 it beyond the date appointed. I began to suspect that her dashing recklessness was a barrier of habit, which she had erected31 to defend her shyness from curious observers. Insincerity was a cloak for her sincerity32. Hidden behind her tantalizing33 lightness lay the deep and urgent feminine desire for a man and little children. I had roused in her the mating instinct. I was not the man; she had yet to find him. With myself the same thing was true. I took delight in her partly for herself, but mainly as Vi’s proxy34. Fiesole and I had come together in a moment of crisis. We saw in each other the shadow of what we desired.
When a month had gone by I began to debate with myself how far our conduct was safe and justifiable35. I went so far as to ask myself the question, did I want to marry her. But that consideration was impossible in my state of mind. Besides, as Fiesole herself had said, she was the type of woman that a man may love and yet fear to marry. She had no sense of moral responsibility. She would demand too much of herself and her lover. Her passion, once aroused, would burn too ardently36. It would be self-consuming. She was a wild thing of the wood, swift and beautiful, and un-moral.
May had slipped by. June was nearly ended. Still she delayed. A chance remark of Brookins brought me to my senses and forced me to face the impression we had created. Fiesole, when she visited me in college, invariably brought her maid; we would shut her up in my bedroom while we sat in my study. In this way, we supposed, appearances had been saved. But Brookins’s remark proved the contrary—that he hoped I’d let him know when I moved out of Lazarus as he’d like to have my rooms.
“I’m not moving out of Lazarus. What made you think that?”
“You’ll have to when you’re married.”
“But what makes you think that I’m going to be married?”
“We don’t have to think,” he tittered. “We only have to use our eyes.”
That decided37 me. In common fairness we must separate. Since I could not make the suggestion to her, I determined38 to leave Oxford myself. The term was nearly ended. My work on the Renaissance39 furnished an excuse for a visit to Italy. I had never been out of England as yet; at Pope Lane we had had all we could do to keep up a plausible40 appearance of stay-at-home respectability. But Fiesole with her talk of travel, had led me to peep out of the back-door of the world. I made up my mind to start immediately.
It was a golden summer’s evening. How well I remember it! I had not seen her for two days. I was finishing my packing. A trunk stood in the middle of the floor partly filled. Over the backs of chairs clothes hung disorderly. Piles of books lay muddled41 about the carpet, among socks and shirts and underwear. Through the open window from the garden drifted in the rumor42 of voices and the perfume of roses.
The door opened without warning. I was kneeling beside the trunk. Glancing over my shoulder I saw her. She slipped into the room like a ray of sunlight, and stood behind me. She wore a golden dress, gathered in at the waist with a girdle of silver. Her arms, bare from the elbow, hung looped before her with the fingers knotted.
I glanced at her a moment. Her face was pale with reproach. Her rebelliousness43 had departed. Her lips trembled. She looked like a sensitive child, trying not to cry when her feelings had been wounded. This was the true Fiesole I had long suspected, but had never before discovered. We had no use for polite explanations; in the past two months we had lived too near together. She knew what it all meant—the half-filled trunk, the scattered clothing, the piles of books. Feeling ashamed, with a hurried greeting I turned back to my packing.
“You’re going.”
She spoke44 in a low voice, with a tremble in it. It filled me with panic desire to be kind to her; yet I dared not trust myself. I did not love her. I kept telling myself that I did not love her. My whole mind and being were pledged to another woman. And yet pity is so near to love that I could not allow myself to touch her. I was mad from the restraint I had suffered. To touch her might result in irreparable folly45. Kneeling lower over my trunk, I shifted articles hither and thither46, pressed them closer, moved them back to their original places, doing nothing useful, simply trying to keep my hands busy.
She watched me. I could not see her, but I felt that behind my back the slow, sweet, lazy smile was curling up the corners of her mouth. I knew just how she was looking—how the eyebrows47 were twitching48 and nostrils49 panting, the long white throat was working. I fixed50 my mind upon Vi. I was doing this for her. Maybe, if Fiesole had come first, we might have married. But we should not have been happy. I must be true to Vi, I told myself. I was like a man parched51 with thirst in a burning desert, who sees arise a mirage52 of green waters and blue palm-trees—and knows it to be a mirage, and yet is tempted53.
“You were going away without telling me.”
