From behind two warm arms fastened themselves about my neck, making me prisoner.
“You’re up early, Dante C. You’re a great, stupid juggins to sit up all night and spoil your temper, just when I want you to be more than ordinarily pleasant.”
“My temper’s not spoilt. Don’t worry.”
“I take your word for it. I’ve got a secret to tell you. I’m going on the spree to-day—going to be immensely happy. I want you to help. If you’ve any of your tiresome2 scruples3 left over, you’d best chuck ’em; or I’ll find someone else.”
“Bit early, isn’t it, to tackle a chap? I’m too stupid to know what you mean. But I’m game. How long’s this spree to last?”
“Till it ends.”
“Then it’ll last forever, so long as it’s just you and me.”
She dug the point of her chin into my shoulder. Glancing sideways, I caught the impish sparkle of her eyes and the glow of her cheeks, flushed with health and excitement.
“Perhaps you’d like to kiss me,” she whispered, bringing her demure4 red lips on a level with my mouth.
“And now, perhaps you’d like to kiss me,” I suggested.
When I attempted to rise, she restrained me. “Not till I’ve made my bargain and you’ve agreed to my terms. I haven’t made up my mind about you, so you needn’t start talking marriage. Don’t know what I’m going to do with you, Dannie. So you’re to come with me wherever I choose till I’m tired—and you’re to ask no questions. Understand?”
“You never will be tired. I’m coming with you always.”
“And you’ll ask no questions?”
“No more than I can help.”
She released me. I stood up and surveyed my crumpled5 shirt-front; I was so obviously a reveler who had outstayed discretion6. She went off into peals7 of laughter, laughing all over, showing her small white teeth, and clapping her hands. “What have I done to you? You’re a bottle of champagne8; I’ve pulled the cork9 out. I’ll never get you all back.”
I took her hands in mine, folding them together, and drew her to me. “You’ll never get any of me back. You’ve made me love you. That’s what you’ve done, you adorable witch-woman.”
“Oh, la, la! Don’t talk like that.”
“Can’t help it. Don’t want to help it. You’ve made me mad.”
“Poor old Dannie! Horrid10 of me, wasn’t it?”
A tap at the door; the maid entered, bringing in rolls and coffee. I started away from Fiesole, but she held me. “You can’t shock Marie; she’s hardened; she’s heard all about you, and some pretty bad things she’s heard.”
Over her coffee she grew thoughtful.
“What’s the matter?”
“You are.”
“Already?”
“How can I walk through Paris with a man in evening dress at ten in the morning?”
“How d’you want me dressed?”
“In something gay. Light tweeds, brown shoes, and a gray felt hat.”
“Got ’em all at my hotel. I’ll slip back.”
She slanted12 her eyes at me. “Slip back to London, perhaps! No, Dannie, I don’t trust you yet. I don’t intend to lose you.”
She rose from the table and vanished into her bedroom. Marie followed. Through the partly closed door the excited titter of their whispered conversation reached me, scraps13 of nervously14 spoken French, and the opening and shutting of drawers and cupboards.
When she re-appeared she was clad in a mole-colored suit of corduroy velvet16, gathered in at the waist and close-fitting to her modish17 figure. The tube-skirt hung short to her ankles and was trimmed about with fur. The suède shoes, open-work stockings, and large muff were to match. Nestling close to her auburn hair was a huzzar cap of ermine. She halted in the sunlight, eyeing me with the naughty modesty19 of a coquette. She looked oddly young and distinguished20 on this rare spring morning. There never was such a woman for arranging her temperament21 to suit her dress. Her hectic22 manner of high spirits was abandoned; she seemed almost shy as she raised her muff to her lips and watched me, while I took in the effect.
“So I meet with your approval?”
Passing down the stairs, she hugged my arm impulsively—a trick which brought memories of Ruthita. “It’s awfully23 jolly to be loved—don’t you think so?”
Before the door a powerful two-seated car was standing24. The chauffeur25 stepped out; Fiesole took his place at the wheel. As we drove down the boulevards she was recognized; people on the pavements paused to gaze back; men raised their hats and threw glances of inquiry26 at one another as to the identity of her strangely attired27 companion. We drew up at my hotel in the Rue28 St. Honoré.
