"This is not a smoking-carriage," Mrs. Norman protested, nervously1 but very feebly, as the door swung open and a powerfully built young man jumped in. He seemed not to hear her. The train did not stop before it reached Cambridge, and here she was shut up alone, in a railway carriage, with a young man.
She touched the spring of her dressing-case, and ascertained2 that the scent-bottle and a novel from Mudie's were both handy (the young man was standing3 up with his back to her, putting his bag in the rack). She would throw the scent-bottle with her right hand, she decided4, and tug5 the communication cord with her left. She was fifty years of age, and had a son at college. Nevertheless, it is a fact that men are dangerous. She read half a column of her newspaper; then stealthily looked over the edge to decide the question of safety by the infallible test of appearance.... She would like to offer him her paper. But do young men read the Morning Post? She looked to see what he was reading--the Daily Telegraph.
Taking note of socks (loose), of tie (shabby), she once more reached his face. She dwelt upon his mouth. The lips were shut. The eyes bent6 down, since he was reading. All was firm, yet youthful, indifferent, unconscious--as for knocking one down! No, no, no! She looked out of the window, smiling slightly now, and then came back again, for he didn't notice her. Grave, unconscious... now he looked up, past her... he seemed so out of place, somehow, alone with an elderly lady... then he fixed7 his eyes--which were blue--on the landscape. He had not realized her presence, she thought. Yet it was none of HER fault that this was not a smoking-carriage--if that was what he meant.
Nobody sees any one as he is, let alone an elderly lady sitting opposite a strange young man in a railway carriage. They see a whole--they see all sorts of things--they see themselves.... Mrs. Norman now read three pages of one of Mr. Norris's novels. Should she say to the young man (and after all he was just the same age as her own boy): "If you want to smoke, don't mind me"? No: he seemed absolutely indifferent to her presence... she did not wish to interrupt.
But since, even at her age, she noted8 his indifference9, presumably he was in some way or other--to her at least--nice, handsome, interesting, distinguished10, well built, like her own boy? One must do the best one can with her report. Anyhow, this was Jacob Flanders, aged11 nineteen. It is no use trying to sum people up. One must follow hints, not exactly what is said, nor yet entirely12 what is done--for instance, when the train drew into the station, Mr. Flanders burst open the door, and put the lady's dressing-case out for her, saying, or rather mumbling13: "Let me" very shyly; indeed he was rather clumsy about it.
"Who..." said the lady, meeting her son; but as there was a great crowd on the platform and Jacob had already gone, she did not finish her sentence. As this was Cambridge, as she was staying there for the week- end, as she saw nothing but young men all day long, in streets and round tables, this sight of her fellow-traveller was completely lost in her mind, as the crooked14 pin dropped by a child into the wishing-well twirls in the water and disappears for ever.
They say the sky is the same everywhere. Travellers, the shipwrecked, exiles, and the dying draw comfort from the thought, and no doubt if you are of a mystical tendency, consolation15, and even explanation, shower down from the unbroken surface. But above Cambridge--anyhow above the roof of King's College Chapel16--there is a difference. Out at sea a great city will cast a brightness into the night. Is it fanciful to suppose the sky, washed into the crevices17 of King's College Chapel, lighter18, thinner, more sparkling than the sky elsewhere? Does Cambridge burn not only into the night, but into the day?
Look, as they pass into service, how airily the gowns blow out, as though nothing dense19 and corporeal20 were within. What sculptured faces, what certainty, authority controlled by piety21, although great boots march under the gowns. In what orderly procession they advance. Thick wax candles stand upright; young men rise in white gowns; while the subservient22 eagle bears up for inspection23 the great white book.
An inclined plane of light comes accurately24 through each window, purple and yellow even in its most diffused25 dust, while, where it breaks upon stone, that stone is softly chalked red, yellow, and purple. Neither snow nor greenery, winter nor summer, has power over the old stained glass. As the sides of a lantern protect the flame so that it burns steady even in the wildest night--burns steady and gravely illumines the tree-trunks--so inside the Chapel all was orderly. Gravely sounded the voices; wisely the organ replied, as if buttressing27 human faith with the assent28 of the elements. The white-robed figures crossed from side to side; now mounted steps, now descended29, all very orderly.
