"I rather think," said Jacob, taking his pipe from his mouth, "it's in Virgil," and pushing back his chair, he went to the window.
The rashest drivers in the world are, certainly, the drivers of post- office vans. Swinging down Lamb's Conduit Street, the scarlet1 van rounded the corner by the pillar box in such a way as to graze the kerb and make the little girl who was standing2 on tiptoe to post a letter look up, half frightened, half curious. She paused with her hand in the mouth of the box; then dropped her letter and ran away. It is seldom only that we see a child on tiptoe with pity--more often a dim discomfort3, a grain of sand in the shoe which it's scarcely worth while to remove--that's our feeling, and so--Jacob turned to the bookcase.
Long ago great people lived here, and coming back from Court past midnight stood, huddling5 their satin skirts, under the carved door-posts while the footman roused himself from his mattress6 on the floor, hurriedly fastened the lower buttons of his waistcoat, and let them in. The bitter eighteenth-century rain rushed down the kennel7. Southampton Row, however, is chiefly remarkable8 nowadays for the fact that you will always find a man there trying to sell a tortoise to a tailor. "Showing off the tweed, sir; what the gentry9 wants is something singular to catch the eye, sir--and clean in their habits, sir!" So they display their tortoises.
At Mudie's corner in Oxford10 Street all the red and blue beads11 had run together on the string. The motor omnibuses were locked. Mr. Spalding going to the city looked at Mr. Charles Budgeon bound for Shepherd's Bush. The proximity12 of the omnibuses gave the outside passengers an opportunity to stare into each other's faces. Yet few took advantage of it. Each had his own business to think of. Each had his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by heart; and his friends could only read the title, James Spalding, or Charles Budgeon, and the passengers going the opposite way could read nothing at all--save "a man with a red moustache," "a young man in grey smoking a pipe." The October sunlight rested upon all these men and women sitting immobile; and little Johnnie Sturgeon took the chance to swing down the staircase, carrying his large mysterious parcel, and so dodging13 a zigzag14 course between the wheels he reached the pavement, started to whistle a tune15 and was soon out of sight--for ever. The omnibuses jerked on, and every single person felt relief at being a little nearer to his journey's end, though some cajoled themselves past the immediate16 engagement by promise of indulgence beyond--steak and kidney pudding, drink or a game of dominoes in the smoky corner of a city restaurant. Oh yes, human life is very tolerable on the top of an omnibus in Holborn, when the policeman holds up his arm and the sun beats on your back, and if there is such a thing as a shell secreted17 by man to fit man himself here we find it, on the banks of the Thames, where the great streets join and St. Paul's Cathedral, like the volute on the top of the snail18 shell, finishes it off. Jacob, getting off his omnibus, loitered up the steps, consulted his watch, and finally made up his mind to go in. ... Does it need an effort? Yes. These changes of mood wear us out.
Dim it is, haunted by ghosts of white marble, to whom the organ for ever chaunts. If a boot creaks, it's awful; then the order; the discipline. The verger with his rod has life ironed out beneath him. Sweet and holy are the angelic choristers. And for ever round the marble shoulders, in and out of the folded fingers, go the thin high sounds of voice and organ. For ever requiem--repose. Tired with scrubbing the steps of the Prudential Society's office, which she did year in year out, Mrs. Lidgett took her seat beneath the great Duke's tomb, folded her hands, and half closed her eyes. A magnificent place for an old woman to rest in, by the very side of the great Duke's bones, whose victories mean nothing to her, whose name she knows not, though she never fails to greet the little angels opposite, as she passes out, wishing the like on her own tomb, for the leathern curtain of the heart has flapped wide, and out steal on tiptoe thoughts of rest, sweet melodies. ... Old Spicer, jute merchant, thought nothing of the kind though. Strangely enough he'd never been in St. Paul's these fifty years, though his office windows looked on the churchyard. "So that's all? Well, a gloomy old place. ... Where's Nelson's tomb? No time now--come again--a coin to leave in the box. ... Rain or fine is it? Well, if it would only make up its mind!" Idly the children stray in--the verger dissuades19 them--and another and another ... man, woman, man, woman, boy ... casting their eyes up, pursing their lips, the same shadow brushing the same faces; the leathern curtain of the heart flaps wide.
