The flames had fairly caught.
"There's St. Paul's!" some one cried.
As the wood caught the city of London was lit up for a second; on other sides of the fire there were trees. Of the faces which came out fresh and vivid as though painted in yellow and red, the most prominent was a girl's face. By a trick of the firelight she seemed to have no body. The oval of the face and hair hung beside the fire with a dark vacuum for background. As if dazed by the glare, her green-blue eyes stared at the flames. Every muscle of her face was taut1. There was something tragic2 in her thus staring--her age between twenty and twenty-five.
A hand descending3 from the chequered darkness thrust on her head the conical white hat of a pierrot. Shaking her head, she still stared. A whiskered face appeared above her. They dropped two legs of a table upon the fire and a scattering4 of twigs5 and leaves. All this blazed up and showed faces far back, round, pale, smooth, bearded, some with billycock hats on; all intent; showed too St. Paul's floating on the uneven6 white mist, and two or three narrow, paper-white, extinguisher-shaped spires7.
The flames were struggling through the wood and roaring up when, goodness knows where from, pails flung water in beautiful hollow shapes, as of polished tortoiseshell; flung again and again; until the hiss8 was like a swarm9 of bees; and all the faces went out.
"Oh Jacob," said the girl, as they pounded up the hill in the dark, "I'm so frightfully unhappy!"
Shouts of laughter came from the others--high, low; some before, others after.
The hotel dining-room was brightly lit. A stag's head in plaster was at one end of the table; at the other some Roman bust10 blackened and reddened to represent Guy Fawkes, whose night it was. The diners were linked together by lengths of paper roses, so that when it came to singing "Auld11 Lang Syne12" with their hands crossed a pink and yellow line rose and fell the entire length of the table. There was an enormous tapping of green wine-glasses. A young man stood up, and Florinda, taking one of the purplish globes that lay on the table, flung it straight at his head. It crushed to powder.
"I'm so frightfully unhappy!" she said, turning to Jacob, who sat beside her.
The table ran, as if on invisible legs, to the side of the room, and a barrel organ decorated with a red cloth and two pots of paper flowers reeled out waltz music.
Jacob could not dance. He stood against the wall smoking a pipe.
"We think," said two of the dancers, breaking off from the rest, and bowing profoundly before him, "that you are the most beautiful man we have ever seen."
So they wreathed his head with paper flowers. Then somebody brought out a white and gilt13 chair and made him sit on it. As they passed, people hung glass grapes on his shoulders, until he looked like the figure-head of a wrecked14 ship. Then Florinda got upon his knee and hid her face in his waistcoat. With one hand he held her; with the other, his pipe.
"Now let us talk," said Jacob, as he walked down Haverstock Hill between four and five o'clock in the morning of November the sixth arm-in-arm with Timmy Durrant, "about something sensible."
The Greeks--yes, that was what they talked about--how when all's said and done, when one's rinsed15 one's mouth with every literature in the world, including Chinese and Russian (but these Slavs aren't civilized), it's the flavour of Greek that remains16. Durrant quoted Aeschylus--Jacob Sophocles. It is true that no Greek could have understood or professor refrained from pointing out--Never mind; what is Greek for if not to be shouted on Haverstock Hill in the dawn? Moreover, Durrant never listened to Sophocles, nor Jacob to Aeschylus. They were boastful, triumphant17; it seemed to both that they had read every book in the world; known every sin, passion, and joy. Civilizations stood round them like flowers ready for picking. Ages lapped at their feet like waves fit for sailing. And surveying all this, looming18 through the fog, the lamplight, the shades of London, the two young men decided19 in favour of Greece.
"Probably," said Jacob, "we are the only people in the world who know what the Greeks meant."
They drank coffee at a stall where the urns20 were burnished21 and little lamps burnt along the counter.
Taking Jacob for a military gentleman, the stall-keeper told him about his boy at Gibraltar, and Jacob cursed the British army and praised the Duke of Wellington. So on again they went down the hill talking about the Greeks.