... If you stand a lantern under a tree every insect in the forest creeps up to it--a curious assembly, since though they scramble30 and swing and knock their heads against the glass, they seem to have no purpose--something senseless inspires them. One gets tired of watching them, as they amble31 round the lantern and blindly tap as if for admittance, one large toad33 being the most besotted of any and shouldering his way through the rest. Ah, but what's that? A terrifying volley of pistol-shots rings out--cracks sharply; ripples34 spread-- silence laps smooth over sound. A tree--a tree has fallen, a sort of death in the forest. After that, the wind in the trees sounds melancholy35.
But this service in King's College Chapel--why allow women to take part in it? Surely, if the mind wanders (and Jacob looked extraordinarily36 vacant, his head thrown back, his hymn-book open at the wrong place), if the mind wanders it is because several hat shops and cupboards upon cupboards of coloured dresses are displayed upon rush-bottomed chairs. Though heads and bodies may be devout38 enough, one has a sense of individuals--some like blue, others brown; some feathers, others pansies and forget-me-nots. No one would think of bringing a dog into church. For though a dog is all very well on a gravel26 path, and shows no disrespect to flowers, the way he wanders down an aisle39, looking, lifting a paw, and approaching a pillar with a purpose that makes the blood run cold with horror (should you be one of a congregation--alone, shyness is out of the question), a dog destroys the service completely. So do these women--though separately devout, distinguished, and vouched40 for by the theology, mathematics, Latin, and Greek of their husbands. Heaven knows why it is. For one thing, thought Jacob, they're as ugly as sin.
Now there was a scraping and murmuring. He caught Timmy Durrant's eye; looked very sternly at him; and then, very solemnly, winked41.
"Waverley," the villa42 on the road to Girton was called, not that Mr. Plumer admired Scott or would have chosen any name at all, but names are useful when you have to entertain undergraduates, and as they sat waiting for the fourth undergraduate, on Sunday at lunch-time, there was talk of names upon gates.
"How tiresome," Mrs. Plumer interrupted impulsively43. "Does anybody know Mr. Flanders?"
Mr. Durrant knew him; and therefore blushed slightly, and said, awkwardly, something about being sure--looking at Mr. Plumer and hitching44 the right leg of his trouser as he spoke45. Mr. Plumer got up and stood in front of the fireplace. Mrs. Plumer laughed like a straightforward46 friendly fellow. In short, anything more horrible than the scene, the setting, the prospect47, even the May garden being afflicted48 with chill sterility49 and a cloud choosing that moment to cross the sun, cannot be imagined. There was the garden, of course. Every one at the same moment looked at it. Owing to the cloud, the leaves ruffled50 grey, and the sparrows--there were two sparrows.
"I think," said Mrs. Plumer, taking advantage of the momentary51 respite52, while the young men stared at the garden, to look at her husband, and he, not accepting full responsibility for the act, nevertheless touched the bell.
There can be no excuse for this outrage53 upon one hour of human life, save the reflection which occurred to Mr. Plumer as he carved the mutton, that if no don ever gave a luncheon54 party, if Sunday after Sunday passed, if men went down, became lawyers, doctors, members of Parliament, business men--if no don ever gave a luncheon party--
"Now, does lamb make the mint sauce, or mint sauce make the lamb?" he asked the young man next him, to break a silence which had already lasted five minutes and a half.
"I don't know, sir," said the young man, blushing very vividly55.
At this moment in came Mr. Flanders. He had mistaken the time.
Now, though they had finished their meat, Mrs. Plumer took a second helping56 of cabbage. Jacob determined57, of course, that he would eat his meat in the time it took her to finish her cabbage, looking once or twice to measure his speed--only he was infernally hungry. Seeing this, Mrs. Plumer said that she was sure Mr. Flanders would not mind--and the tart58 was brought in. Nodding in a peculiar59 way, she directed the maid to give Mr. Flanders a second helping of mutton. She glanced at the mutton. Not much of the leg would be left for luncheon.
It was none of her fault--since how could she control her father begetting60 her forty years ago in the suburbs of Manchester? and once begotten61, how could she do other than grow up cheese-paring, ambitious, with an instinctively62 accurate notion of the rungs of the ladder and an ant-like assiduity in pushing George Plumer ahead of her to the top of the ladder? What was at the top of the ladder? A sense that all the rungs were beneath one apparently63; since by the time that George Plumer became Professor of Physics, or whatever it might be, Mrs. Plumer could only be in a condition to cling tight to her eminence64, peer down at the ground, and goad65 her two plain daughters to climb the rungs of the ladder.