Nothing could appear more certain from the steps of St. Paul's than that each person is miraculously20 provided with coat, skirt, and boots; an income; an object. Only Jacob, carrying in his hand Finlay's Byzantine Empire, which he had bought in Ludgate Hill, looked a little different; for in his hand he carried a book, which book he would at nine-thirty precisely22, by his own fireside, open and study, as no one else of all these multitudes would do. They have no houses. The streets belong to them; the shops; the churches; theirs the innumerable desks; the stretched office lights; the vans are theirs, and the railway slung23 high above the street. If you look closer you will see that three elderly men at a little distance from each other run spiders along the pavement as if the street were their parlour, and here, against the wall, a woman stares at nothing, boot-laces extended, which she does not ask you to buy. The posters are theirs too; and the news on them. A town destroyed; a race won. A homeless people, circling beneath the sky whose blue or white is held off by a ceiling cloth of steel filings and horse dung shredded24 to dust.
There, under the green shade, with his head bent25 over white paper, Mr. Sibley transferred figures to folios, and upon each desk you observe, like provender26, a bunch of papers, the day's nutriment, slowly consumed by the industrious27 pen. Innumerable overcoats of the quality prescribed hung empty all day in the corridors, but as the clock struck six each was exactly filled, and the little figures, split apart into trousers or moulded into a single thickness, jerked rapidly with angular forward motion along the pavement; then dropped into darkness. Beneath the pavement, sunk in the earth, hollow drains lined with yellow light for ever conveyed them this way and that, and large letters upon enamel28 plates represented in the underworld the parks, squares, and circuses of the upper. "Marble Arch--Shepherd's Bush"--to the majority the Arch and the Bush are eternally white letters upon a blue ground. Only at one point--it may be Acton, Holloway, Kensal Rise, Caledonian Road--does the name mean shops where you buy things, and houses, in one of which, down to the right, where the pollard trees grow out of the paving stones, there is a square curtained window, and a bedroom.
Long past sunset an old blind woman sat on a camp-stool with her back to the stone wall of the Union of London and Smith's Bank, clasping a brown mongrel tight in her arms and singing out loud, not for coppers29, no, from the depths of her gay wild heart--her sinful, tanned heart--for the child who fetches her is the fruit of sin, and should have been in bed, curtained, asleep, instead of hearing in the lamplight her mother's wild song, where she sits against the Bank, singing not for coppers, with her dog against her breast.
Home they went. The grey church spires31 received them; the hoary32 city, old, sinful, and majestic33. One behind another, round or pointed34, piercing the sky or massing themselves, like sailing ships, like granite35 cliffs, spires and offices, wharves36 and factories crowd the bank; eternally the pilgrims trudge37; barges38 rest in mid4 stream heavy laden39; as some believe, the city loves her prostitutes.
But few, it seems, are admitted to that degree. Of all the carriages that leave the arch of the Opera House, not one turns eastward40, and when the little thief is caught in the empty market-place no one in black- and-white or rose-coloured evening dress blocks the way by pausing with a hand upon the carriage door to help or condemn--though Lady Charles, to do her justice, sighs sadly as she ascends41 her staircase, takes down Thomas a Kempis, and does not sleep till her mind has lost itself tunnelling into the complexity42 of things. "Why? Why? Why?" she sighs. On the whole it's best to walk back from the Opera House. Fatigue43 is the safest sleeping draught44.
