“Mr. Overshaw,” said he, “you must understand, as our charming friend Corinna Hastings and indeed half the Quartier Latin understand, that for such happiness as it may be my good fortune to provide I do not charge one penny. But having to eke1 out a precarious2 livelihood3, I make a fixed4 charge of five francs for every consultation5, no matter whether it be for ten minutes or ten hours. And for the matter of that, ten hours is not my limit. I am at your service for an indefinite period of time, provided it be continuous.”
“That’s very good, indeed, of you,” said Martin. “I hope you’ll join us,” he added, as the waiter approached with three coffee cups.
“No, I thank you. I have already had my after dinner coffee. But if I might take the liberty of ordering something else——?”
Fortinbras held up his hand—it was the hand of a comfortable, drowsy8 prelate—and smiled. “I have not touched alcohol for many years. I find it blunts the delicacy9 of perception which is essential to a Marchand de Bonheur in the exercise of his calling. Auguste will give me a syrop de framboises à l’eau.”
“Bien, m’sieu,” said Auguste.
“On the other hand, I shall smoke with pleasure one of your excellent English cigarettes. Thanks. Allow me.”
With something of the grand manner he held a lighted match to Corinna’s cigarette and to Martin’s. Then he blew it out and lit another for his own.
“A superstition,” said he, by way of apology. “It arises out of the Russian funeral ritual in which the three altar candles are lit by the same taper10. To apply the same method of illumination to three worldly things like cigars or cigarettes is regarded as an act of impiety11 and hence as unlucky. For two people to dip their hands together in the same basin, without making the sign of the cross in the water, is unlucky on account of the central incident of the Last Supper, and to spill the salt as you are absent-mindedly doing, Corinna, is a violation12 of the sacred symbol of sworn friendship.”
“That’s all very interesting,” said Corinna calmly. “But what are Martin Overshaw and I to do to be happy?”
Fortinbras looked from one to the other with benevolent13 shrewdness and inhaled14 a long puff15 of smoke.
“What about our young medical student friend, Camille Fargot?”
Corinna flushed red—as only pale blondes can flush. “What do you know about Camille?” she demanded.
“Everything—and nothing. Come, come. It’s my business to keep a paternal17 eye on you children. Where is he?”
“Who the deuce is Camille?” thought Martin.
“Good, good,” said Fortinbras. “And you, Mr. Overshaw, where is the lady on whom you have set your affections?”
Martin laughed frankly19. “Heaven knows. There isn’t one. The Princesse lointaine, perhaps, whom I’ve never seen.”
Fortinbras again looked from one to the other. “This complicates20 matters,” said he. “On the other hand, perhaps, it simplifies them. There being nothing common, however, to your respective roads to happiness, each case must be dealt with separately. Place aux dames21—Corinna will first expose to me the sources of her divine discontent. Proceed, Corinna.”
She drummed with her fingers on the table, and little wrinkles lined her young forehead. Martin pushed back his chair.
“Hadn’t I better go for a walk until it is my turn to be interviewed?”
Corinna bade him not be silly. Whatever she had to say he was welcome to hear. It would be better if he did hear it; then he might appreciate the lesser22 misery23 of his own plight24.
“Good,” said Fortinbras.
“I can’t paint worth a cent.”
“Good,” said Fortinbras.
“That old beast Delafosse says I’ll never learn to draw and I’m colour blind. That’s a brutal26 way of putting it; but it’s more or less true. Consequently I can’t earn my living by painting pictures. No one would buy them.”
“Then they must be very bad indeed,” murmured Fortinbras.
“Well, that’s it,” said Corinna. “I’m done for. An old aunt died and left me a legacy27 of four hundred pounds. I thought I could best use it by coming to Paris to study art. I’ve been at it three years, and I’m as clever as when I began. I have about twenty pounds left. When it’s gone I shall have to go home to my smug and chuckling28 family. There are ten of us. I’m the eldest29 and the youngest is three months old. Pretty fit I should be after three years of Paris to go back. When I was at home last, if ever I referred to an essential fact of physiological30 or social existence, my good mother called me immodest and my sisters goggle-eyed and breathless besought32 me in corners to tell them all about it. When I tell them I know people who haven’t gone through the ceremony of marriage they think I’m giving them a peep into some awful hell of iniquity33. It’s a fearful joy to them. Then mother says I’m corrupting34 their young and innocent minds and father mentions me at Family prayers. And the way they run after any young man that happens along is sickening. I’m a prudish35 old maid compared with them. Have you ever seen me running after men?”
“You are a modern Penthesilea,” said Fortinbras.