"I was down at the races yesterday," she said, "with my two little girls."
It was none of THEIR fault either. In they came to the drawing-room, in white frocks and blue sashes. They handed the cigarettes. Rhoda had inherited her father's cold grey eyes. Cold grey eyes George Plumer had, but in them was an abstract light. He could talk about Persia and the Trade winds, the Reform Bill and the cycle of the harvests. Books were on his shelves by Wells and Shaw; on the table serious six-penny weeklies written by pale men in muddy boots--the weekly creak and screech66 of brains rinsed67 in cold water and wrung68 dry--melancholy papers.
"I don't feel that I know the truth about anything till I've read them both!" said Mrs. Plumer brightly, tapping the table of contents with her bare red hand, upon which the ring looked so incongruous.
"Oh God, oh God, oh God!" exclaimed Jacob, as the four undergraduates left the house. "Oh, my God!"
"Bloody69 beastly!" he said, scanning the street for lilac or bicycle-- anything to restore his sense of freedom.
"Bloody beastly," he said to Timmy Durrant, summing up his discomfort70 at the world shown him at lunch-time, a world capable of existing--there was no doubt about that--but so unnecessary, such a thing to believe in-- Shaw and Wells and the serious sixpenny weeklies! What were they after, scrubbing and demolishing71, these elderly people? Had they never read Homer, Shakespeare, the Elizabethans? He saw it clearly outlined against the feelings he drew from youth and natural inclination72. The poor devils had rigged up this meagre object. Yet something of pity was in him. Those wretched little girls--
The extent to which he was disturbed proves that he was already agog73. Insolent74 he was and inexperienced, but sure enough the cities which the elderly of the race have built upon the skyline showed like brick suburbs, barracks, and places of discipline against a red and yellow flame. He was impressionable; but the word is contradicted by the composure with which he hollowed his hand to screen a match. He was a young man of substance.
Anyhow, whether undergraduate or shop boy, man or woman, it must come as a shock about the age of twenty--the world of the elderly--thrown up in such black outline upon what we are; upon the reality; the moors75 and Byron; the sea and the lighthouse; the sheep's jaw76 with the yellow teeth in it; upon the obstinate77 irrepressible conviction which makes youth so intolerably disagreeable--"I am what I am, and intend to be it," for which there will be no form in the world unless Jacob makes one for himself. The Plumers will try to prevent him from making it. Wells and Shaw and the serious sixpenny weeklies will sit on its head. Every time he lunches out on Sunday--at dinner parties and tea parties--there will be this same shock--horror--discomfort--then pleasure, for he draws into him at every step as he walks by the river such steady certainty, such reassurance78 from all sides, the trees bowing, the grey spires32 soft in the blue, voices blowing and seeming suspended in the air, the springy air of May, the elastic79 air with its particles--chestnut80 bloom, pollen81, whatever it is that gives the May air its potency82, blurring83 the trees, gumming the buds, daubing the green. And the river too runs past, not at flood, nor swiftly, but cloying84 the oar37 that dips in it and drops white drops from the blade, swimming green and deep over the bowed rushes, as if lavishly85 caressing86 them.
Where they moored87 their boat the trees showered down, so that their topmost leaves trailed in the ripples and the green wedge that lay in the water being made of leaves shifted in leaf-breadths as the real leaves shifted. Now there was a shiver of wind--instantly an edge of sky; and as Durrant ate cherries he dropped the stunted88 yellow cherries through the green wedge of leaves, their stalks twinkling as they wriggled89 in and out, and sometimes one half-bitten cherry would go down red into the green. The meadow was on a level with Jacob's eyes as he lay back; gilt90 with buttercups, but the grass did not run like the thin green water of the graveyard91 grass about to overflow92 the tombstones, but stood juicy and thick. Looking up, backwards93, he saw the legs of children deep in the grass, and the legs of cows. Munch94, munch, he heard; then a short step through the grass; then again munch, munch, munch, as they tore the grass short at the roots. In front of him two white butterflies circled higher and higher round the elm tree.
