After the quiet of Little Primpton, the hurry and the noise of Victoria were a singular relief to James. Waiting for his luggage, he watched the various movements of the scene--the trollies pushed along with warning cries, the porters lifting heavy packages on to the bellied2 roof of hansoms, the people running to and fro, the crowd of cabs; and driving out, he was exhilarated by the confusion in the station yard, and the intense life, half gay, half sordid3, of the Wilton Road. He took a room in Jermyn Street, according to Major Forsyth's recommendation, and walked to his club. James had been out of London so long that he came back with the emotions of a stranger; common scenes, the glitter of shops, the turmoil4 of the Circus, affected5 him with pleased surprise, and with a child's amusement he paused to stare at the advertisements on a hoarding6. He looked forward to seeing old friends, and on his way down Piccadilly even expected to meet one or two of them sauntering along.
As a matter of form, James asked at his club whether there were any letters for him.
"I don't think so, sir," said the porter, but turned to the pigeon-holes and took out a bundle. He looked them over, and then handed one to James.
"Hulloa, who's this from?"
Suddenly something gripped his heart; he felt the blood rush to his cheeks, and a cold tremor7 ran through all his limbs. He recognised the handwriting of Mrs. Pritchard-Wallace, and there was a penny stamp on the envelope. She was in England. The letter had been posted in London.
He turned away and walked towards a table that stood near the window of the hall. A thousand recollections surged across his memory tumultuously; the paper was scented8 (how characteristic that was of her, and in what bad taste!); he saw at once her smile and the look of her eyes. He had a mad desire passionately10 to kiss the letter; a load of weariness fell from his heart; he felt insanely happy, as though angry storm-clouds had been torn asunder11, and the sun in its golden majesty12 shone calmly upon the earth.... Then, with sudden impulse, he tore the unopened letter into a dozen pieces and threw them away. He straightened himself, and walked into the smoking-room.
James looked round and saw nobody he knew, quietly took a magazine from the table, and sat down; but the blood-vessels in his brain throbbed13 so violently that he thought something horrible would happen to him. He heard the regular, quick beating, like the implacable hammering of gnomes14 upon some hidden, distant anvil15.
"She's in London," he repeated.
When had the letter been posted? At least, he might have looked at the mark on the envelope. Was it a year ago? Was it lately? The letter did not look as though it had been lying about the club for many months. Had it not still the odour of those dreadful Parma violets? She must have seen in the paper his return from Africa, wounded and ill. And what did she say? Did she merely write a few cold words of congratulation or--more?
It was terrible that after three years the mere16 sight of her handwriting should have power to throw him into this state of eager, passionate9 anguish17. He was seized with the old panic, the terrified perception of his surrender, of his utter weakness, which made flight the only possible resistance. That was why he had destroyed the letter unread. When Mrs. Wallace was many thousand miles away there had been no danger in confessing that he loved her; but now it was different. What did she say in the letter? Had she in some feminine, mysterious fashion discovered his secret? Did she ask him to go and see her? James remembered one of their conversations.
"Oh, I love going to London!" she had cried, opening her arms with the charming, exotic gesticulation which distinguished18 her from all other women. "I enjoy myself awfully19."
"What do you do?"
"Everything. And I write to poor Dick three times a week, and tell him all I haven't done."
"I can't bear the grass-widow," said James.
"Poor boy, you can't bear anything that's amusing! I never knew anyone with such an ideal of woman as you have--a gloomy mixture of frumpishness and angularity."
James did not answer.
"Don't you wish we were in London now?" she went on. "You and I together? I really believe I should have to take you about. You're as innocent as a babe."
"D'you think so?" said James, rather hurt.
"Now, if we were in town, on our own, what would you do?"
"Oh, I don't know. I suppose make a little party and dine somewhere, and go to the Savoy to see the 'Mikado.'"
Mrs. Wallace laughed.