The autumn season was in full swing. Tristan was twitching45 his rug up under his armpits twice a week; Isolde waved her scarf in miraculous21 sympathy with the conductor's baton46. In all parts of the house were to be found pink faces and glittering breasts. When a Royal hand attached to an invisible body slipped out and withdrew the red and white bouquet47 reposing48 on the scarlet ledge49, the Queen of England seemed a name worth dying for. Beauty, in its hothouse variety (which is none of the worst), flowered in box after box; and though nothing was said of profound importance, and though it is generally agreed that wit deserted50 beautiful lips about the time that Walpole died--at any rate when Victoria in her nightgown descended51 to meet her ministers, the lips (through an opera glass) remained red, adorable. Bald distinguished52 men with gold-headed canes53 strolled down the crimson54 avenues between the stalls, and only broke from intercourse55 with the boxes when the lights went down, and the conductor, first bowing to the Queen, next to the bald-headed men, swept round on his feet and raised his wand.
Then two thousand hearts in the semi-darkness remembered, anticipated, travelled dark labyrinths56; and Clara Durrant said farewell to Jacob Flanders, and tasted the sweetness of death in effigy57; and Mrs. Durrant, sitting behind her in the dark of the box, sighed her sharp sigh; and Mr. Wortley, shifting his position behind the Italian Ambassador's wife, thought that Brangaena was a trifle hoarse58; and suspended in the gallery many feet above their heads, Edward Whittaker surreptitiously held a torch to his miniature score; and ... and ...
In short, the observer is choked with observations. Only to prevent us from being submerged by chaos59, nature and society between them have arranged a system of classification which is simplicity60 itself; stalls, boxes, amphitheatre, gallery. The moulds are filled nightly. There is no need to distinguish details. But the difficulty remains61--one has to choose. For though I have no wish to be Queen of England or only for a moment--I would willingly sit beside her; I would hear the Prime Minister's gossip; the countess whisper, and share her memories of halls and gardens; the massive fronts of the respectable conceal62 after all their secret code; or why so impermeable63? And then, doffing64 one's own headpiece, how strange to assume for a moment some one's--any one's--to be a man of valour who has ruled the Empire; to refer while Brangaena sings to the fragments of Sophocles, or see in a flash, as the shepherd pipes his tune, bridges and aqueducts. But no--we must choose. Never was there a harsher necessity! or one which entails65 greater pain, more certain disaster; for wherever I seat myself, I die in exile: Whittaker in his lodging-house; Lady Charles at the Manor66.
A young man with a Wellington nose, who had occupied a seven-and- sixpenny seat, made his way down the stone stairs when the opera ended, as if he were still set a little apart from his fellows by the influence of the music.
At midnight Jacob Flanders heard a rap on his door.
"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "You're the very man I want!" and without more ado they discovered the lines which he had been seeking all day; only they come not in Virgil, but in Lucretius.
"Yes; that should make him sit up," said Bonamy, as Jacob stopped reading. Jacob was excited. It was the first time he had read his essay aloud.
"Damned swine!" he said, rather too extravagantly67; but the praise had gone to his head. Professor Bulteel, of Leeds, had issued an edition of Wycherley without stating that he had left out, disembowelled, or indicated only by asterisks68, several indecent words and some indecent phrases. An outrage69, Jacob said; a breach70 of faith; sheer prudery; token of a lewd71 mind and a disgusting nature. Aristophanes and Shakespeare were cited. Modern life was repudiated72. Great play was made with the professional title, and Leeds as a seat of learning was laughed to scorn. And the extraordinary thing was that these young men were perfectly73 right--extraordinary, because, even as Jacob copied his pages, he knew that no one would ever print them; and sure enough back they came from the Fortnightly, the Contemporary, the Nineteenth Century-- when Jacob threw them into the black wooden box where he kept his mother's letters, his old flannel74 trousers, and a note or two with the Cornish postmark. The lid shut upon the truth.
This black wooden box, upon which his name was still legible in white paint, stood between the long windows of the sitting-room75. The street ran beneath. No doubt the bedroom was behind. The furniture--three wicker chairs and a gate-legged table--came from Cambridge. These houses (Mrs. Garfit's daughter, Mrs. Whitehorn, was the landlady76 of this one) were built, say, a hundred and fifty years ago. The rooms are shapely, the ceilings high; over the doorway77 a rose, or a ram's skull78, is carved in the wood. The eighteenth century has its distinction. Even the panels, painted in raspberry-coloured paint, have their distinction. ...