A strange thing--when you come to think of it--this love of Greek, flourishing in such obscurity, distorted, discouraged, yet leaping out, all of a sudden, especially on leaving crowded rooms, or after a surfeit22 of print, or when the moon floats among the waves of the hills, or in hollow, sallow, fruitless London days, like a specific; a clean blade; always a miracle. Jacob knew no more Greek than served him to stumble through a play. Of ancient history he knew nothing. However, as he tramped into London it seemed to him that they were making the flagstones ring on the road to the Acropolis, and that if Socrates saw them coming he would bestir himself and say "my fine fellows," for the whole sentiment of Athens was entirely23 after his heart; free, venturesome, high-spirited. ... She had called him Jacob without asking his leave. She had sat upon his knee. Thus did all good women in the days of the Greeks.
At this moment there shook out into the air a wavering, quavering, doleful lamentation24 which seemed to lack strength to unfold itself, and yet flagged on; at the sound of which doors in back streets burst sullenly25 open; workmen stumped26 forth27.
Florinda was sick.
Mrs. Durrant, sleepless28 as usual, scored a mark by the side of certain lines in the Inferno29.
Clara slept buried in her pillows; on her dressing-table dishevelled roses and a pair of long white gloves.
Still wearing the conical white hat of a pierrot, Florinda was sick.
The bedroom seemed fit for these catastrophes30--cheap, mustard-coloured, half attic31, half studio, curiously32 ornamented33 with silver paper stars, Welshwomen's hats, and rosaries pendent from the gas brackets. As for Florinda's story, her name had been bestowed34 upon her by a painter who had wished it to signify that the flower of her maidenhood35 was still unplucked. Be that as it may, she was without a surname, and for parents had only the photograph of a tombstone beneath which, she said, her father lay buried. Sometimes she would dwell upon the size of it, and rumour36 had it that Florinda's father had died from the growth of his bones which nothing could stop; just as her mother enjoyed the confidence of a Royal master, and now and again Florinda herself was a Princess, but chiefly when drunk. Thus deserted37, pretty into the bargain, with tragic eyes and the lips of a child, she talked more about virginity than women mostly do; and had lost it only the night before, or cherished it beyond the heart in her breast, according to the man she talked to. But did she always talk to men? No, she had her confidante: Mother Stuart. Stuart, as the lady would point out, is the name of a Royal house; but what that signified, and what her business way, no one knew; only that Mrs. Stuart got postal39 orders every Monday morning, kept a parrot, believed in the transmigration of souls, and could read the future in tea leaves. Dirty lodging-house wallpaper she was behind the chastity of Florinda.
Now Florinda wept, and spent the day wandering the streets; stood at Chelsea watching the river swim past; trailed along the shopping streets; opened her bag and powdered her cheeks in omnibuses; read love letters, propping40 them against the milk pot in the A.B.C. shop; detected glass in the sugar bowl; accused the waitress of wishing to poison her; declared that young men stared at her; and found herself towards evening slowly sauntering down Jacob's street, when it struck her that she liked that man Jacob better than dirty Jews, and sitting at his table (he was copying his essay upon the Ethics42 of Indecency), drew off her gloves and told him how Mother Stuart had banged her on the head with the tea-cosy.
Jacob took her word for it that she was chaste43. She prattled44, sitting by the fireside, of famous painters. The tomb of her father was mentioned. Wild and frail45 and beautiful she looked, and thus the women of the Greeks were, Jacob thought; and this was life; and himself a man and Florinda chaste.
She left with one of Shelley's poems beneath her arm. Mrs. Stuart, she said, often talked of him.
Marvellous are the innocent. To believe that the girl herself transcends46 all lies (for Jacob was not such a fool as to believe implicitly), to wonder enviously47 at the unanchored life--his own seeming petted and even cloistered48 in comparison--to have at hand as sovereign specifics for all disorders49 of the soul Adonais and the plays of Shakespeare; to figure out a comradeship all spirited on her side, protective on his, yet equal on both, for women, thought Jacob, are just the same as men--innocence such as this is marvellous enough, and perhaps not so foolish after all.