“Anyway, Wendlebury—that’s my home—would drive me mad. I’ll have to go away and fend36 for myself. Father can’t give me an allowance. It’s as much as he can do to pay his butcher’s bills. Besides, I’m not that sort. What I do, I must do on my own. But I can’t do anything to get a living. I can’t typewrite, I don’t know shorthand. I can scarcely sew a button on a camisole, I’m not quite sure of my multiplication37 table, I couldn’t add up a column of pounds, shillings and pence correctly to save my life, I play the devil with an egg if I put it into a saucepan and if I attempted to bath a baby I should drown it. I’m twenty-four years of age and a helpless, useless failure.”
“And you have still twenty pounds in your pocket?”
“Yes,” said Corinna, “and I shan’t go home until I’ve spent the last penny. That’s why I’m in Paris, drinking its August dregs. I’ve already bought a third class ticket to London—available for six months—so I can get back any time without coming down on my people.”
“That act of pusillanimous39 prudence,” remarked Fortinbras, “seems to me to be a flaw in an otherwise admirable scheme of immediate40 existence. If the ravens41 fed an impossibly unhumorous, and probably unprepossessing, disagreeable person like Elijah, surely there are doves who will minister to the sustenance42 of an attractive and keen-witted young woman like yourself. But that is a mere43 generalisation. I only wish you,” said he, bending forward and paternally44 and delicately touching45 her hand, “I only wish you to take heart of grace and not strangle yourself in your exhaustively drawn46 up category of incompetence47.”
The man’s manner was so sympathetic, his deep voice so persuasive48, the smile in his eyes so understanding, the massive, lined face so illuminated49 by wise tenderness that his words fell like balm on her rebellious50 spirit before their significance, or want of significance, could be analysed by her intellect. The intensity51 of attitude and feature with which her confession52 had been attended relaxed into girlish ease.
She laughed somewhat self-consciously and took a cigarette from the packet offered her by a silent and wondering Martin. She perked53 up her shapely head and once more the cock-pheasant’s plume54 on her cheap straw hat gave her a pleasant air of braggadocio55. Martin noticed for the first time that she had a little mutinous56 nose and a defiant57 lift of the chin above a broad white throat. He found it difficult to harmonise her appearance of confident efficiency with her lamentable58 avowal59 of failure. Those blue eyes somewhat hard beneath the square brow ought to have commanded success. Those strong nervous hands were of just the kind to choke the great things out of life. He could not suddenly divest60 himself of preconceived ideas. To the dull, unaspiring drudge61, Corinna Hastings leading the fabulous62 existence of the Paris studios had been invested with such mystery as surrounded the goddesses of the Gaiety Theatre and the Headmaster of Eton. . . .
Martin also reflected that in her litany of woe63 she had omitted all reference to the medical student now in the arms of his ridiculous mother. He began to feel mildly jealous of this Camille Fargot, who assumed the shadow shape of a malignant64 influence. Yet she did not appear to be the young woman to tolerate aggressive folly65 on the part of a commonplace young man. Fortinbras himself had called her Penthesilea, Queen of the Amazons. He was puzzled.
“What you say is very comforting and exhilarating, Fortinbras,” remarked Corinna, “but can’t you let me have something practical?”
“All in good time, my dear,” replied Fortinbras serenely66. “I have no quack67 nostrums68 to hand over at a minute’s notice. Auguste——” he summoned the waiter and addressed him in fluent French, marred69 by a Britannic accent: “Give me another glass of this obscene though harmless beverage70 and satisfy the needs of Monsieur and Mademoiselle, and after that leave us in peace, and if any one seeks to penetrate71 into this salle à manger, say that it is engaged by a Lodge72 of Freemasons. Here is remuneration for your prospective74 zeal75.”
With impressive flourish he deposited fifteen centimes in the palm of Auguste, who bowed politely.
“Merci, m’sieu,” said he. “Et monsieur, dame——?”
He looked enquiringly at Martin and Martin looked enquiringly at Corinna.
“I’m going to blow twenty pounds,” she replied. “I’ll have a kummel glacé.”
“And I’ll have the same,” said Martin, “though I don’t in the least know what it is.”
“You’re thirty years of age and you’ve lived ten years in London and have never seen kummel served with crushed ice and straws?”
“No,” replied Martin simply. “What is kummel?”
“More often than I’ve tasted it,” said Martin.
“This young man,” remarked Corinna, “has seen as much of life as a squirrel in a cage. That may not be very polite, Martin—but you know it’s true. Can you dance?”
“No,” said Martin.
“Have you ever fired off a gun?”
“I was once in the Cambridge University Rifle Corps,” said Martin.
“You used a rifle, not a gun,” cried Corinna. “Have you ever shot a bird?”
“No,” said Martin.
“Or caught a fish?”
“No,” said Martin.
“Can you play cricket, golf, ride——?”
“A bicycle,” said Martin.
“That’s something, anyhow. What do you use it for?”
“What do you do in the way of amusement?”
“Nothing,” said Martin, with a sigh.
“My good Fortinbras,” said Corinna, “you have your work cut out for you.”
The waiter brought the drinks, and after enquiring76 whether they needed all the electricity, turned out most of the lights.