"I know. A party of four--yourself and me, and two maiden20 aunts. And we should be very prim1, and talk about the weather, and go in a growler for propriety21's sake. I know that sort of evening. And after the maiden aunts had seen me safety home, I should simply howl from boredom22. My dear boy, I'm respectable enough here. When I'm on my own, I want to go on the loose. Now, I'll tell you what I want to do if ever we are in town together. Will you promise to do it?"
"If I possibly can."
"All right! Well, you shall fetch me in the fastest hansom you can find, and remember to tell the driver to go as quick as ever he dare. We'll dine alone, please, at the most expensive restaurant in London! You'll engage a table in the middle of the room, and you must see that the people all round us are very smart and very shady. It always makes me feel so virtuous23 to look at disreputable women! Do I shock you?"
"Not more than usual."
"How absurd you are! Then we'll go to the Empire. And after that we'll go somewhere else, and have supper where the people are still smarter and still shadier; and then we'll go to Covent Garden Ball. Oh, you don't know how I long to go on the rampage sometimes! I get so tired of propriety."
"And what will P. W. say to all this?"
"Oh, I'll write and tell him that I spent the evening with some of his poor relations, and give eight pages of corroborative24 evidence."
James thought of Pritchard-Wallace, gentlest and best-humoured of men. He was a great big fellow, with a heavy moustache and kind eyes; always ready to stand by anyone in difficulties, always ready with comfort or with cheery advice; whoever wanted help went to him as though it were the most natural thing in the world. And it was touching26 to see the dog-like devotion to his wife; he had such confidence in her that he never noticed her numerous flirtations. Pritchard-Wallace thought himself rather a dull stick, and he wanted her to amuse herself. So brilliant a creature could not be expected to find sufficient entertainment in a quiet man of easy-going habits.
"Go your own way, my girl," he said; "I know you're all right. And so long as you keep a place for me in the bottom of your heart, you can do whatever you like."
"Of course, I don't care two straws for anyone but you, silly old thing!"
And she pulled his moustache and kissed his lips; and he went off on his business, his heart swelling27 with gratitude28, because Providence29 had given him the enduring love of so beautiful and enchanting30 a little woman.
"P. W. is worth ten of you," James told her indignantly one day, when he had been witness to some audacious deception31.
"Well, he doesn't think so. And that's the chief thing."
* * *
James dared not see her. It was obviously best to have destroyed the letter. After all, it was probably nothing more than a curt32, formal congratulation, and its coldness would nearly have broken his heart. He feared also lest in his never-ceasing thought he had crystallised his beloved into something quite different from reality. His imagination was very active, and its constant play upon those few recollections might easily have added many a false delight. To meet Mrs. Wallace would only bring perhaps a painful disillusion33; and of that James was terrified, for without this passion which occupied his whole soul he would be now singularly alone in the world. It was a fantastic, charming figure that he had made for himself, and he could worship it without danger and without reproach. Was it not better to preserve his dream from the sullen34 irruption of fact? But why would that perfume come perpetually entangling35 itself with his memory? It gave the image new substance; and when he closed his eyes, the woman seemed so near that he could feel against his face the fragrance36 of her breath.
He dined alone, and spent the hours that followed in reading. By some chance he was able to find no one he knew, and he felt rather bored. He went to bed with a headache, feeling already the dreariness37 of London without friends.
Next morning James wandered in the Park, fresh and delightful38 with the rhododendrons; but the people he saw hurt him by their almost aggressive happiness--vivacious39, cheerful, and careless, they were all evidently of opinion that no reasonable creature could complain with the best of all possible worlds. The girls that hurried past on ponies40, or on bicycles up and down the well-kept road, gave him an impression of light-heartedness which was fascinating, yet made his own solitude41 more intolerable. Their cheeks glowed with healthiness in the summer air, and their gestures, their laughter, were charmingly animated42. He noticed the smile which a slender Amazon gave to a man who raised his hat, and read suddenly in their eyes a happy, successful tenderness. Once, galloping43 towards him, he saw a woman who resembled Mrs. Wallace, and his heart stood still. He had an intense longing44 to behold45 her just once more, unseen of her; but he was mistaken. The rider approached and passed, and it was no one he knew.