For when Florinda got home that night she first washed her head; then ate chocolate creams; then opened Shelley. True, she was horribly bored. What on earth was it ABOUT? She had to wager50 with herself that she would turn the page before she ate another. In fact she slept. But then her day had been a long one, Mother Stuart had thrown the tea-cosy;--there are formidable sights in the streets, and though Florinda was ignorant as an owl41, and would never learn to read even her love letters correctly, still she had her feelings, liked some men better than others, and was entirely at the beck and call of life. Whether or not she was a virgin38 seems a matter of no importance whatever. Unless, indeed, it is the only thing of any importance at all.
Jacob was restless when she left him.
All night men and women seethed51 up and down the well-known beats. Late home-comers could see shadows against the blinds even in the most respectable suburbs. Not a square in snow or fog lacked its amorous52 couple. All plays turned on the same subject. Bullets went through heads in hotel bedrooms almost nightly on that account. When the body escaped mutilation, seldom did the heart go to the grave unscarred. Little else was talked of in theatres and popular novels. Yet we say it is a matter of no importance at all.
What with Shakespeare and Adonais, Mozart and Bishop53 Berkeley--choose whom you like--the fact is concealed54 and the evenings for most of us pass reputably, or with only the sort of tremor55 that a snake makes sliding through the grass. But then concealment56 by itself distracts the mind from the print and the sound. If Florinda had had a mind, she might have read with clearer eyes than we can. She and her sort have solved the question by turning it to a trifle of washing the hands nightly before going to bed, the only difficulty being whether you prefer your water hot or cold, which being settled, the mind can go about its business unassailed.
But it did occur to Jacob, half-way through dinner, to wonder whether she had a mind.
They sat at a little table in the restaurant.
Florinda leant the points of her elbows on the table and held her chin in the cup of her hands. Her cloak had slipped behind her. Gold and white with bright beads57 on her she emerged, her face flowering from her body, innocent, scarcely tinted58, the eyes gazing frankly59 about her, or slowly settling on Jacob and resting there. She talked:
"You know that big black box the Australian left in my room ever so long ago? ... I do think furs make a woman look old. ... That's Bechstein come in now. ... I was wondering what you looked like when you were a little boy, Jacob." She nibbled60 her roll and looked at him.
"Jacob. You're like one of those statues. ... I think there are lovely things in the British Museum, don't you? Lots of lovely things ..." she spoke61 dreamily. The room was filling; the heat increasing. Talk in a restaurant is dazed sleep-walkers' talk, so many things to look at--so much noise--other people talking. Can one overhear? Oh, but they mustn't overhear US.
"That's like Ellen Nagle--that girl ..." and so on.
"I'm awfully62 happy since I've known you, Jacob. You're such a GOOD man."
The room got fuller and fuller; talk louder; knives more clattering63.
"Well, you see what makes her say things like that is ..."
She stopped. So did every one.
"To-morrow ... Sunday ... a beastly ... you tell me ... go then!" Crash! And out she swept.
It was at the table next them that the voice spun64 higher and higher. Suddenly the woman dashed the plates to the floor. The man was left there. Everybody stared. Then--"Well, poor chap, we mustn't sit staring. What a go! Did you hear what she said? By God, he looks a fool! Didn't come up to the scratch, I suppose. All the mustard on the tablecloth65. The waiters laughing."
Jacob observed Florinda. In her face there seemed to him something horribly brainless--as she sat staring.
Out she swept, the black woman with the dancing feather in her hat.
Yet she had to go somewhere. The night is not a tumultuous black ocean in which you sink or sail as a star. As a matter of fact it was a wet November night. The lamps of Soho made large greasy66 spots of light upon the pavement. The by-streets were dark enough to shelter man or woman leaning against the doorways67. One detached herself as Jacob and Florinda approached.
"She's dropped her glove," said Florinda.
Jacob, pressing forward, gave it her.
Effusively68 she thanked him; retraced69 her steps; dropped her glove again. But why? For whom? Meanwhile, where had the other woman got to? And the man?