“I give you fifteen minutes. Is that sufficient? Make yourself gay. Don’t forget, a tweed suit, brown shoes, a gray felt hat—oh, and a red tie if you’ve got one. I couldn’t endure anything black.”
I found her with her eager face turned towards the doorway29, watching impatiently for me.
“A good beginning—ready to the second. Jump in. We’re off to somewhere where no one’ll know anything about us. Let’s see if we can’t lose ourselves.”
She swung the car round and away we snorted, through the Place de la Concorde blanched30 in sunlight, up the Champs Elysées where sunlight spattered against blossoming trees and lay in pools on the turf. The streets were animated31 with little children, women in bright dresses, dashing cars and carriages. Paris gleamed white and green and golden. Overhead the sky foamed32 and bubbled, yawning into blue and primrose33 gulleys, trampled34 by stampeding clouds.
At the Place de l’Etoile the car drew up sharply and skidded35; circled like a hound picking up the scent36; then darted37 swiftly away to the Bois, where fashionables already loitered and acacias trembled murmurously.
Fiesole was radiant with impatience38. A goddess of speed, she bent39 above the wheel, casting her eyes along the road ahead. Did a gap occur in the traffic, she flung the car forward, driving recklessly, yet always with calculated precision. I marveled at her nerve and the silent power that lay hidden in her thin, fine hands.
As we shot the bridge at St. Cloud the pace quickened. It was as though she shook Paris from her skirts and ran panting to meet wider stretches of wind-bleached country. I had one vivid glimpse of the ribbon of blue river, boat-dotted, winding40 through young green of woodlands; then cities and sophistication, and all things save Fiesole, myself, and the future were at an end.
Soon the white road curved uninterrupted before us, a streak41 between pollarded trees and blown meadows. Over the horizon came bounding hills and church-spires, villages and rivers; as they came near to us they halted, like shy deer, for a second; when we drew level, they fled. It was as though we were stationary42 and the world was rushing past us.
The wind of our going brought color to her cheeks and fluttered out her hair. Her eyes were starry43, fixed44 on the distance as she skirted the rim18 of eternity45 in her daring. Should an axle break or a tire burst, all this fire of youth would be extinguished forever. I glanced at the speedometer; it quivered from seventy to eighty, to eighty-five kilometers, and there it hovered46.
The throb47 of the engine seemed the throb of my passion. We were traveling too fast for talking. She did not want to talk; she was escaping from something, memories, perhaps—hers and mine. In her modern way she was expressing what I had always felt: the tedium48 of captivity49, sameness, and disappointment—the need for the unwalled garden, where barriers of obedience50 and duty are broken down.
At Evreux we halted for petrol. I proposed déjeuner, she shook her head naughtily.
“Where are we going?”
“Over there, to the West.”
“Any particular spot in the West?”
“You’ll see presently.”
“How about the theatre?”
“Time enough,” she said.
She spoke15 breathlessly, remaining at the wheel while the man was filling the tank. Somehow it seemed to me that the town had come between us; we understood one another better when the garden of the world was flying past us.
Before the man was paid, she had turned on the power. As we lunged forward, he jumped aside and I flung the money out. Our wild ride towards the Eden of the forbidden future recommenced.
Presently, without turning her head, she broke the silence. “Slip your arm round me, old boy; my back grows tired.”
I placed my arm about the slender, upright figure and slid my shoulder behind her, so she leant against me.
“What’s the idea, Fiesole? Paolo and Francesca?”
“And Adam and Eve, if you like; and Dan Leno and Herbert Campbell; and Joseph Parker and Jane Cake-bread. Anything, so long as we keep going.”
When I attempted to speak again, she turned on more power and threw me a smile which was a threat.
I clasped her closer. “Little devil! I’ll keep quiet. You needn’t do that.”
But though I kept quiet my heart beat madly. The panorama51 of change sweeping52 by, with her face the one thing constant, quickened and emphasized my need of her more than any spoken tenderness. Our thoughts merged53 and interchanged with a subtlety54 that speech could never have accomplished55. The pressure of her body, the tantalizing56 joy of her nearness and forbiddenness, the imminence57 of death, the law of silence—these summed up in a moment’s experience the entire philosophy of love, and of life itself.