"Jacob's off," thought Durrant looking up from his novel. He kept reading a few pages and then looking up in a curiously95 methodical manner, and each time he looked up he took a few cherries out of the bag and ate them abstractedly. Other boats passed them, crossing the backwater from side to side to avoid each other, for many were now moored, and there were now white dresses and a flaw in the column of air between two trees, round which curled a thread of blue--Lady Miller's picnic party. Still more boats kept coming, and Durrant, without getting up, shoved their boat closer to the bank.
"Oh-h-h-h," groaned96 Jacob, as the boat rocked, and the trees rocked, and the white dresses and the white flannel97 trousers drew out long and wavering up the bank.
"Oh-h-h-h!" He sat up, and felt as if a piece of elastic had snapped in his face.
"They're friends of my mother's," said Durrant. "So old Bow took no end of trouble about the boat."
And this boat had gone from Falmouth to St. Ives Bay, all round the coast. A larger boat, a ten-ton yacht, about the twentieth of June, properly fitted out, Durrant said...
"There's the cash difficulty," said Jacob.
"My people'll see to that," said Durrant (the son of a banker, deceased).
"I intend to preserve my economic independence," said Jacob stiffly. (He was getting excited.)
"My mother said something about going to Harrogate," he said with a little annoyance98, feeling the pocket where he kept his letters.
"Was that true about your uncle becoming a Mohammedan?" asked Timmy Durrant.
Jacob had told the story of his Uncle Morty in Durrant's room the night before.
"I expect he's feeding the sharks, if the truth were known," said Jacob. "I say, Durrant, there's none left!" he exclaimed, crumpling99 the bag which had held the cherries, and throwing it into the river. He saw Lady Miller's picnic party on the island as he threw the bag into the river.
A sort of awkwardness, grumpiness, gloom came into his eyes.
"Shall we move on... this beastly crowd..." he said.
So up they went, past the island.
The feathery white moon never let the sky grow dark; all night the chestnut blossoms were white in the green; dim was the cow-parsley in the meadows.
The waiters at Trinity must have been shuffling100 china plates like cards, from the clatter101 that could be heard in the Great Court. Jacob's rooms, however, were in Neville's Court; at the top; so that reaching his door one went in a little out of breath; but he wasn't there. Dining in Hall, presumably. It will be quite dark in Neville's Court long before midnight, only the pillars opposite will always be white, and the fountains. A curious effect the gate has, like lace upon pale green. Even in the window you hear the plates; a hum of talk, too, from the diners; the Hall lit up, and the swing-doors opening and shutting with a soft thud. Some are late.
Jacob's room had a round table and two low chairs. There were yellow flags in a jar on the mantelpiece; a photograph of his mother; cards from societies with little raised crescents, coats of arms, and initials; notes and pipes; on the table lay paper ruled with a red margin--an essay, no doubt--"Does History consist of the Biographies of Great Men?" There were books enough; very few French books; but then any one who's worth anything reads just what he likes, as the mood takes him, with extravagant102 enthusiasm. Lives of the Duke of Wellington, for example; Spinoza; the works of Dickens; the Faery Queen; a Greek dictionary with the petals103 of poppies pressed to silk between the pages; all the Elizabethans. His slippers104 were incredibly shabby, like boats burnt to the water's rim105. Then there were photographs from the Greeks, and a mezzotint from Sir Joshua--all very English. The works of Jane Austen, too, in deference106, perhaps, to some one else's standard. Carlyle was a prize. There were books upon the Italian painters of the Renaissance107, a Manual of the Diseases of the Horse, and all the usual text-books. Listless is the air in an empty room, just swelling108 the curtain; the flowers in the jar shift. One fibre in the wicker arm-chair creaks, though no one sits there.
Coming down the steps a little sideways (Jacob sat on the window-seat talking to Durrant; he smoked, and Durrant looked at the map), the old man, with his hands locked behind him, his gown floating black, lurched, unsteadily, near the wall; then, upstairs he went into his room. Then another, who raised his hand and praised the columns, the gate, the sky; another, tripping and smug. Each went up a staircase; three lights were lit in the dark windows.