Martin always remembered the scene: the little low-ceilinged room with its grotesque80 decorations looming81 fantastic through the semi-darkness; the noises and warm smells rising from the narrow street; the eyes of the girl opposite raised somewhat mockingly to his, as straw in mouth she bent82 her head over the iced kummel; the burly figure and benevolent face of their queer companion who for five francs had offered to be the arbiter83 of his destiny, and leaned forward, elbow on table and chin in hand, serenely expectant to hear the inmost secrets of his life.
He felt tongue-tied and shy and sucking too nervously84 at his straw choked himself with the strong liqueur. It was one thing to unburden himself to Corinna, another to make coherent statement of his grievance85 to a stranger.
“I am at your disposal, my dear Overshaw,” said the latter, kindly86. “From personal observation and from your answers to Corinna’s enfilade of questions, I gather that you are not overwhelmed by any cataclysm87 of disaster, but rather that yours is the more negative tragedy of a starved soul—a poor, starved soul hungering for love and joy and the fruitfulness of the earth and the bounty88 of spiritual things. Your difficulty now is: How to say to this man, ‘Give me bread for my soul.’ Am I not right?”
A glimmer89 of irony90 in his smiling grey eyes or an inflection of it in his persuasive voice would have destroyed the flattering effect of the little speech. Martin had never taken his soul into account. The diagnosis91 shed a new light on his state of being. The starvation of his soul was certainly the root of the trouble; an infinitely92 more dignified93 matter than mere discontent with one’s environment.
“Yes,” said he. “You’re right. I’ve had no chance of development. My own fault perhaps. I’ve not been strong enough to battle against circumstances. Circumstances have imprisoned94 me, as Corinna says, like a squirrel in a cage, and I’ve spent my time in going round and round in the profitless wheel.”
“And the nature of the wheel?” asked Fortinbras.
“Have you ever heard of Margett’s Universal College?”
“I have,” said Fortinbras. “It is one of the many mind-wrecking institutions of which our beloved country is so proud.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that,” cried Martin. “I’ve been helping96 to wreck95 minds there for the last ten years. I’ve taught French. Not the French language; but examination French. When the son of a greengrocer wants to get a boy-clerkship in the Civil Service, it’s essential that he should know that bal, cal, carnaval, pal16, regal, chacal take an ‘s’ in the plural97, in spite of the fact that millions of Frenchmen go through their lives without once uttering the plural words.”
“How came you to teach French?”
“My mother tongue—my mother was a Swiss.”
“And your father?”
“An English chaplain in Switzerland. You see it was like this——”
And so, started on his course, and helped here and there by a shrewd and sympathetic question, Martin, the ingenuous98, told his story, while Corinna, slightly bored, having heard most of it already, occupied herself by drawing a villainous portrait of him on the tablecloth99. When he mentioned details unknown to her she paused in her task and raised her eyes. Like her own, his autobiography100 was a catalogue of incompetence, but it held no record of frustrated101 ambitions—no record of any ambitious desire whatever. It shewed the tame ass’s unreflecting acquiescence102 in its lot of drudgery103. There had been no passionate104 craving105 for things of delight. Why cry for the moon? With a salary of a hundred and thirty-five pounds a year out of which he must contribute to the support of his widowed mother, a man can purchase for himself but little splendour of existence, and Martin was not one of those to whom splendour comes unbought. He had lived, semi-content, in a fog splendour-obscuring, for the last ten years. But this evening the fog had lifted. The glamour106 of Paris, even the Pantheon and the Eiffel Tower sarcastically107 mentioned by Corinna, had helped to dispel108 it. So had Corinna’s sisterly interest in his dull affairs. And so, more than all, had helped the self-analysis formulated109 under the compelling power of the philanthropist with shiny coat-sleeves and frayed110 linen111, at once priest, lawyer and physician who had pocketed his five francs fee.
He talked long and earnestly; and the more he talked and the more minutely he revealed the aridity112 of his young life, the stronger grew within him a hitherto unknown spirit of revolt.
“That’s all,” he said at last, wiping a streaming brow.
“And very interesting indeed,” said Fortinbras.
“Isn’t it?” said Corinna. “And he never even kissed”—so complete had been Martin’s apologia—“the landlady’s daughter who married the plumber113.” She challenged him with a glance. “I swear you didn’t.”
With a shy twist of his lips Martin confessed:
“Well—I did once.”
“Why not twice?” asked Corinna.
“Yes, why not?” asked Fortinbras, seeing Martin hesitate, and his smile was archiepiscopal indulgence. “Why but one taste of ambrosial114 lips?”
Martin reddened beneath his olive skin. “I hardly like to say—it seems so indelicate——”
“Allons donc” cried Corinna. “We’re in Paris, not Wendlebury.”