I began to understand her meaning, her language; she was temporizing58 as I had temporized59 at Venice; but instead of going away from me, she was fleeing with me from circumstance. She was telling me of her woman’s pride—her difficulty to make herself attainable60 after what had happened. She loved me and she hated me. She drew me to her and she thrust me from her. She could not forget and she dreaded61 to remember. And she said all this when, in escaping, she took me with her.
Now I saw nothing of the hurrying landscape; I watched her. I wrote all her beauty on the tablets of my mind—nothing should be unremembered: the way her curls crept from under her cap and fluttered about her temples; the clear pallor of her forehead; the firm, broad brows; the quiet challenge of her deep-lashed eyes; how her red mouth pouted62 and her head leant forward from her frail63 white neck, like a flower from its stalk, in a kind of listening expectancy64. And I observed the tender swelling65 of her breasts, high and proud, yet humble66 for maternity67; and the pliant68 strength of her supple69 body; and her long clean limbs; and the delicately modeled feet and ankles, which shot out from beneath her fur-trimmed skirt—the feet of a dancer, graceful70 and fragile as violins.
I was mad. I wanted her. No matter how she came to me, I wanted her. I could not bear the thought that we should ever be separated. She was so intensely mine at this present; and yet, though she was mine, I was insanely jealous to preserve her.
With the long fascination71 of watching her I bent slowly forward. The action was instinctive72, uncalculated. How long I took in approaching her, I cannot tell. I was anxious to last out the joy of anticipation73; I was not conscious of motion. My lips touched hers. Her hold on the wheel relaxed. Her eyes met mine. The car swerved74, hung upon the edge of the road, ran along it balancing; then bounded back into the straight white line.
I was so frenzied75 that I did not care. She had thought to hold me prisoner by her speed; I would overcome her with defiance76. I kissed her again, holding her to me. She kept her eyes on the distance now, but her mouth smiled tenderly.
“That was foolish,” she said.
I raised my voice to reach her above the moaning of the engine. “The whole thing’s foolish.”
She broke into wild laughter. “That’s why I like it, like you, like myself.”
We hovered on the brim of a valley; then commenced to sink as though the earth had given way beneath us. Far below, as far as eye could reach, were orchards78 smoking with white blossom. Through the heart of the valley a river ran; standing on its puny79 banks was a gray old town, blinking in the wind and sun like a spectacled grandmother who had nodded to sleep, and wakened bewildered to find spring rioting round her.
“Where is it?”
“Lisieux, unless I’m mistaken.”
“Then you know where we’re going?”
“More or less.”
We pulled up in a drowsy80, sun-drenched market-place outside a sleepy café. At tables on the pavement, with hands in their blouses and legs sprawled81 out, sat a few artisans, eyeing their absinthe. Houses tottered82 and sagged83 from extreme old age. Across the way a cathedral, scarred by time and chapped by weather, raised its crumbling84 sculptured towers against the clouds.
She took my hand as she stepped out. “You nearly did for us just now.”
“Who cares?”
She shrugged85 her shoulders. “All Paris cares. I’m not anxious to be dead; when I am, I’d like to look pretty.”
When we had seated ourselves, she took out her mirror and commenced tidying her hair and brushing the dust from her brows. There was nothing to be had, the waiter informed us, but pot au feu; déjeuner was over. So I ordered pot au feu, red wine and an omelet.
As she replaced her mirror in her muff, she looked up brilliantly. “You know, I am pretty.”
She was being watched. The dull eyes of the absinthe-drinkers had become alert. Tradesmen had come out of their shops and stared at her across the square. Some of the bolder strolled into the café and seated themselves close to her. They were paying the unabashed homage86 that a Frenchman always pays to feminine beauty.
I lowered my voice to a whisper; my throat was parched87 with dust. “This can’t go on.”
She laughed with her eyes. “It can go on as long as there’s any petrol left, and as long as you don’t try to kiss me when I’m speeding.”
“That’s not what I meant; you know it.”
“What then? The same old thing—marriage?”
I ignored her flippancy88. “You’ll be turning back directly, and when you get to Paris, you won’t be like you are now. You’ll be La Fiesole and to-night you’ll be dancing with them all watching. I can’t bear it.”
“I shan’t.”
I leant eagerly forward, but she drew away from me.