The street lamps do not carry far enough to tell us. The voices, angry, lustful70, despairing, passionate71, were scarcely more than the voices of caged beasts at night. Only they are not caged, nor beasts. Stop a man; ask him the way; he'll tell it you; but one's afraid to ask him the way. What does one fear?--the human eye. At once the pavement narrows, the chasm72 deepens. There! They've melted into it--both man and woman. Further on, blatantly73 advertising74 its meritorious75 solidity, a boarding- house exhibits behind uncurtained windows its testimony76 to the soundness of London. There they sit, plainly illuminated77, dressed like ladies and gentlemen, in bamboo chairs. The widows of business men prove laboriously78 that they are related to judges. The wives of coal merchants instantly retort that their fathers kept coachmen. A servant brings coffee, and the crochet79 basket has to be moved. And so on again into the dark, passing a girl here for sale, or there an old woman with only matches to offer, passing the crowd from the Tube station, the women with veiled hair, passing at length no one but shut doors, carved door- posts, and a solitary80 policeman, Jacob, with Florinda on his arm, reached his room and, lighting81 the lamp, said nothing at all.
"I don't like you when you look like that," said Florinda.
The problem is insoluble. The body is harnessed to a brain. Beauty goes hand in hand with stupidity. There she sat staring at the fire as she had stared at the broken mustard-pot. In spite of defending indecency, Jacob doubted whether he liked it in the raw. He had a violent reversion towards male society, cloistered rooms, and the works of the classics; and was ready to turn with wrath82 upon whoever it was who had fashioned life thus.
Then Florinda laid her hand upon his knee.
After all, it was none of her fault. But the thought saddened him. It's not catastrophes, murders, deaths, diseases, that age and kill us; it's the way people look and laugh, and run up the steps of omnibuses.
Any excuse, though, serves a stupid woman. He told her his head ached.
But when she looked at him, dumbly, half-guessing, half-understanding, apologizing perhaps, anyhow saying as he had said, "It's none of my fault," straight and beautiful in body, her face like a shell within its cap, then he knew that cloisters83 and classics are no use whatever. The problem is insoluble.
收听单词发音 |
1
taut
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| adj.拉紧的，绷紧的，紧张的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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twigs
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| 细枝，嫩枝( twig的名词复数 ) | |
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uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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hiss
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| v.发出嘶嘶声；发嘘声表示不满 | |
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swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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syne
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| adv.自彼时至此时，曾经 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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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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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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looming
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| n.上现蜃景（光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼）v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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urns
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| n.壶( urn的名词复数 )；瓮；缸；骨灰瓮 | |
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burnished
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| adj.抛光的，光亮的v.擦亮（金属等），磨光( burnish的过去式和过去分词 )；被擦亮，磨光 | |
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surfeit
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| v.使饮食过度；n.(食物)过量，过度 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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lamentation
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| n.悲叹，哀悼 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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stumped
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| 僵直地行走，跺步行走( stump的过去式和过去分词 )； 把（某人）难住； 使为难； （选举前）在某一地区作政治性巡回演说 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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inferno
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| n.火海；地狱般的场所 | |
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catastrophes
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| n.灾祸( catastrophe的名词复数 )；灾难；不幸事件；困难 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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ornamented
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| adj.花式字体的v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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maidenhood
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| n. 处女性, 处女时代 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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postal
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| adj.邮政的，邮局的 | |
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propping
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| 支撑 | |
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owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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chaste
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| adj.贞洁的；有道德的；善良的；简朴的 | |
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prattled
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的过去式和过去分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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transcends
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| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的第三人称单数 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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enviously
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| adv.满怀嫉妒地 | |
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cloistered
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| adj.隐居的，躲开尘世纷争的v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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disorders
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| n.混乱( disorder的名词复数 )；凌乱；骚乱；（身心、机能）失调 | |
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wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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seethed
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| （液体）沸腾( seethe的过去式和过去分词 )； 激动，大怒； 强压怒火； 生闷气(~with sth|~ at sth) | |
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amorous
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| adj.多情的；有关爱情的 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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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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tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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nibbled
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的过去式和过去分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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64
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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68
effusively
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| adv.变溢地，热情洋溢地 | |
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69
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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lustful
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| a.贪婪的；渴望的 | |
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71
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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72
chasm
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| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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73
blatantly
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| ad.公开地 | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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meritorious
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| adj.值得赞赏的 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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crochet
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| n.钩针织物；v.用钩针编制 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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81
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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82
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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83
cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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