If any light burns above Cambridge, it must be from three such rooms; Greek burns here; science there; philosophy on the ground floor. Poor old Huxtable can't walk straight;--Sopwith, too, has praised the sky any night these twenty years; and Cowan still chuckles109 at the same stories. It is not simple, or pure, or wholly splendid, the lamp of learning, since if you see them there under its light (whether Rossetti's on the wall, or Van Gogh reproduced, whether there are lilacs in the bowl or rusty110 pipes), how priestly they look! How like a suburb where you go to see a view and eat a special cake! "We are the sole purveyors of this cake." Back you go to London; for the treat is over.
Old Professor Huxtable, performing with the method of a clock his change of dress, let himself down into his chair; filled his pipe; chose his paper; crossed his feet; and extracted his glasses. The whole flesh of his face then fell into folds as if props111 were removed. Yet strip a whole seat of an underground railway carriage of its heads and old Huxtable's head will hold them all. Now, as his eye goes down the print, what a procession tramps through the corridors of his brain, orderly, quick-stepping, and reinforced, as the march goes on, by fresh runnels, till the whole hall, dome112, whatever one calls it, is populous113 with ideas. Such a muster114 takes place in no other brain. Yet sometimes there he'll sit for hours together, gripping the arm of the chair, like a man holding fast because stranded115, and then, just because his corn twinges, or it may be the gout, what execrations, and, dear me, to hear him talk of money, taking out his leather purse and grudging116 even the smallest silver coin, secretive and suspicious as an old peasant woman with all her lies. Strange paralysis117 and constriction--marvellous illumination. Serene118 over it all rides the great full brow, and sometimes asleep or in the quiet spaces of the night you might fancy that on a pillow of stone he lay triumphant119.
Sopwith, meanwhile, advancing with a curious trip from the fire-place, cut the chocolate cake into segments. Until midnight or later there would be undergraduates in his room, sometimes as many as twelve, sometimes three or four; but nobody got up when they went or when they came; Sopwith went on talking. Talking, talking, talking--as if everything could be talked--the soul itself slipped through the lips in thin silver disks which dissolve in young men's minds like silver, like moonlight. Oh, far away they'd remember it, and deep in dulness gaze back on it, and come to refresh themselves again.
"Well, I never. That's old Chucky. My dear boy, how's the world treating you?" And in came poor little Chucky, the unsuccessful provincial120, Stenhouse his real name, but of course Sopwith brought back by using the other everything, everything, "all I could never be"--yes, though next day, buying his newspaper and catching121 the early train, it all seemed to him childish, absurd; the chocolate cake, the young men; Sopwith summing things up; no, not all; he would send his son there. He would save every penny to send his son there.
Sopwith went on talking; twining stiff fibres of awkward speech--things young men blurted122 out--plaiting them round his own smooth garland, making the bright side show, the vivid greens, the sharp thorns, manliness123. He loved it. Indeed to Sopwith a man could say anything, until perhaps he'd grown old, or gone under, gone deep, when the silver disks would tinkle124 hollow, and the inscription125 read a little too simple, and the old stamp look too pure, and the impress always the same--a Greek boy's head. But he would respect still. A woman, divining the priest, would, involuntarily, despise.
Cowan, Erasmus Cowan, sipped126 his port alone, or with one rosy127 little man, whose memory held precisely128 the same span of time; sipped his port, and told his stories, and without book before him intoned Latin, Virgil and Catullus, as if language were wine upon his lips. Only--sometimes it will come over one--what if the poet strode in? "THIS my image?" he might ask, pointing to the chubby129 man, whose brain is, after all, Virgil's representative among us, though the body gluttonize130, and as for arms, bees, or even the plough, Cowan takes his trips abroad with a French novel in his pocket, a rug about his knees, and is thankful to be home again in his place, in his line, holding up in his snug131 little mirror the image of Virgil, all rayed round with good stories of the dons of Trinity and red beams of port. But language is wine upon his lips. Nowhere else would Virgil hear the like. And though, as she goes sauntering along the Backs, old Miss Umphelby sings him melodiously132 enough, accurately too, she is always brought up by this question as she reaches Clare Bridge: "But if I met him, what should I wear?"--and then, taking her way up the avenue towards Newnham, she lets her fancy play upon other details of men's meeting with women which have never got into print. Her lectures, therefore, are not half so well attended as those of Cowan, and the thing she might have said in elucidation133 of the text for ever left out. In short, face a teacher with the image of the taught and the mirror breaks. But Cowan sipped his port, his exaltation over, no longer the representative of Virgil. No, the builder, assessor, surveyor, rather; ruling lines between names, hanging lists above doors. Such is the fabric134 through which the light must shine, if shine it can-- the light of all these languages, Chinese and Russian, Persian and Arabic, of symbols and figures, of history, of things that are known and things that are about to be known. So that if at night, far out at sea over the tumbling waves, one saw a haze135 on the waters, a city illuminated136, a whiteness even in the sky, such as that now over the Hall of Trinity where they're still dining, or washing up plates, that would be the light burning there--the light of Cambridge.