“You’re not going back? You’ve given up the theatre?”
She held me in suspense89, letting her eyes wander as though she had not heard. Slowly she turned, with that lazy, taunting90 smile of hers. “Damn the theatre,” she said quietly; “I’m going on with you to the end.”
“And the end’s marriage?”
“Who can tell? Now don’t be a rotter. You’re spoiling everything. Let’s talk of something else.”
When we climbed into the car, “You drive,” she said.
“But to where?”
“That’s my secret. Straight on. I’ll tell you when to turn.”
We were hardly out of the valley before her eyes had closed and her head was nodding against my shoulder. I drove gently, fearing to disturb her. From time to time I looked down at the white slant11 of her throat, the shadows beneath her lashes92, and the almost childish droop93 of her mouth. How the self she kept hidden revealed itself! Her face was that of a Madonna, for whom the cross was yet remote and the happiness near at hand—and both were certain. What different versions she gave me of herself! Once a sickening fear shook me like a leaf. I slowed the car to a halt, and listened for her breath. In that moment I suffered all the agony of loss that must some time accompany the actuality. One day, sooner or later, I told myself, this thing I had dreaded would occur. How much time was left to us to find life beautiful between then and now?
On the bare Normandy uplands, between tilled fields and driving clouds, I waited for her to waken. The air was growing chill; I drew my coat round her. I felt again, in a new and better way, that sense of nearness and forbiddenness which had exhilarated me to the point of delirium94 on the madcap journey down from Paris. I looked ahead into the pale distance, where the notched95 horizon bound the earth with a silver band ... and I wondered where she was taking me, and what lay at the end. She might fight against it—she would fight against it; but the end should be marriage. I would watch over her always as I was watching now.
She stirred; her eye-lids fluttered. She stared up at me for a moment with undisguised affection; then the fear of tenderness returned. She pulled herself together, rubbing her knuckles96 in her eyes and yawning.
“Gee up, old hoss. This ain’t a bloomin’ cab-stand. You’re not home yet.”
“You fell asleep, my dear, so I waited for you.”
“Well, I shan’t pay you,” she laughed; “it’s not fair. Pray what did you think you were doing?”
“Enjoying myself.”
“There’s the difference; you like to crawl, I like to hurtle. You’re a tortoise; I’m a razzle-dazzle. We’re an ill-matched pair. Living in Pope Lane has made you pontifical97. Oh, Dannie, in ten years your tummy’ll be bulgy98 and your head’ll be bald. Pope Lane’ll have done it. I know what I’ve always missed about you now.”
“Something horrid? Let’s have it.”
“A cowl. You ought to have been a monk99 in Florence, painting naked angels in impossible meadows.”
“So kind of you. Religion mixed with impropriety! If there was someone to relieve me of my conscience, it wouldn’t be half bad. But I don’t live at Pope Lane any longer. You have the honor of sitting beside Sir Dante Cardover of Woadley Hall, Ransby, of which, you little wretch100, you are soon to be mistress.”
“That so? Sorry I spoke. Jump out and crank up the engine. It’s coming on again—you’re going to have the sentimentals, and you’re going to have ’em bad.”
“I’ve known you sentimental101, Fiesole.”
Her lips trembled, and her body stiffened102. “And you punished me for it.”
“You have a woman’s memory.”
“Odd, seeing I’m a woman. Who’s going to crank that engine? Am I, or are you?”
We swung on through the bare bleak103 country with masked faces. She sat a little apart from me, her knees crossed and her hands clasped about them. Did I glance at her, she turned petulantly104 in the opposite direction. I cursed myself. I was almost angry with her. What was her plan? Had she given me the privileges of dearness to her simply that she might thwart105 and taunt91 me? How could I teach her to forget? How could I teach myself to forget? At the back of my mind I loved her the more because of her perversity106.
We came to a cross-road. She touched me on the arm; we swerved into it. Far down the white stretch I saw a speck107, which resolved itself into a man and woman, traveling away from us with their backs towards us. The man wore the blue blouse and wide, baggy108 trousers of a peasant; his feet were shod in sabots. The woman was clad in a coarse, loose dress, like a sack drawn109 over her and tied about the middle; it was neutral in tone, being aged110 Ly weather. Her figure was shapeless—almost animal in its ponderous111 patience and breadth. Her hair was flaxen from exposure. They plodded112 through the bleak expanse with heads bowed, bodies huddled113, and arms encircling. Every few paces they halted; we saw the gleam of their faces as they clung lip to lip in hasty ecstasy114.