"Distinction"--Mrs. Durrant said that Jacob Flanders was "distinguished- looking." "Extremely awkward," she said, "but so distinguished-looking." Seeing him for the first time that no doubt is the word for him. Lying back in his chair, taking his pipe from his lips, and saying to Bonamy: "About this opera now" (for they had done with indecency). "This fellow Wagner" ... distinction was one of the words to use naturally, though, from looking at him, one would have found it difficult to say which seat in the opera house was his, stalls, gallery, or dress circle. A writer? He lacked self-consciousness. A painter? There was something in the shape of his hands (he was descended on his mother's side from a family of the greatest antiquity79 and deepest obscurity) which indicated taste. Then his mouth--but surely, of all futile80 occupations this of cataloguing features is the worst. One word is sufficient. But if one cannot find it?
"I like Jacob Flanders," wrote Clara Durrant in her diary. "He is so unworldly. He gives himself no airs, and one can say what one likes to him, though he's frightening because ..." But Mr. Letts allows little space in his shilling diaries. Clara was not the one to encroach upon Wednesday. Humblest, most candid81 of women! "No, no, no," she sighed, standing at the greenhouse door, "don't break--don't spoil"--what? Something infinitely82 wonderful.
But then, this is only a young woman's language, one, too, who loves, or refrains from loving. She wished the moment to continue for ever precisely as it was that July morning. And moments don't. Now, for instance, Jacob was telling a story about some walking tour he'd taken, and the inn was called "The Foaming83 Pot," which, considering the landlady's name ... They shouted with laughter. The joke was indecent.
Then Julia Eliot said "the silent young man," and as she dined with Prime Ministers, no doubt she meant: "If he is going to get on in the world, he will have to find his tongue."
Timothy Durrant never made any comment at all.
The housemaid found herself very liberally rewarded.
Mr. Sopwith's opinion was as sentimental84 as Clara's, though far more skilfully85 expressed.
Betty Flanders was romantic about Archer86 and tender about John; she was unreasonably87 irritated by Jacob's clumsiness in the house.
Captain Barfoot liked him best of the boys; but as for saying why ...
It seems then that men and women are equally at fault. It seems that a profound, impartial88, and absolutely just opinion of our fellow-creatures is utterly89 unknown. Either we are men, or we are women. Either we are cold, or we are sentimental. Either we are young, or growing old. In any case life is but a procession of shadows, and God knows why it is that we embrace them so eagerly, and see them depart with such anguish90, being shadows. And why, if this--and much more than this is true, why are we yet surprised in the window corner by a sudden vision that the young man in the chair is of all things in the world the most real, the most solid, the best known to us--why indeed? For the moment after we know nothing about him.
Such is the manner of our seeing. Such the conditions of our love.
("I'm twenty-two. It's nearly the end of October. Life is thoroughly91 pleasant, although unfortunately there are a great number of fools about. One must apply oneself to something or other--God knows what. Everything is really very jolly--except getting up in the morning and wearing a tail coat.")
"I say, Bonamy, what about Beethoven?"
("Bonamy is an amazing fellow. He knows practically everything--not more about English literature than I do--but then he's read all those Frenchmen.")
"I rather suspect you're talking rot, Bonamy. In spite of what you say, poor old Tennyson. ..."
("The truth is one ought to have been taught French. Now, I suppose, old Barfoot is talking to my mother. That's an odd affair to be sure. But I can't see Bonamy down there. Damn London!") for the market carts were lumbering92 down the street.
"What about a walk on Saturday?"
("What's happening on Saturday?")
Then, taking out his pocket-book, he assured himself that the night of the Durrants' party came next week.