“We must get to the bottom of this, my dear Martin—it’s a privilege I demand from my clients to address them by their Christian115 names—otherwise how can I establish the necessary intimate rapport116 between them and myself? So I repeat, my dear Martin, we must have the reason for the rupture117 or the dissolution or the termination of what seems to be the only romantic episode in your career. I’m not joking,” Fortinbras added gravely, after a pause. “From the psychological point of view, it is important that I should know.”
Martin looked appealingly from one to the other—from Fortinbras massively serious to Corinna serenely mocking.
“A weeny unencouraged plumber?” she suggested.
He sat bolt upright and gasped118. “Good God, no!” He flushed indignant. “She was a most highly respectable girl. Nothing of that sort. I wish I hadn’t mentioned the matter. It’s entirely119 unimportant.”
“If that is so,” said Corinna, “why didn’t you kiss the girl again?”
“Well, if you want to know,” replied Martin desperately120, “I have a constitutional horror of the smell of onions,” and mechanically he sucked through his straw the tepid121 residue122 of melted ice in his glass.
Corinna threw herself back in her chair and laughed uncontrollably. It was just the lunatic sort of thing that would happen to poor old Martin. She knew her sex. Instantaneously she pictured in her mind the fluffy123, lower middle-class young person who set her cap at the gentleman with the long Grecian nose, and she entered into her devastated124 frame of mind when he wriggled126 awkwardly out of further osculatory invitations. And the good, solid plumber, onion-loving soul, had carried her off, not figuratively but literally127 under the nose of Martin.
“Oh, Martin, you’re too funny for words!” she cried.
Fortinbras smiled always benevolently128. “If Cleopatra’s nose had been a centimetre longer—I forget the exact classical epigram—the history of the world would have been changed. In a minor129 degree—for the destiny of an individual must, of course, be of less importance than the destiny of mankind—had it not been for one spring onion, unconsidered fellow of the robin130 and the burnished131 dove and the wanton lapwing, this young man’s fancy would have been fettered132 in the thoughts of love. One spring onion—and human destinies are juggled133. Martin is still a soul-starved bachelor, and—and—her name?”
“Gwendoline?”
“Six,” said Martin. “I can’t help knowing,” he explained, “since I still lodge with her mother.”
Corinna turned her head sideways to scrutinise the drawing on the tablecloth, and still scrutinising it, asked:
“And that is your one and only affaire du c?ur?”
“I’m afraid the only one,” replied Martin shamefacedly. Even so mild a man as he felt the disadvantage of not being able to hint to a woman that he could talk, and he would, of chimes heard at midnight and of broken hearts and other circumstances hedging round a devil of a fellow. His one kiss seemed a very bread-and-buttery affair—to say nothing of the mirth-provoking onion. And the emotion attending the approach to it had been of a nature so tepid that disillusion135 caused scarcely a pang136. It had been better to pose as an out-and-out Sir Galahad, a type comprehensible to women. As the hero of one invertebrate137 embrace he cut a sorry figure.
“You are still young. The years and the women’s lips before you are many,” said Fortinbras, laying a comforting touch on Martin’s shoulder. “Opportunity makes the lover as it does the thief. And in the bed-sitting-room in Hickney Heath where you have spent your young life where has been the opportunity? It pleases our Paris-hardened young friend to mock; but I see in you the making of a great lover, a Bertrand d’Allamanon, a Chastelard, one who will count the world well lost for a princess’s smile——”
Corinna interrupted. “What pernicious nonsense are you talking, Fortinbras? You’ve got love on the brain to-night. Neither Martin nor I are worrying our heads about it. Love be hanged! We’re each of us worried to death over the problem of how to keep body and soul together without going back to prison and you talk all this drivel about love—at least not to me, but to Martin.”
“That qualification, my dear Corinna, upsets the logic31 of your admirable tirade,” Fortinbras replied calmly, after drinking the remainder of his syrup and soda water. “I speak of love to Martin because his soul is starved, as I’ve already declared. I don’t speak of it to you, because your soul is suffering from indigestion.”
“I’ll have another kummel glacé,” said Corinna. “It’s a stomachic.” She reached for the bell-pull behind her chair—she had the corner seat. Auguste appeared. Orders were repeated. “How you can drink all that syrup without being sick I can’t understand,” she remarked.
“Omnicomprehension is not vouchsafed138 even to the very young and innocent, my dear,” said Fortinbras.