The wind was blowing from them towards us; they were unaware115 of us. I had my hand on the horn, when Fiesole clutched me.
“Don’t. They’ve nothing in the world but this moment. God knows what lies before them!”
We followed them at a distance. The symbolism of their silent figures awed116 us: overhead, the soundless battle of high-flying clouds; beneath, the gray vacancy117 with springtime stirring; around, the dun, unheeding earth; through the bareness the white road sweeping on unhurrying toward the land of sunsets; traveling along it a man and woman, for the time forgetful of their poverty, the focus-point of responsive passion. They had nothing but this moment.
“And what have we?” I questioned.
She crouched118 beside me; her soft arm stole about my neck. “Dearest, forgive me,” she murmured.
Her eyes were blinded; my lips against her cheek were salt. She clung to me desperately119, as though a hand pressed on her shoulder to jerk her from me—Vi’s hand.
Where a rutted lane sloped down to a wooded hollow, the lovers turned. Among pollarded trees we lost them. They would never know that we had watched them. So they vanished out of our lives, walking hand-in-hand toward child-bearing and the inevitable120 separation of death that lurked121 for them at some hidden cross-road. We, equally unknowing, to what place of parting were we faring?
I tilted122 up her face. “I’ve been a selfish fool. I’ll never speak another word about marriage or anything that will pain you. Oh, Fiesole, if you could only love me—love me as I love you—as though there was nothing else left!” She took my hands in her small ones, pressing them to her breast, quoting in a low sing-song, “Laugh, for the time is brief, a thread the length of a span. Laugh and be proud to belong to the old proud pageant123 of man.”
“I like that—‘the old proud pageant of man.’ I wonder where you got it. But is there to be nothing deeper between us than laughter?”
“If we do the laughing,” she said, “life’s ready to do the rest. But you’re a puritan at heart: you suspect that gladness is somehow unholy. Don’t you know, Mr. Bun-yan, that laughter is the language they speak in heaven?”
“I don’t; neither do you. But when you say so laughing, I can almost believe it.”
When we had once again started, she became more frank. It was because my hands were occupied, perhaps. Laying her cheek against my shoulder, “Dante, I’m not a flirt,” she said. “I just can’t make up my mind about you.”
“Maybe, I’ll make it up for you.”
“Maybe. But I want you to understand why I did what I did this morning—speeding like that and behaving as though I was cracked. I was afraid you were going to make love to me every moment—and I didn’t want it.”
“D’you want it now?”
“I don’t know.” She dragged the words out wide-apart. “And yet I do know; but I’ve no right to allow it.”
“You silly child, why on earth not?”
“I’m inconstant; I’m like that now. I should make you happy first and sorry afterwards.”
“I’ll risk it. I made you sorry first and now I’m going to make you happy.”
“Do you think you are?”
“Sure of it.”
The road began to descend124, at first gradually. The bare, tilled uplands where winter lingered, were left behind and we ran through a sheltered land of orchards. The air pulsated125 with the baaing of lambs and the sweet yearning126 of fecundity127. Under blown spray of fruit-trees the little creatures gamboled, halting by fits and starts, calling to their mothers, or kneeling beneath them, their thirsty throats stretched up and their long tails flapping. Surrounded by lean trees, lopped of their lower branches, gray farmhouses128 rose up, watching like aged shepherds. Slowfooted cattle, heavy-uddered, wandered between the hedges with their great bags swinging. Women with brass129 jars on their shoulders, which narrowed at the neck like funeral urns130, walked through the meadows to the milking.
“Do we turn or go on?”
“Go on.”
“How much farther?”
“A little farther.”
“It’s getting older and older isn’t it, Fiesole?”
“No, younger and younger, stupid. Look at all the lambs.”
Before us the land piled up into a hillock, breaking the level sweep of sky-line and hiding what lay beyond. The road curved about it in a slow descent.
Fiesole leant past me, shutting off the power. “Let her coast,” she said.