Her voice broke. I listened for the sob54, but it did not follow. Outside in the garden a thrush awoke; his notes fell like flashing silver, gleaming dimmer and dimmer as they sank into the silence.
“You were going away because of me. I would have gone if you had spoken.”
Still kneeling, I looked up at her. “Fiesole, I didn’t dare to tell you. Something was said. We had to separate. I thought this way was best.”
“Said about me?”
“About us.”
“What was it?”
“I don’t like to tell you.”
“I can guess. They said you were in love with me. Was that it?”
I tried to rise, but she held me down with her hands upon my shoulders. Each time I bent55 back my head to answer, she stooped lower above me. Her breath was in my hair. The gold flashed up in the depths of her eyes. Her voice broke into slow laughter. With her lips touching56 my forehead she whispered, “And what if they did say it?”
For a moment we gazed at one another. I hoped and I dreaded57. By one slight action of assent58, the quiver of an eye-lid or the raising of a hand, I would thrust Vi from me forever. A marriage with Fiesole would at least be correct—approved by society; but I should have to sin against Vi to get it—to sin against a love which was half-sinful.
Fiesole straightened. The tension relaxed. She placed her hand on my head, ruffling59 my hair. As though imitating the thrush, a peal60 of silver laughter fell from her lips. “Oh, Dante, Dante! You are just as you were. You’re still afraid of girls.”
I rose to my feet. She was again a coquette, rash, luring61 attack, but always on the defensive62. I gained control of myself as my pity ebbed63. I had been mistaken in thinking I had hurt her. I should have known she was play-acting. And yet I doubted.
We walked over to the lounge by the window. I seated myself beside her, confident now of my power to restrain myself. “I was afraid for you—not of you.”
“Why should you be afraid for me when I’m not afraid for myself? No, Dante, it wasn’t that. You’re afraid of yourself. Someone told you long, long ago, when you were quite little, that it was naughty to flirt64. You’ve never forgotten it, and each time you begin to feel a bit happy you believe you’re going to do something bad. So you’ve put your heart to bed, and you’ve locked the door, and you’ve drawn65 the curtains. You play nurse to it, and every time it stirs, you tiptoe to the door to see that the key is turned, and to the windows to see that they’re properly bolted. I’ll tell you what’s the matter with you, Dante. I stole along the passage and hammered on the door of your heart’s bedroom, and your heart half-roused and called, ‘Nurse.’ There!”
She threw herself back against the cushions, seizing both my hands in hers. She gazed at me unflinchingly, daringly, mockingly. She drew me to her and thrust me from her with quick sharp jerks. She treated the situation so lightheartedly, so theatrically66, that I could have kissed her with impunity67. But it would have been like kissing the statue of a woman. She would have remained unmoved, unresponsive. There would have been no adventure of conquest.
“No, Miss Impudence,” I said, “you’re wrong. I wish sometimes my heart were safe in bed. You and I have been good friends. You came to me at a time when I most needed you. You never guessed the good you were doing. If this hadn’t happened, I would never have told you. But when I heard something said about you, which no girl would like to have said unless it were true, I thought it was time I should be going. You’ve been so good to me that I couldn’t return your good with evil.”
“But, my dear, I daresay I’ve flirted68 with half-a-hun-dred men. It’s very nice of you to think I haven’t, and to be so careful of me. But really it doesn’t matter what anybody says. I don’t want you to run away because of that, just when we were having such a good time together.”
“You won’t let me be serious,” I protested. “Now I want you to imagine for a minute that I’m old, and inoffensive, and have white hair.”
“Oh, yes, and about seventy.”
“About seventy-five I should say—I’ve known some pretty lively men of seventy.”
“All right. About seventy-five. I’m imagining.”
“My dear girl, you’re twenty-four or thereabouts, and you’re extremely beautiful. No man can look at you without being fascinated. I’ve often wanted to kiss you myself.”
“Then why didn’t you do it?”
“Fiesole, you’re not playing the game,” I said sternly. “Please go on imagining.”
“I’m imagining.”
“As I was saying, you’re extremely fascinating. Everything’s in your favor for making a happy and successful marriage, except one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“You have no parents. Now parents are a kind of passport. Seeing that you haven’t any, you’ve got to be more circumspect69 than other girls. It has come to my ears that for the past two months you’ve been seen every day with one young gentleman. People are beginning to talk about it. Since you don’t intend to marry him, you ought to drop him until you are married.”