Martin glanced across the table apprehensively139. If ever young woman had been set down that young woman was Corinna Hastings. He feared explosion, annihilation of the down-setter. Nothing of the sort happened. Corinna accepted the rebuff with the meekness140 of a school-girl and sniffed141 when Fortinbras was not looking. Again Martin was puzzled, unable to divest himself of his old conception of Corinna. She was Corinna, chartered libertine142 of the land of Rodolfe, Marcel, Schaunard—he had few impressions of the Quartier Latin later than Henri Murger—and her utterances143 no matter how illogical were derived144 from godlike inspiration. He hung on her lips for some inspired and vehement145 rejoinder to the rebuke146 of Fortinbras. When none came he realised that in the seedily dressed and now profusely147 perspiring148 Marchand de Bonheur she had met an acknowledged master. Who Fortinbras was, whence his origin, what his character and social status, how, save by the precarious methods to which he had alluded149, he earned his livelihood, Martin had no idea; but he suddenly conceived an immense respect for Fortinbras. The man hovered150 over both of them on a higher plane of wisdom. From his kind eyes (to Martin’s simple fancy) beamed uncanny power. He assumed the semblance151 of an odd sort of god indigenous152 to this Paris wonderworld.
Fortinbras lit another of Martin’s Virginian cigarettes—the little tin box lay open on the table—and leaned back in his chair.
“My young friends,” said he, “you have each put before me the circumstances which have made you respectively despair of finding happiness both in the immediate and the distant future. Now as Montaigne says—an author whom I would recommend to you for the edification of your happily remote middle-age, having myself found infinite consolation153 in his sagacity—as Montaigne says: ‘Men are tormented154 by the ideas they have concerning things, and not by the things themselves.’ The wise man therefore—the general term, my dear Corinna, includes women—is he who has learned to face things themselves after having dispelled155 the bogies of his ideas concerning them. It is on this basis that I am about to deliver the judgment156 for which I have duly received my fee of ten francs.”
He moistened his lips with the pink syrup. For the picture you can imagine a grey old lion eating ice-cream.
“You, Corinna,” he continued, “belong to the new race of women whose claims on life far exceed their justification157. You have as assets youth, a modicum158 of beauty, a bright intelligence and a stiff little character. But, as you rightly say, you are capable of nothing in the steep range of human effort from painting a picture to washing a baby. Were you not temperamentally puritanical159 and intellectually obsessed160 by the modern notion of woman’s right to an independent existence, you would find a means of realising the above-mentioned assets, as your sex has done through the centuries. But in spite of amazonian trifling161 with romantic-visaged and granite-headed medical students, you cling to the irresponsibilities of a celibate162 career.”
“If he asked me, I’d marry a Turk to-morrow,” said Corinna.
“Don’t interrupt,” said Fortinbras. “You disturb the flow of my ideas. I have no doubt that, in your desperate situation, you would promise to marry a Turk; but your essential pusillanimity163 would make you wriggle125 out of it at the last moment. You’re like ‘the poor cat in the adage164.’?”
“What cat?” asked Corinna.
“The one in Macbeth, Act i, Scene 3, a play by Shakespeare. ‘Letting “I dare not” wait upon “I would,” like the poor cat i’ the adage.’ You require development, my dear Corinna, out of the cat stage. You have had your head choked with ideas about things in this soul-suffocating Paris, and the ideas are tormenting165 you; but you’ve never been at grips with things themselves. As for our excellent Martin, he has not even arrived at the stage of the desirous cat.”
The smile that lit up his coarse, lined features, and the musical suavity166 of his voice divested167 the words of offence. Martin, with a laugh, assented168 to the proposition.
“He, too, needs development,” Fortinbras went on. “Or rather, not so much development as a collection of soul-material from which development may proceed. Your one accomplishment169, I understand, is riding a bicycle. Let us take that as the germ from which the tree of happiness may spring. Do you bicycle, Corinna?”
“I can, of course. But I hate it.”
“You don’t,” replied Fortinbras quickly. “You hate your own idea of it. You’ll begin your course of happiness by sweeping170 away all your ideas concerning bicycling and coming to bicycling itself.”
“I never heard anything so idiotic,” declared Corinna.
“Doubtless,” smiled Fortinbras. “You haven’t heard everything. Go on your knees and thank God for it. I repeat—or amplify171 my prescription172. Go forth173 both of you on bicycles into the wide world. They will not be Wheels of Chance, but Wheels of Destiny. Go through the broad land of France filling your souls with sunshine and freedom and your throats with salutary and thirst-provoking dust. Have no care for the morrow and look at the future through the golden haze174 of eventide.”
“There’s nothing I should like better,” said Martin, with a glance at Corinna, “but I can’t afford it. I must get back to London to look out for an engagement.”
Fortinbras mopped his brow with an over-fatigued pocket-handkerchief.
“What did you pay me five francs for? For the pleasure of hearing me talk, or for the value of my counsel?”
“I must look at things practically,” said Martin.
“But, good God!” cried Fortinbras, with soft uplifted hands, “what is there more practical, more commonplace, less romantic in the world than riding a bicycle? You want to emerge from your Slough175 of Despond, don’t you?”
“Of course,” said Martin.
Martin objected: “No one will pay me for careering through France on a bicycle. I’ve got to live, and for the matter of fact, so has Corinna.”