Then, tired and sore at heart, James went back to his club. The day passed monotonously46, and the day after he was seized by the peculiar47 discomfort48 of the lonely sojourner49 in great cities. The thronging51, busy crowd added to his solitariness52. When he saw acquaintances address one another in the club, or walk along the streets in conversation, he could hardly bear his own friendlessness; the interests of all these people seemed so fixed53 and circumscribed54, their lives were already so full, that they could only look upon a new-comer with hostility55. He would have felt less lonely on a desert island than in the multitudinous city, surrounded by hurrying strangers. He scarcely knew how he managed to drag through the day, tired of the eternal smoking-room, tired of wandering about. The lodgings56 which Major Forsyth had recommended were like barracks; a tall, narrow house, in which James had a room at the top, looking on to a blank wall. They were dreadfully cheerless. And as James climbed the endless stairs he felt an irritation57 at the joyous58 laughter that came from other rooms. Behind those closed, forbidding doors people were happy and light of heart; only he was alone, and must remain perpetually imprisoned59 within himself. He went to the theatre, but here again, half insanely, he felt a barrier between himself and the rest of the audience. For him the piece offered no illusions; he could only see painted actors strutting60 affectedly61 in unnatural62 costumes; the scenery was mere painted cloth, and the dialogue senseless inanity63. With all his might James wished that he were again in Africa, with work to do and danger to encounter. There the solitude was never lonely, and the nights were blue and silent, rich with the countless64 stars.
He had been in London a week. One day, towards evening, while he walked down Piccadilly, looking aimlessly at the people and asking himself what their inmost thoughts could be, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and a cheery voice called out his name.
"I knew it was you, Parsons! Where the devil have you sprung from?"
He turned round and saw a man he had known in India. Jamie's solitude and boredom had made him almost effusive65.
"By Jove, I am glad to see you!" he said, wringing66 the fellow's hand. "Come and have a drink. I've seen no one for days, and I'm dying to have some one to talk to."
"I think I can manage it. I've got a train to catch at eight; I'm just off to Scotland."
Jamie's face fell.
"I was going to ask you to dine with me."
"I'm awfully sorry! I'm afraid I can't."
They talked of one thing and another, till Jamie's friend said he must go immediately; they shook hands.
"Oh, by the way," said the man, suddenly remembering, "I saw a pal67 of yours the other day, who's clamouring for you."
"For me?"
James reddened, knowing at once, instinctively68, that it could only be one person.
"D'you remember Mrs. Pritchard-Wallace? She's in London. I saw her at a party, and she asked me if I knew anything about you. She's staying in Half Moon Street, at 201. You'd better go and see her. Good-bye! I must simply bolt."
He left James hurriedly, and did not notice the effect of his few words.... She still thought of him, she asked for him, she wished him to go to her. The gods in their mercy had sent him the address; with beating heart and joyful69 step, James immediately set out. The throng50 in his way vanished, and he felt himself walking along some roadway of ethereal fire, straight to his passionate love--a roadway miraculously70 fashioned for his feet, leading only to her. Every thought left him but that the woman he adored was waiting, waiting, ready to welcome him with that exquisite71 smile, with the hands which were like the caresses72 of Aphrodite, turned to visible flesh. But he stopped short.
"What's the good?" he cried, bitterly.
Before him the sun was setting like a vision of love, colouring with softness and with quiet the manifold life of the city. James looked at it, his heart swelling with sadness; for with it seemed to die his short joy, and the shadows lengthening73 were like the sad facts of reality which crept into his soul one by one silently.
"I won't go," he cried; "I daren't! Oh, God help me, and give me strength!"