“Who says I don’t intend to marry him?”
She took me by the shoulders and drew me to her. The afterglow had faded from the garden. I could not see her face distinctly, but it seemed to me that that old expression of hungry wistfulness was coming back. I heard men enter the room overhead. A bar of light, like a golden streamer, fluttered and fell across the lawn. A piano struck up, playing Mr. Dooley. The dusk was humanized and robbed of its austerity. Her hands trembled on my shoulders. For a second time I doubted the genuineness of her playacting. I hurried on.
“But if you did want to marry him it would make no difference. He’s pledged to another woman.”
Her hands fell away. When she spoke it was gravely and with effort. “You didn’t tell me. You said you weren’t engaged when I asked you.”
“Neither am I, nor likely to be.”
“Why not?”
“She’s married.”
The silence was broken by her taking my hand. She took it with a sudden gesture and, bowing her head, kissed it. “Poor Dante,” she whispered.
I rose from the sofa and lit the lamp. Kneeling by my trunk, I blunderingly recommenced my packing. From the window came a muffled70, choking sound. Perhaps she was trying not to sob. I had never seen her so gentle as just now. My mind ran back over the long road we had traveled. The Fiesole I had seen was a wild, mad girl, provoking, charming, inconsiderate as a child and frolicsome71 as the mad spring weather—but rarely tender. I wondered what other secrets of kindness lay hidden in her personality. She was the sort of woman a man might live with for twenty years and still be discovering. She kept one restless by the very richness of her character. It was true what she had said: many men might love her; few would desire to marry her.
She rose from the lounge. Standing between me and the lamp, her long shadow fell across me. I looked up and saw that her lashes26 glistened72. Against the background of the white-paneled room she looked supremely73 lovely—a tall, gold daffodil. She held her head high on her splendid shoulders with a gesture of proud despair. And yet an appearance of meekness74 clothed her. Her face had an expression which a young girl’s often has, but which hers had seldom—an expression which was maternal75. She watched my clumsy attempts to squeeze my clothes into smaller compass. Then she came and knelt beside me, saying, “Let me do it.”
Her swift white hands plied76 back and forth77, re-arranging, smoothing out with deft78 touches, reaching out for socks to fill the hollows, rectifying79 my awkwardness. The thought flashed on me that this sensation I had was one of the sacred things of marriage—a man’s dependence29 on a woman. As I watched, I imagined the future, if this woman should become a wife to me. But the passion for her was not in me. She was only an emotion. The sight of her made me hungrier, but not for her. I reasoned with myself, saying how many men would desire her. I forced myself to notice the curve of her neck, the way the red-gold curls clustered about her shell-like ears and broad white forehead. I told myself that the best solution for Vi would be that I leave her unembarrassed by marrying Fiesole. But the more I urged matters, the colder grew my emotions. Then my emotions ceased and my observations became entirely80 mental.
Overhead, strident and uproarious, as if striving to burlesque81 what should have been chivalrous82, the piano thumped83 and banged; men’s voices smote84 the night like hammer-strokes on steel, singing,
“Mr. Dooley! Oh, Mr. Dooley!
Mr. Dooley—-ooley——-ooley——-oo.”
“It’s done,” she said. Then, “Where are you going?”
“To Italy.”
“My country. When?”
“To-morrow.”
“You’ll write me sometimes? I shall be lonely, you know, at first.”
“Why, certainly.”
“Then, if you’re going to write to me, I must write to you. You’ll have to let me have your addresses so that I can send my letters on ahead.”
I wrote her out the list of towns and dates, telling her to address me poste restante.
I accompanied her across the quad85 to the lodge86. I had had no idea it was so late. Big Tom had ceased ringing for an hour. It was past ten. The porter, when I called him out to unlock the gate, eyed us disapprovingly87.
“I’ll see you home,” I told her.
She hesitated, urged that she could get home quite safely by herself, it was such a short way to go—but at last she surrendered.