"Let's go round to Simeon's room," said Jacob, and they rolled up the map, having got the whole thing settled.
All the lights were coming out round the court, and falling on the cobbles, picking out dark patches of grass and single daisies. The young men were now back in their rooms. Heaven knows what they were doing. What was it that could DROP like that? And leaning down over a foaming137 window-box, one stopped another hurrying past, and upstairs they went and down they went, until a sort of fulness settled on the court, the hive full of bees, the bees home thick with gold, drowsy138, humming, suddenly vocal139; the Moonlight Sonata140 answered by a waltz.
The Moonlight Sonata tinkled141 away; the waltz crashed. Although young men still went in and out, they walked as if keeping engagements. Now and then there was a thud, as if some heavy piece of furniture had fallen, unexpectedly, of its own accord, not in the general stir of life after dinner. One supposed that young men raised their eyes from their books as the furniture fell. Were they reading? Certainly there was a sense of concentration in the air. Behind the grey walls sat so many young men, some undoubtedly142 reading, magazines, shilling shockers, no doubt; legs, perhaps, over the arms of chairs; smoking; sprawling143 over tables, and writing while their heads went round in a circle as the pen moved-- simple young men, these, who would--but there is no need to think of them grown old; others eating sweets; here they boxed; and, well, Mr. Hawkins must have been mad suddenly to throw up his window and bawl144: "Jo--seph! Jo--seph!" and then he ran as hard as ever he could across the court, while an elderly man, in a green apron145, carrying an immense pile of tin covers, hesitated, balanced, and then went on. But this was a diversion. There were young men who read, lying in shallow arm-chairs, holding their books as if they had hold in their hands of something that would see them through; they being all in a torment146, coming from midland towns, clergymen's sons. Others read Keats. And those long histories in many volumes--surely some one was now beginning at the beginning in order to understand the Holy Roman Empire, as one must. That was part of the concentration, though it would be dangerous on a hot spring night-- dangerous, perhaps, to concentrate too much upon single books, actual chapters, when at any moment the door opened and Jacob appeared; or Richard Bonamy, reading Keats no longer, began making long pink spills from an old newspaper, bending forward, and looking eager and contented147 no more, but almost fierce. Why? Only perhaps that Keats died young--one wants to write poetry too and to love--oh, the brutes148! It's damnably difficult. But, after all, not so difficult if on the next staircase, in the large room, there are two, three, five young men all convinced of this--of brutality149, that is, and the clear division between right and wrong. There was a sofa, chairs, a square table, and the window being open, one could see how they sat--legs issuing here, one there crumpled150 in a corner of the sofa; and, presumably, for you could not see him, somebody stood by the fender, talking. Anyhow, Jacob, who sat astride a chair and ate dates from a long box, burst out laughing. The answer came from the sofa corner; for his pipe was held in the air, then replaced. Jacob wheeled round. He had something to say to THAT, though the sturdy red-haired boy at the table seemed to deny it, wagging his head slowly from side to side; and then, taking out his penknife, he dug the point of it again and again into a knot in the table, as if affirming that the voice from the fender spoke the truth--which Jacob could not deny. Possibly, when he had done arranging the date-stones, he might find something to say to it--indeed his lips opened--only then there broke out a roar of laughter.
The laughter died in the air. The sound of it could scarcely have reached any one standing by the Chapel, which stretched along the opposite side of the court. The laughter died out, and only gestures of arms, movements of bodies, could be seen shaping something in the room. Was it an argument? A bet on the boat races? Was it nothing of the sort? What was shaped by the arms and bodies moving in the twilight151 room?