He turned into the Green Park, where lovers sat entwined upon the benches, and in the pleasant warmth the idlers and the weary slept upon the grass. James sank heavily upon a seat, and gave himself over to his wretchedness.
The night fell, and the lamps upon Piccadilly were lit, and in the increasing silence the roar of London sounded more intensely. From the darkness, as if it were the scene of a play, James watched the cabs and 'buses pass rapidly in the light, the endless procession of people like disembodied souls drifting aimlessly before the wind. It was a comfort and a relief to sit there unseen, under cover of the night. He observed the turmoil with a new, disinterested74 curiosity, feeling strangely as if he were no longer among the living. He found himself surprised that they thought it worth while to hurry and to trouble. The couples on the benches remained in silent ecstasy75; and sometimes a dark figure slouched past, sorrowful and mysterious.
At last James went out, surprised to find it was so late. The theatres had disgorged their crowds, and Piccadilly was thronged76, gay, vivacious, and insouciant77. For a moment there was a certain luxury about its vice25; the harlot gained the pompousness78 of a Roman courtesan, and the vulgar debauchee had for a little while the rich, corrupt79 decadence80 of art and splendour.
James turned into Half Moon Street, which now was all deserted81 and silent, and walked slowly, with anguish tearing at his heart, towards the house in which lodged82 Mrs. Wallace. One window was still lit, and he wondered whether it was hers; it would have been an exquisite pleasure if he could but have seen her form pass the drawn83 blind. Ah, he could not have mistaken it! Presently the light was put out, and the whole house was in darkness. He waited on, for no reason--pleased to be near her. He waited half the night, till he was so tired he could scarcely drag himself home.
In the morning James was ill and tired, and disillusioned84; his head ached so that he could hardly bear the pain, and in all his limbs he felt a strange and heavy lassitude. He wondered why he had troubled himself about the woman who cared nothing--nothing whatever for him. He repeated about her the bitter, scornful things he had said so often. He fancied he had suddenly grown indifferent.
"I shall go back to Primpton," he said; "London is too horrible."
收听单词发音 |
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prim
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| adj.拘泥形式的，一本正经的；n.循规蹈矩，整洁；adv.循规蹈矩地，整洁地 | |
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bellied
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| adj.有腹的，大肚子的 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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hoarding
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| n.贮藏；积蓄；临时围墙；囤积v.积蓄并储藏（某物）( hoard的现在分词 ) | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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gnomes
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| n.矮子( gnome的名词复数 )；侏儒；（尤指金融市场上搞投机的）银行家；守护神 | |
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anvil
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| n.铁钻 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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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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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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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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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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corroborative
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| adj.确证（性）的，确凿的 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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disillusion
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| vt.使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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entangling
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| v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的现在分词 ) | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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dreariness
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| 沉寂，可怕，凄凉 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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vivacious
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| adj.活泼的，快活的 | |
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ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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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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galloping
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| adj. 飞驰的, 急性的 动词gallop的现在分词形式 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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monotonously
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| adv.单调地，无变化地 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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sojourner
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| n.旅居者，寄居者 | |
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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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solitariness
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| n.隐居；单独 | |
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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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circumscribed
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| adj.[医]局限的：受限制或限于有限空间的v.在…周围划线( circumscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；划定…范围；限制；限定 | |
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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strutting
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| 加固，支撑物 | |
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affectedly
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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inanity
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| n.无意义，无聊 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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effusive
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| adj.热情洋溢的；感情(过多)流露的 | |
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wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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70
miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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71
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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72
caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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73
lengthening
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的现在分词 )； 加长 | |
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74
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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75
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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76
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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77
insouciant
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| adj.不在意的 | |
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78
pompousness
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| 豪华；傲慢 | |
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79
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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80
decadence
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| n.衰落，颓废 | |
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81
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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82
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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83
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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84
disillusioned
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| a.不再抱幻想的，大失所望的，幻想破灭的 | |
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