At the bend in the road I jammed on the brakes, halting the car. She slipped her hand into mine; we filled our eyes with the sight, saying nothing.
Sheer against the sky rose a jagged rock and perched on its summit, so much a part of it that it seemed to have been carved, stood a ruined castle. Its windows were vacant; its roof had long since fallen; its walls had been bruised131 and broken by cannon132. It tottered above the valley like a Samson blinded, groping on the edge of the precipice133, its power shorn. Round the embattled rock, like children who trusted the old protector, gathered mediaeval houses. Some of them, centuries ago, had wandered off into the snowy orchards and stood tiptoe, as though listening, ready to run back should they hear the tramp of an invading army. Through the valley and into the town a narrow stream darted, flashing like an arrow. Behind town and castle, across the horizon, towered a saffron wall of cloud, tipped along the edge with fire and notched in the center where the molten ball of the setting sun rested. From quaint134 gray streets came up a multitude of small sounds, like the lazy humming of women spinning. And over all, across orchards and roofs of houses, the grim warden135 on the rock threw his shadow. It was a valley forgotten by the centuries—a garden without barriers.
“Where are we?” I whispered.
“Falaise, my darling. I always promised myself that if ever I should love a man, I would bring him to Falaise to love him. Can’t you feel it—the slow quiet, the sense of the ages watching?”
She was aflame in the light of the sunset. Her face was ivory, intense and ardent136 with glory. Her waywardness and fondness for disguise were gone; her true self, steady and unafraid, gazed out on me. The havoc137 of passion was replaced by the contentment of a desire all but satisfied.
“Let’s go to the castle first,” she said. “You remember its story?”
I remembered: how Robert the Devil, Duke of the Normans, had found Arlotta, the tanner’s daughter, washing linen138 in that same little beck; and had loved her at sight and had carried her off to his castle on the rock, where was born William the Bastard139, conqueror140 of England and greatest of all the Normans.
Leaving the car in the village street, we climbed the rock and gained admittance. As we gazed down from the splintered battlements into the winding streets, Fiesole drew me to her, throwing her arm carelessly about my neck as though we were boy and girl.
“Look,” she whispered, pointing sheer down to the foot of the precipice, “there’s the tannery still standing and the beck running past it. And see, there are girls washing linen; one of them might be Arlotta. In nine hundred years nothing has altered.”
We stole across the threshold of the stone-paved room in which the Conqueror was born. “I’m going to shock you,” she said. “I always think of Falaise as another Bethlehem—the Bethlehem of war. The Bethlehem of peace has crumbled141, shattered by war; but here’s Falaise unchanged since the day when Robert the Devil seized Arlotta and galloped142 up the rock, and bolted his castle door. It sets one thinking——”
“Thinking something dangerous, I’ll warrant.”
She brushed the rebellious143 curls from her forehead and leant back against the wall laughing. “Thinking all kinds of thoughts: that it pays best in this world to steal what you want.”
“Perhaps—if you steal strongly.”
“But I have stolen strongly; see how I’ve carried you off.”
We discovered a little hotel, the courtyard of which was invaded by a garden and opened out beyond into a misty144 orchard77. At sound of our entrance a white-haired old country-woman came out from the office, holding her knitting in her hands. I made to go towards her, but Fiesole detained me. “You’re my prisoner,” she said; “I’m responsible. You stay here and I’ll tell her what we want.”
The air had grown sharper, but the moments were too precious to be spent indoors. We had our dinner served beneath a fig-tree in the courtyard, where we could see the shadows creeping through the garden and hear the sabots clap along the causeways.
We were almost shy with one another. We had little to say, and that little was spoken with our eyes for the most part. We did not dare to think: for me there was the ghost of Vi; and she also had I knew not what memories. We were restless till the meal was ended; the contact of live hands was the best speech possible. The tremulous dusk had fallen when we wandered out into the narrow climbing streets, traveling directionless under broken archways, past ancient churches—bribes to God for forgiveness for wrongs still more ancient.
We peeped into crouching145 cottages as we passed. We were glad of their company; they kept us from giving way to the tumult146 of feeling that ran riot in our hearts. Their small leaded windows were like lanterns set out to guide and not to watch us. We had glimpses through the glowing panes147 of kindly148 peasant interiors, with low ceilings and home-made furnishings. Sometimes at a rough table round which wine and bread were passed, the family was gathered, their faces illumined by a solitary149 candle in the center; looming150 out of the shadows on the wall was the cross. Sometimes the man was still at work, carving151 sabots or weaving, while the woman held a child to her breast, or rocked it in a cradle on the stone-paved floor.