A step or two beyond the window there was nothing at all, except the enclosing buildings--chimneys upright, roofs horizontal; too much brick and building for a May night, perhaps. And then before one's eyes would come the bare hills of Turkey--sharp lines, dry earth, coloured flowers, and colour on the shoulders of the women, standing naked-legged in the stream to beat linen152 on the stones. The stream made loops of water round their ankles. But none of that could show clearly through the swaddlings and blanketings of the Cambridge night. The stroke of the clock even was muffled153; as if intoned by somebody reverent154 from a pulpit; as if generations of learned men heard the last hour go rolling through their ranks and issued it, already smooth and time-worn, with their blessing155, for the use of the living.
Was it to receive this gift from the past that the young man came to the window and stood there, looking out across the court? It was Jacob. He stood smoking his pipe while the last stroke of the clock purred softly round him. Perhaps there had been an argument. He looked satisfied; indeed masterly; which expression changed slightly as he stood there, the sound of the clock conveying to him (it may be) a sense of old buildings and time; and himself the inheritor; and then to-morrow; and friends; at the thought of whom, in sheer confidence and pleasure, it seemed, he yawned and stretched himself.
Meanwhile behind him the shape they had made, whether by argument or not, the spiritual shape, hard yet ephemeral, as of glass compared with the dark stone of the Chapel, was dashed to splinters, young men rising from chairs and sofa corners, buzzing and barging about the room, one driving another against the bedroom door, which giving way, in they fell. Then Jacob was left there, in the shallow arm-chair, alone with Masham? Anderson? Simeon? Oh, it was Simeon. The others had all gone.
"... Julian the Apostate156...." Which of them said that and the other words murmured round it? But about midnight there sometimes rises, like a veiled figure suddenly woken, a heavy wind; and this now flapping through Trinity lifted unseen leaves and blurred157 everything. "Julian the Apostate"--and then the wind. Up go the elm branches, out blow the sails, the old schooners158 rear and plunge159, the grey waves in the hot Indian Ocean tumble sultrily, and then all falls flat again.
So, if the veiled lady stepped through the Courts of Trinity, she now drowsed once more, all her draperies about her, her head against a pillar.
"Somehow it seems to matter."
The low voice was Simeon's.
The voice was even lower that answered him. The sharp tap of a pipe on the mantelpiece cancelled the words. And perhaps Jacob only said "hum," or said nothing at all. True, the words were inaudible. It was the intimacy160, a sort of spiritual suppleness161, when mind prints upon mind indelibly.
"Well, you seem to have studied the subject," said Jacob, rising and standing over Simeon's chair. He balanced himself; he swayed a little. He appeared extraordinarily happy, as if his pleasure would brim and spill down the sides if Simeon spoke.
Simeon said nothing. Jacob remained standing. But intimacy--the room was full of it, still, deep, like a pool. Without need of movement or speech it rose softly and washed over everything, mollifying, kindling162, and coating the mind with the lustre163 of pearl, so that if you talk of a light, of Cambridge burning, it's not languages only. It's Julian the Apostate.
But Jacob moved. He murmured good-night. He went out into the court. He buttoned his jacket across his chest. He went back to his rooms, and being the only man who walked at that moment back to his rooms, his footsteps rang out, his figure loomed164 large. Back from the Chapel, back from the Hall, back from the Library, came the sound of his footsteps, as if the old stone echoed with magisterial165 authority: "The young man-- the young man--the young man-back to his rooms."