But though all this may very well be true--so Jacob thought and spoke-- so he crossed his legs--filled his pipe--sipped his whisky, and once looked at his pocket-book, rumpling93 his hair as he did so, there remains over something which can never be conveyed to a second person save by Jacob himself. Moreover, part of this is not Jacob but Richard Bonamy-- the room; the market carts; the hour; the very moment of history. Then consider the effect of sex--how between man and woman it hangs wavy94, tremulous, so that here's a valley, there's a peak, when in truth, perhaps, all's as flat as my hand. Even the exact words get the wrong accent on them. But something is always impelling95 one to hum vibrating, like the hawk96 moth30, at the mouth of the cavern97 of mystery, endowing Jacob Flanders with all sorts of qualities he had not at all--for though, certainly, he sat talking to Bonamy, half of what he said was too dull to repeat; much unintelligible98 (about unknown people and Parliament); what remains is mostly a matter of guess work. Yet over him we hang vibrating.
"Yes," said Captain Barfoot, knocking out his pipe on Betty Flanders's hob, and buttoning his coat. "It doubles the work, but I don't mind that."
He was now town councillor. They looked at the night, which was the same as the London night, only a good deal more transparent99. Church bells down in the town were striking eleven o'clock. The wind was off the sea. And all the bedroom windows were dark--the Pages were asleep; the Garfits were asleep; the Cranches were asleep--whereas in London at this hour they were burning Guy Fawkes on Parliament Hill.
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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mid
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| adj.中央的，中间的 | |
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huddling
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| n. 杂乱一团, 混乱, 拥挤 v. 推挤, 乱堆, 草率了事 | |
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mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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kennel
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| n.狗舍，狗窝 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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zigzag
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| n.曲折，之字形；adj.曲折的，锯齿形的；adv.曲折地，成锯齿形地；vt.使曲折；vi.曲折前行 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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secreted
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| v.（尤指动物或植物器官）分泌( secrete的过去式和过去分词 )；隐匿，隐藏 | |
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snail
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| n.蜗牛 | |
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dissuades
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| 劝（某人）勿做某事，劝阻( dissuade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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shredded
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| shred的过去式和过去分词 | |
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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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provender
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| n.刍草；秣料 | |
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industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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enamel
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| n.珐琅，搪瓷，瓷釉；(牙齿的)珐琅质 | |
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coppers
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| 铜( copper的名词复数 )； 铜币 | |
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moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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wharves
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| n.码头，停泊处( wharf的名词复数 ) | |
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trudge
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| v.步履艰难地走；n.跋涉，费力艰难的步行 | |
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barges
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| 驳船( barge的名词复数 ) | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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ascends
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的第三人称单数 ) | |
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complexity
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| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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baton
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| n.乐队用指挥杖 | |
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bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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50
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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51
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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52
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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canes
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| n.（某些植物，如竹或甘蔗的）茎( cane的名词复数 )；（用于制作家具等的）竹竿；竹杖 | |
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54
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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labyrinths
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| 迷宫( labyrinth的名词复数 )； （文字，建筑）错综复杂的 | |
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effigy
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| n.肖像 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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impermeable
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| adj.不能透过的，不渗透的 | |
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doffing
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| n.下筒，落纱v.脱去，（尤指）脱帽( doff的现在分词 ) | |
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entails
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| 使…成为必要( entail的第三人称单数 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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extravagantly
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| adv.挥霍无度地 | |
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asterisks
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| n.星号，星状物( asterisk的名词复数 )v.加星号于( asterisk的第三人称单数 ) | |
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outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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lewd
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| adj.淫荡的 | |
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repudiated
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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flannel
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| n.法兰绒；法兰绒衣服 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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landlady
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| n.女房东，女地主 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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foaming
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| adj.布满泡沫的；发泡 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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skilfully
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| adv. (美skillfully)熟练地 | |
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archer
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| n.射手，弓箭手 | |
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unreasonably
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| adv. 不合理地 | |
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impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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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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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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lumbering
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| n.采伐林木 | |
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rumpling
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| v.弄皱，使凌乱( rumple的现在分词 ) | |
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wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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impelling
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| adj.迫使性的，强有力的v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的现在分词 ) | |
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hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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cavern
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| n.洞穴，大山洞 | |
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unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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