One by one the lights were quenched152 and the doors fastened.
Fiesole leant more heavily against me, her arm encircling me, her head upon my shoulder. Now that the town slept, I could feel the wild clamor of her body and hear the fluttering intake153 of her breath. The wind, whispering through flowering trees, blew cool and fragrant154 in our nostrils155. For intervals156 there was no sound save the rustle157 of falling blossoms and our own stealthy footsteps; from somewhere out in the pale dusk, a lamb would call and its mother would answer. Above us, between steep roofs, as down a beaten pathway, the silver chariot of the moon plunged158 onward159, scattering160 the clouds before it.
We came again to the hostel161; when we entered, we walked apart. Quickly, as though seized with sudden misgiving162, Fiesole left me. I heard her footstep mounting the stairs and saw the light spring up in her window. Every other window was in darkness. From where I sat in the courtyard I could see the shadow of her figure groping, and her arms uplifted as she unbound her hair. The light went out. I wondered if she watched me. I listened to hear her stirring; I could hear nothing.
In the dim quiet, shut out from the excitement of her presence, I had leisure to reflect on whither I was going. I drew apart from myself and eyed my doings impartially163. It was a whim164 of curiosity that had brought me to Paris—one of those instinctive decisions which construct a destiny. The sight of her as Lucrezia had stabbed me to remorse165, and then to folly166. That she had hated me up to last night and that the desire of her wild heart had been to torture me, I did not doubt; but I thought that there were moments in this day when she had loved me with the old uncalculating kindness. What was her intention now?
Unaccountably out of the past, Fiesole had returned—Fiesole, the girl-woman I had loved as a boy before Vi. I felt like a broken gamester who has discovered an overlooked coin in his pocket after having believed himself penniless. So strange was this happening that it could not be fortuitous—we had met because we had been piloted.
All seeming failure of the past would take on an aspect of design and would appear a straight road leading to this moment, were our journeyings to end in marriage. And, though she would not own it, she needed the protection of a man who loved her to guard her against her success and self-reliance.
My thoughts ran on, picturing the home and little, children we would have. Children would be walls about our love, making it secure. For these I was hungry—desperately afraid lest the hope of them should be withdrawn167. In imagination they seemed already mine, I would speak my heart out: she should understand before it was too late that my need was also hers.
I entered the hostel. In the office the old woman nodded above her knitting. I roused her and asked for my candle.
“Ah, Monsieur,” she said in apology, “I had not thought. For a room so small I supposed that one would be sufficient. I have given Madame the candle. If Monsieur will wait, I will fetch another.”
In my surprise I told her that it did not matter.
I felt my way up the unlit stairs. At the bedroom-door I knocked. Fiesole’s voice just reached me, whispering to me to enter. On the threshold I paused, peering into the darkness. The floor was bare; there was little furniture. In the shadows against the wall, a canopied168, high-mattressed bed loomed169 mountainous. Through the window, reaching almost to my feet, a ray of moonlight slanted; in it, gleaming white, stood Fiesole.
My heart was in my throat. I could not speak. We watched one another; as the silence lengthened170, the space between us seemed impassable.
She held out her arms; her hoarse171 voice spoke, yearning towards me with its lazy sweetness. “Even now, if you want to, you may go, Dannie.”