“But, my dear young friend, she has twenty pounds. You, on your own showing have forty. Sixty pounds between you. A fortune! You both are tormented by the idea of what will happen when the Pactolus runs dry. Banish177 that pestilential miasma178 from your minds. Go on the adventure.”
In poetic179 terms he set forth the delights of that admirable vagabondage. His eloquence180 sent a thrill through Martin’s veins181, causing his blood to tingle182. Before him new horizons broadened. He felt the necessity of the immediate securing of an engagement grow less insistent183. If he got home with twenty pounds in his pocket, even fifteen, at a pinch ten, he could manage to subsist184 until he found work. And perhaps this blandly185 authoritative186, though seedy angel really saw into the future. The temptation fascinated him. He glanced again at Corinna, who sat demure187 and silent, her chin propped188 on her fists, and his heart sank. The proposition was absurd. How could he ride abroad, for an indefinite number of days and nights with a young unmarried woman? Of himself he had no fear. Undesirous cat though he was, sent forth on the journey into the world to learn desire, he could not but remain a gentleman. In his charge she would enjoy a sister’s sanctity. But she would never consent. She could not. No matter how profound her belief in his chivalry189, her maiden190 modesty191 would revolt. Her reputation would be gone. One whisper in Wendlebury of such gipsying and scandal with bared scissor-points would arrest her on the station platform. And while these thoughts agitated192 his mind, and Corinna kept her eyes always demure and somewhat ironical193 on Fortinbras, the latter continued to talk.
“I’m not advising you,” said he, “to pedal away like little Pilgrims into the Unknown. I propose for you an objective. In the little town of Brant?me in the Dordogne, made illustrious by one of the quaintest194 of French writers——”
“The Abbé Brant?me of ‘La Vie des Dames Galantes’?” asked Corinna.
Martin gasped. “You don’t know that book?”
“By heart,” she replied mischievously195, in order to shock Martin. As a matter of fact she had but turned over the pages of the immortal196 work and laid it down, disconcerted both by the archaic197 French and the full flavour of such an anecdote198 or two as she could understand.
“In the little town of Brant?me,” Fortinbras continued after a pause, “you will find an hotel called the H?tel des Grottes, kept by an excellent and massive man by the name of Bigourdin, a poet and a philosopher and a mighty199 maker200 of paté de foie gras. A line from me would put you on his lowest tariff201, for he has a descending202 scale of charges, one for motorists, another for commercial travellers and a third for human beings.”
“Why shouldn’t it be possible?” asked Corinna with a calm glance.
Again Corinna burst out laughing. “Is that what’s worrying you? My poor Martin, you’re too comic. What are you afraid of? I promise you I’ll respect maiden modesty. My word of honour.”
“It is entirely on your account. But if you don’t mind—” said Martin politely.
“I assure you I don’t mind in the least,” replied Corinna with equal politeness. “But supposing,” she turned to Fortinbras, “we do go on this journey, what should we do when we got to the great Monsieur Bigourdin?”
“You would sun yourselves in his wisdom,” replied Fortinbras, “and convey my love to my little daughter Félise.”
If Fortinbras had alluded to his possession of a steam-yacht Corinna could not have been more astonished. To her he was merely the Marchand de Bonheur, eccentric Bohemian, half charlatan205, half good-fellow, without private life or kindred. She sat bolt upright.
“You have a daughter?”
“Why not? Am I not a man? Haven’t I lived my life? Haven’t I had my share of its joys and sorrows? Why should it surprise you that I have a daughter?”
Corinna reddened. “You haven’t told me about her before.”
“When do I have the occasion, in this world of students, to speak of things precious to me? I tell you now. I am sending you to her—she is twenty—and to my excellent brother-in-law Bigourdin, because I think you are good children, and I should like to give you a bit of my heart for my ten francs.”
“Fortinbras,” said Corinna, with a quick outstretch of her arm, “I’m a beast. Tell me, what is she like?”
“To me,” smiled Fortinbras, “she is like one of the wild flowers from which Alpine206 honey is made. To other people she is doubtless a well-mannered commonplace young person. You will see her and judge for yourselves.”
“How far is it from Paris to Brant?me?” asked Martin.
“Roughly about five hundred kilometres—under three hundred miles. Take your time. You have sixty pounds’ worth of sunny hours before you—and there is much to be learned in three hundred miles of France. In a few weeks’ time I will join you at Brant?me—journeying by train as befits my soberer age—I go there a certain number of times a year to see Félise. Then, if you will continue to favour me with your patronage207, we shall have another consultation.”
There was a brief silence. Fortinbras looked from one young face to the other. Then he brought his hands down with a soft thump208 on the table.
“You hesitate?” he cried indignantly. “You’re afraid to take your poor, little lives in your hands even for a few weeks?” He pushed back his chair and rose and swept a banning gesture, “I have nothing more to do with you. For profitless advice my conscience allows me to charge nothing.” He tore open his frock coat and his fingers diving into his waistcoat pocket brought forth and threw down the two five-franc pieces. “Go your ways,” said he.