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nervously
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ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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3
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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4
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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5
tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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6
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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7
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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8
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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9
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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10
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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11
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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12
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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13
mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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14
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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15
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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16
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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17
crevices
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| n.（尤指岩石的）裂缝，缺口( crevice的名词复数 ) | |
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18
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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19
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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20
corporeal
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| adj.肉体的，身体的；物质的 | |
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21
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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22
subservient
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| adj.卑屈的，阿谀的 | |
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23
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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24
accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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25
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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26
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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27
buttressing
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| v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的现在分词 ) | |
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28
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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29
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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30
scramble
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| v.爬行，攀爬，杂乱蔓延，碎片，片段，废料 | |
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31
amble
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| vi.缓行，漫步 | |
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32
spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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33
toad
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| n.蟾蜍，癞蛤蟆 | |
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34
ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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35
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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36
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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37
oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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38
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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39
aisle
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| n.（教堂、教室、戏院等里的）过道，通道 | |
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40
vouched
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| v.保证( vouch的过去式和过去分词 )；担保；确定；确定地说 | |
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41
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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42
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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43
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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44
hitching
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| 搭乘； （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的现在分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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45
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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46
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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47
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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48
afflicted
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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49
sterility
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| n.不生育，不结果，贫瘠，消毒，无菌 | |
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50
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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51
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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52
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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53
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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54
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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55
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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56
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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57
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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58
tart
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| adj.酸的；尖酸的，刻薄的；n.果馅饼；淫妇 | |
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59
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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60
begetting
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| v.为…之生父( beget的现在分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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61
begotten
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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62
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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63
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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64
eminence
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| n.卓越，显赫；高地，高处；名家 | |
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65
goad
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| n.刺棒，刺痛物；激励；vt.激励，刺激 | |
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66
screech
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| n./v.尖叫；(发出)刺耳的声音 | |
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67
rinsed
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| v.漂洗( rinse的过去式和过去分词 )；冲洗；用清水漂洗掉（肥皂泡等）；（用清水）冲掉 | |
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68
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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69
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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70
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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71
demolishing
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| v.摧毁( demolish的现在分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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72
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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73
agog
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| adj.兴奋的，有强烈兴趣的； adv.渴望地 | |
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74
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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75
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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76
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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77
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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78
reassurance
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| n.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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79
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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80
chestnut
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| n.栗树，栗子 | |
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81
pollen
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| n.[植]花粉 | |
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82
potency
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| n. 效力，潜能 | |
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83
blurring
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| n.模糊，斑点甚多，（图像的）混乱v.（使）变模糊( blur的现在分词 )；（使）难以区分 | |
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84
cloying
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| adj.甜得发腻的 | |
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85
lavishly
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| adv.慷慨地，大方地 | |
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86
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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87
moored
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| adj. 系泊的 动词moor的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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88
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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89
wriggled
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| v.扭动，蠕动，蜿蜒行进( wriggle的过去式和过去分词 )；（使身体某一部位）扭动；耍滑不做，逃避（应做的事等） | |
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90
gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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91
graveyard
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| n.坟场 | |
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92
overflow
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| v.(使)外溢，(使)溢出；溢出，流出，漫出 | |
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93
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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94
munch
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| v.用力嚼，大声咀嚼 | |
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95
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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96
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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97
flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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98
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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99
crumpling
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| 压皱，弄皱( crumple的现在分词 )； 变皱 | |
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100
shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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101
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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102
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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103
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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104
slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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105
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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106
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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107
renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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108
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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109
chuckles
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的名词复数 ) | |
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110
rusty
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| adj.生锈的；锈色的；荒废了的 | |
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111
props
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| 小道具； 支柱( prop的名词复数 )； 支持者； 道具； （橄榄球中的）支柱前锋 | |
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112
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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113
populous
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| adj.人口稠密的，人口众多的 | |
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114
muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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115
stranded
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| a.搁浅的，进退两难的 | |
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116
grudging
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| adj.勉强的，吝啬的 | |
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117
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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118
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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119
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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120
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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121
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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122
blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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123
manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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124
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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125
inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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126
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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128
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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129
chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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130
gluttonize
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| 暴食 | |
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131
snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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132
melodiously
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133
elucidation
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| n.说明，阐明 | |
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134
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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135
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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136
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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137
foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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138
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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139
vocal
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| adj.直言不讳的；嗓音的；n.[pl.]声乐节目 | |
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140
sonata
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| n.奏鸣曲 | |
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141
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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142
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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143
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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bawl
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| v.大喊大叫，大声地喊，咆哮 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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147
contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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148
brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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149
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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150
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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151
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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152
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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153
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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154
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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155
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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156
apostate
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| n.背叛者，变节者 | |
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157
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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158
schooners
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| n.（有两个以上桅杆的）纵帆船( schooner的名词复数 ) | |
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159
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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160
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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suppleness
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| 柔软； 灵活； 易弯曲； 顺从 | |
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kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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163
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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164
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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165
magisterial
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| adj.威风的，有权威的；adv.威严地 | |
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