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1
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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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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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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peals
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| n.（声音大而持续或重复的）洪亮的响声( peal的名词复数 )；隆隆声；洪亮的钟声；钟乐v.（使）（钟等）鸣响，（雷等）发出隆隆声( peal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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slanted
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| 有偏见的； 倾斜的 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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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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16
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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modish
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| adj.流行的，时髦的 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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hectic
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| adj.肺病的；消耗热的；发热的；闹哄哄的 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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24
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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25
chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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26
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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27
attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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28
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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30
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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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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foamed
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| 泡沫的 | |
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primrose
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| n.樱草，最佳部分， | |
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trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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35
skidded
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| v.（通常指车辆） 侧滑( skid的过去式和过去分词 )；打滑；滑行；（住在）贫民区 | |
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36
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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37
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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38
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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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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40
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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41
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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42
stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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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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45
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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47
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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48
tedium
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| n.单调；烦闷 | |
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49
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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50
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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51
panorama
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| n.全景，全景画，全景摄影，全景照片[装置] | |
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52
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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53
merged
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| （使）混合( merge的过去式和过去分词 )； 相融； 融入； 渐渐消失在某物中 | |
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54
subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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55
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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56
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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57
imminence
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| n.急迫，危急 | |
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58
temporizing
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| v.敷衍( temporize的现在分词 )；拖延；顺应时势；暂时同意 | |
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59
temporized
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| v.敷衍( temporize的过去式和过去分词 )；拖延；顺应时势；暂时同意 | |
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60
attainable
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| a.可达到的，可获得的 | |
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61
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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62
pouted
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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63
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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64
expectancy
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| n.期望，预期，（根据概率统计求得）预期数额 | |
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65
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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66
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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67
maternity
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| n.母性，母道，妇产科病房；adj.孕妇的，母性的 | |
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68
pliant
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| adj.顺从的；可弯曲的 | |
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69
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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70
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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71
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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72
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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73
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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74
swerved
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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75
frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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76
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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77
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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78
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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79
puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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80
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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81
sprawled
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| v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的过去式和过去分词)；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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82
tottered
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| v.走得或动得不稳( totter的过去式和过去分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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83
sagged
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| 下垂的 | |
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84
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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85
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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86
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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87
parched
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| adj.焦干的；极渴的；v.（使）焦干 | |
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88
flippancy
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| n.轻率；浮躁；无礼的行动 | |
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89
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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90
taunting
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| 嘲讽( taunt的现在分词 )； 嘲弄； 辱骂； 奚落 | |
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91
taunt
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| n.辱骂，嘲弄；v.嘲弄 | |
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92
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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93
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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94
delirium
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| n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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95
notched
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| a.有凹口的，有缺口的 | |
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96
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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97
pontifical
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| adj.自以为是的，武断的 | |
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bulgy
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| a.膨胀的；凸出的 | |
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99
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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100
wretch
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| n.可怜的人，不幸的人；卑鄙的人 | |
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101
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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102
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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103
bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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petulantly
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105
thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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106
perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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107
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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108
baggy
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| adj.膨胀如袋的，宽松下垂的 | |
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109
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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110
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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112
plodded
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| v.沉重缓慢地走（路）( plod的过去式和过去分词 )；努力从事；沉闷地苦干；缓慢进行（尤指艰难枯燥的工作） | |
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113
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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114
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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115
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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116
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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118
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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120
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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121
lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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122
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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123
pageant
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| n.壮观的游行；露天历史剧 | |
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124
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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125
pulsated
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| v.有节奏地舒张及收缩( pulsate的过去式和过去分词 )；跳动；脉动；受（激情）震动 | |
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126
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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127
fecundity
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| n.生产力；丰富 | |
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128
farmhouses
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| n.农舍，农场的主要住房( farmhouse的名词复数 ) | |
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129
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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130
urns
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| n.壶( urn的名词复数 )；瓮；缸；骨灰瓮 | |
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131
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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132
cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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133
precipice
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| n.悬崖，危急的处境 | |
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134
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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135
warden
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| n.监察员，监狱长，看守人，监护人 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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138
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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139
bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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140
conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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141
crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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galloped
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| （使马）飞奔，奔驰( gallop的过去式和过去分词 )； 快速做[说]某事 | |
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143
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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145
crouching
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的现在分词 ) | |
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146
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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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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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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151
carving
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| n.雕刻品，雕花 | |
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152
quenched
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| 解（渴）( quench的过去式和过去分词 )； 终止（某事物）； （用水）扑灭（火焰等）； 将（热物体）放入水中急速冷却 | |
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153
intake
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| n.吸入，纳入；进气口，入口 | |
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154
fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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156
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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157
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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158
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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onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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160
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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161
hostel
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| n.（学生）宿舍，招待所 | |
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162
misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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163
impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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164
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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166
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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167
withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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168
canopied
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| adj. 遮有天篷的 | |
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169
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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170
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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171
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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