Through the mysterious, moon-washed streets we walked; but not near together as formerly88. We had nothing to say to one another. Or was it that we had too much, and they were things that we were ashamed to utter? The echo of our footfall followed behind us like a presence. At the turnings we lost it. Then it seemed to hurry till it had made up the distance; again it followed. The cobble-stones beneath us made our steps uneven89. Sometimes we just brushed shoulders, and started apart with a guilty sense of contact. Sometimes we passed a window that was lighted by a student’s lamp. We could see him through the curtains poring over outspread books, holding his head between his hands. As we turned to look in on him, our faces were illumined. Her face was troubled; coming out of the night suddenly it looked blanched90 and distressful91.
The air became heavy with the perfume of laburnums. It occurred to me that the laburnum was the flower with which she was best compared. It burned, and blazed, and fell unwithered. In crossing Magdalene Bridge we caught the sighing of willows92 along the banks of the Cherwell. I had often thought how restful was the sound. To-night I marveled at myself; it seemed poignant93 with anguish94, like a fretful heart stirring. Under the bridge as we crossed, a punt slipped ghostlike down stream; the subdued95 laughter of a girl and the muffled pleading of a man’s voice reached us. Then memory assailed96 me. “They are even as you and I, Fiesole,” my heart whispered, “even as you and I once were.”
I fell to wondering, as I caught the moon shining through the lace-work parapet of Magdalene tower, how many such love-affairs of lightness it had seen commenced.
At the door of the house in which she lodged97 we halted abruptly98.
“So this is the end,” she said. Then, feigning99 cheerfulness, she ran up the steps, crying, “Good luck to you on your journey.”
From the pavement I called to her, “I’m afraid, I’ve kept you out late, I——”
The door banged.
I had had much to say to her. Now that she was gone the thoughts and words bayed in my brain like bloodhounds. There were apologies, excuses, explanations—kind, meaningless phrases, which would have held a meaning of comfort for her. It was too late now. For a moment her shadow fell across the blind; then her arm was raised and the light went out.
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1
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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truant
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| n.懒惰鬼，旷课者；adj.偷懒的，旷课的，游荡的；v.偷懒，旷课 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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romped
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| v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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brooks
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| n.小溪( brook的名词复数 ) | |
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tinkled
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| （使）发出丁当声，（使）发铃铃声( tinkle的过去式和过去分词 )； 叮当响着发出，铃铃响着报出 | |
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furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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commotion
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| n.骚动，动乱 | |
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clamorous
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| adj.吵闹的，喧哗的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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audacities
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| n.大胆( audacity的名词复数 )；鲁莽；胆大妄为；鲁莽行为 | |
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pretense
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| n.矫饰，做作，借口 | |
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veneer
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| n.(墙上的)饰面，虚饰 | |
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lashes
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| n.鞭挞( lash的名词复数 )；鞭子；突然猛烈的一击；急速挥动v.鞭打( lash的第三人称单数 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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postponing
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| v.延期，推迟( postpone的现在分词 ) | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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tantalizing
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| adj.逗人的；惹弄人的；撩人的；煽情的v.逗弄，引诱，折磨( tantalize的现在分词 ) | |
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proxy
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| n.代理权，代表权；（对代理人的）委托书；代理人 | |
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justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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muddled
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| adj.混乱的；糊涂的；头脑昏昏然的v.弄乱，弄糟( muddle的过去式)；使糊涂；对付，混日子 | |
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rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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rebelliousness
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| n. 造反，难以控制 | |
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44
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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45
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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46
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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48
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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49
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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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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parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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mirage
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
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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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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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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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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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ruffling
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| 弄皱( ruffle的现在分词 )； 弄乱； 激怒； 扰乱 | |
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peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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luring
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的现在分词形式） | |
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defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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ebbed
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的过去式和过去分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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theatrically
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| adv.戏剧化地 | |
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impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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flirted
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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circumspect
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| adj.慎重的，谨慎的 | |
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muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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frolicsome
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| adj.嬉戏的，闹着玩的 | |
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glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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plied
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| v.使用（工具）( ply的过去式和过去分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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rectifying
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| 改正，矫正( rectify的现在分词 )； 精馏； 蒸流； 整流 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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thumped
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| v.重击， （指心脏）急速跳动( thump的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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quad
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| n.四方院；四胞胎之一；v.在…填补空铅 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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disapprovingly
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| adv.不以为然地，不赞成地，非难地 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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distressful
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| adj.苦难重重的，不幸的，使苦恼的 | |
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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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99
feigning
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| 假装，伪装( feign的现在分词 )； 捏造（借口、理由等） | |
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