At this dramatic moment both the young people sprang protesting to their feet.
“What are you talking about? We’re going to Brant?me,” cried Corinna, gripping the lapels of his coat.
“Then why aren’t you more enthusiastic?” asked Fortinbras.
“But we are enthusiastic,” Corinna declared.
“We’ll start to-morrow,” said Martin.
“At six o’clock in the morning,” said Corinna.
“At five, if you like,” said Martin.
Fortinbras embraced them both in a capacious smile, as he deliberately209 repocketed the coins.
“That is well, my children. But don’t do too many unaccustomed things at once. In the Dordogne you can rise at five—with enjoyment210 and impunity211. In Paris, your meeting at that hour would be fraught212 with mutual213 antipathy214, and you would not find a shop open where you could hire or buy your bicycles.”
“I’ve got one,” said Corinna.
“So have I,” said Martin; “but it’s in London.”
Fortinbras extracted from his person a dim, chainless watch.
“It is now a quarter past one. Time for honest folk to be abed. Meet me here at eleven o’clock to-morrow, booted and spurred, with but a scrip at the back of your bicycles, and I will hand you letters to Félise and the poetic and philosophic215 Bigourdin, and now,” said he, “with your permission, I will ring for Auguste.”
Auguste appeared and Martin, waving aside the protests of Corinna, paid the modest bill. In the airless street Fortinbras bade them an impressive good night and disappeared in the byways of the sultry city. Martin accompanied Corinna to the gaunt neighbouring building wherein her eyrie was situate. Both were tongue-tied, shy, embarrassed by the prospect of the intimate adventure to which they had pledged themselves. When the great door, swung open by the hidden concierge216, at Corinna’s ring, invited her entrance, they shook hands perfunctorily.
“At a quarter to eleven,” said Martin.
“I shall be ready,” said Corinna.
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1
eke
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| v.勉强度日，节约使用 | |
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2
precarious
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| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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3
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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4
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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5
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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6
hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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7
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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8
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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9
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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10
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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11
impiety
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| n.不敬；不孝 | |
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12
violation
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| n.违反(行为)，违背(行为)，侵犯 | |
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13
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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14
inhaled
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| v.吸入( inhale的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15
puff
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| n.一口(气)；一阵(风)；v.喷气，喘气 | |
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16
pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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17
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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18
tartly
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| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
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19
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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20
complicates
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| 使复杂化( complicate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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21
dames
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| n.（在英国）夫人（一种封号），夫人（爵士妻子的称号）( dame的名词复数 )；女人 | |
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22
lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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23
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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24
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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25
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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26
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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27
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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28
chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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29
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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30
physiological
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| adj.生理学的，生理学上的 | |
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31
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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32
besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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33
iniquity
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| n.邪恶；不公正 | |
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34
corrupting
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的现在分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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35
prudish
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| adj.装淑女样子的，装规矩的，过分规矩的；adv.过分拘谨地 | |
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36
fend
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| v.照料（自己），（自己）谋生，挡开，避开 | |
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37
multiplication
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| n.增加，增多，倍增；增殖，繁殖；乘法 | |
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38
syrup
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| n.糖浆，糖水 | |
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39
pusillanimous
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| adj.懦弱的，胆怯的 | |
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40
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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41
ravens
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| n.低质煤；渡鸦( raven的名词复数 ) | |
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42
sustenance
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| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
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43
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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44
paternally
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| adv.父亲似地；父亲一般地 | |
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45
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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46
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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47
incompetence
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| n.不胜任，不称职 | |
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48
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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49
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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50
rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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51
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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52
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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53
perked
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| （使）活跃( perk的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）增值； 使更有趣 | |
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54
plume
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| n.羽毛；v.整理羽毛，骚首弄姿，用羽毛装饰 | |
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55
braggadocio
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| n.吹牛大王 | |
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56
mutinous
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| adj.叛变的，反抗的；adv.反抗地，叛变地；n.反抗，叛变 | |
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57
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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58
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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59
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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60
divest
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| v.脱去，剥除 | |
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61
drudge
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| n.劳碌的人；v.做苦工，操劳 | |
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62
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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63
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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64
malignant
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| adj.恶性的，致命的；恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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65
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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66
serenely
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| adv.安详地，宁静地，平静地 | |
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67
quack
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| n.庸医；江湖医生；冒充内行的人；骗子 | |
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68
nostrums
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| n.骗人的疗法，有专利权的药品( nostrum的名词复数 )；妙策 | |
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69
marred
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| adj. 被损毁, 污损的 | |
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70
beverage
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| n.(水，酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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71
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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72
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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73
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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74
prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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75
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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76
enquiring
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| a.爱打听的，显得好奇的 | |
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77
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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78
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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79
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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80
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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81
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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82
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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83
arbiter
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| n.仲裁人，公断人 | |
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84
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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85
grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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86
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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87
cataclysm
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| n.洪水，剧变，大灾难 | |
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88
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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89
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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90
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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91
diagnosis
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| n.诊断，诊断结果，调查分析，判断 | |
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92
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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93
dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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94
imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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95
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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96
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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97
plural
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| n.复数；复数形式；adj.复数的 | |
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98
ingenuous
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| adj.纯朴的，单纯的；天真的；坦率的 | |
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99
tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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100
autobiography
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| n.自传 | |
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101
frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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102
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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103
drudgery
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| n.苦工，重活，单调乏味的工作 | |
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104
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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105
craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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106
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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107
sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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108
dispel
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| vt.驱走，驱散，消除 | |
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109
formulated
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| v.构想出( formulate的过去式和过去分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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110
frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
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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112
aridity
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| n.干旱，乏味；干燥性；荒芜 | |
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113
plumber
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| n.(装修水管的)管子工 | |
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114
ambrosial
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| adj.美味的 | |
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115
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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116
rapport
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| n.和睦，意见一致 | |
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117
rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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118
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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119
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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120
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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121
tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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122
residue
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| n.残余，剩余，残渣 | |
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123
fluffy
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| adj.有绒毛的，空洞的 | |
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124
devastated
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| v.彻底破坏( devastate的过去式和过去分词)；摧毁；毁灭；在感情上（精神上、财务上等）压垮adj.毁坏的；极为震惊的 | |
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125
wriggle
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| v./n.蠕动，扭动；蜿蜒 | |
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126
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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127
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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128
benevolently
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| adv.仁慈地，行善地 | |
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129
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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130
robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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131
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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132
fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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133
juggled
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| v.歪曲( juggle的过去式和过去分词 )；耍弄；有效地组织；尽力同时应付（两个或两个以上的重要工作或活动） | |
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134
buxom
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| adj.（妇女）丰满的，有健康美的 | |
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135
disillusion
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| vt.使不再抱幻想，使理想破灭 | |
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136
pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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137
invertebrate
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| n.无脊椎动物 | |
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138
vouchsafed
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| v.给予，赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 )；允诺 | |
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139
apprehensively
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| adv.担心地 | |
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140
meekness
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| n.温顺，柔和 | |
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141
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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142
libertine
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| n.淫荡者；adj.放荡的，自由思想的 | |
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143
utterances
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| n.发声( utterance的名词复数 )；说话方式；语调；言论 | |
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144
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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145
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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146
rebuke
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| v.指责，非难，斥责 [反]praise | |
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147
profusely
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| ad.abundantly | |
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148
perspiring
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的现在分词 ) | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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150
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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151
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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152
indigenous
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| adj.土产的，土生土长的，本地的 | |
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153
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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154
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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155
dispelled
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| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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156
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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157
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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158
modicum
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| n.少量，一小份 | |
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159
puritanical
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| adj.极端拘谨的；道德严格的 | |
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160
obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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161
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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162
celibate
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| adj.独身的，独身主义的；n.独身者 | |
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163
pusillanimity
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| n.无气力，胆怯 | |
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164
adage
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| n.格言，古训 | |
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165
tormenting
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| 使痛苦的，使苦恼的 | |
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166
suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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167
divested
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| v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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168
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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169
accomplishment
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| n.完成，成就，（pl.）造诣，技能 | |
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170
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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171
amplify
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| vt.放大，增强；详述，详加解说 | |
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172
prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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173
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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174
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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175
slough
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| v.蜕皮，脱落，抛弃 | |
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176
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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177
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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178
miasma
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| n.毒气；不良气氛 | |
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179
poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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180
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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181
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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182
tingle
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| vi.感到刺痛，感到激动；n.刺痛，激动 | |
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183
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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184
subsist
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| vi.生存，存在，供养 | |
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185
blandly
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| adv.温和地，殷勤地 | |
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186
authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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187
demure
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| adj.严肃的；端庄的 | |
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188
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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189
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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190
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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191
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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192
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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193
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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194
quaintest
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| adj.古色古香的( quaint的最高级 )；少见的，古怪的 | |
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195
mischievously
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| adv.有害地；淘气地 | |
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196
immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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197
archaic
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| adj.(语言、词汇等)古代的，已不通用的 | |
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198
anecdote
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| n.轶事，趣闻，短故事 | |
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199
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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200
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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201
tariff
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| n.关税，税率；(旅馆、饭店等)价目表，收费表 | |
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202
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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203
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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204
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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205
charlatan
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| n.骗子；江湖医生；假内行 | |
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206
alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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207
patronage
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| n.赞助，支援，援助；光顾，捧场 | |
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208
thump
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| v.重击，砰然地响；n.重击，重击声 | |
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209
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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210
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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211
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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212
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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213
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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214
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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215
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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216
concierge
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| n.管理员；门房 | |
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