Marthe was a woman of immense experience but little brains, and when phenomena1 passed beyond her experience she became rather like a foolish, raw girl. She had often dealt with drunken men; she had often—especially in her younger days—satisfactorily explained a situation to visitors who happened to call when her mistress for the time being was out. But only on the very rarest occasions had she known a client commit the awful solecism of calling before lunch; and that a newcomer, even intoxicated2, should commit this solecism staggered her and left her trembling.
"What am I going to do? Nothing!" answered Christine. "Let him sleep."
Christine, too, was dismayed. But Marthe's weakness gave her strength, and she would not show her fright. Moreover, Christine had some force of character, though it did not often show itself as sudden firmness. She condescended3 to Marthe. She also condescended to the officer, because he was unconscious, because he had put himself in a false position, because sooner or later he would look extremely silly. She regarded the officer's intrusion as tiresome4, but she did not gravely resent it. After all, he was drunk; and before the row in the Promenade5 he had asked her for her card, saying that he was engaged that night but would like to know where she lived. Of course she had protested—as what woman in her place would not?—against the theory that he was engaged that night, and she had been in a fair way to convince him that he was not really engaged that night—except morally to her, since he had accosted6 her—when the quarrel had supervened and it had dawned on her that he had been in the taciturn and cautious stage of acute inebriety7.
He had, it now seemed, probably been drinking through the night. There were men, as she knew, who simply had to have bouts8, whose only method to peace was to drown the demon9 within them. She would never knowingly touch a drunken man, or even a partially10 intoxicated man, if she could help it. She was not a bit like the polite young lady above, who seemed to specialise in noisy tipplers. Her way with the top-heavy was to leave them to recover in tranquillity11. No other way was safe. Nevertheless, in the present instance she did venture again into the bedroom. The plight12 of the lace coverlet troubled her and practically drove her into the bedroom. She got a little towel, gently lifted the sleeper's left foot, and tied the towel round his boot; then she did the same to his other foot. The man did not stir; but if, later, he should stir, neither his [109] boots nor his spurs could do further harm to the lace coverlet. His cane13 and gloves were on the floor; she picked them up. His overcoat, apparently14 of excellent quality, was still on his back; and the cap had not quite departed from his head. Christine had learned enough about English military signs and symbols to enable her to perceive that he belonged to the artillery15.
"But how will madame change her dress?" Marthe demanded in the sitting-room16. Madame always changed her dress immediately on returning from church, for that which is suitable for mass may not be proper to other ends.
"I shall not change," said Christine.
"It is well, madame."
Christine was not deterred17 from changing by the fact that the bedroom was occupied. She retained her church dress because she foresaw the great advantage she would derive18 from it in the encounter which must ultimately occur with the visitor. She would not even take her hat off.
The two women lunched, mainly on macaroni, with some cheese and an apple. Christine had coffee. Ah, she must always have her coffee. As for a cigarette, she never smoked when alone, because she did not really care for smoking. Marthe, however, enjoyed smoking, and Christine gave her a cigarette, which she lighted while clearing the table. One was mistress, the other servant, but the two women were constantly meeting on the plane of equality. Neither of them could avoid it, or consistently tried to avoid it. Although Marthe did not eat with Christine, if a meal was in progress she generally came into the sitting-room with her mouth more or less full of food. Their repasts were trifles, passovers, unceremonious and irregular peckings, begun and finished in a few moments. And if Marthe was always untidy in her person, Christine, up till three in the afternoon, was also untidy. They went about the flat in a wonderful state of unkempt and insecure slovenliness19. And sometimes Marthe might be lolling in the sitting-room over the illustrations in La Vie Parisienne, which was part of the apparatus20 of the flat, while Christine was in the tiny kitchen washing gloves as she alone could wash them.
The flat lapsed21 into at any rate a superficial calm. Marthe, seeing that fate had deprived her of the usual consolations22 of religion, determined23 to reward herself by remaining a perfect slattern for the rest of the day. She would not change at all. She would not wash up either the breakfast things or the lunch things. Leaving a small ring of gas alight in the gas stove, she sat down all dirty on a hard chair in front of it and fell into a luxurious24 catalepsy. In the sitting-room Christine sat upright on the sofa and read lusciously25 a French translation of East Lynne. She was in no hurry for the man to waken; her sense of time was very imperfect; she was never pricked26 by the thought that life is short and that many urgent things demand to be done before the grave opens. Nor was she apprehensive27 of unpleasant complications. The man was in the flat, but it was her flat; her law ran in the flat; and the door was fast against invasion. Still, the gentle snore of the man, rising and falling, dominated the flat, and the fact of his presence preoccupied28 the one woman in the kitchen and the other in the sitting-room....
Christine noticed that the thickness of the pages read had imperceptibly increased to three-quarters of an inch, while the thickness of the unread pages had diminished to a quarter of an inch. And she also noticed, on the open page, another phenomenon. It was the failing of the day—the faintest shadow on the page. With incredible transience another of those brief interruptions of darkness which in London in winter are called days was ending. She rose and went to the discreetly-curtained window, and, conscious of the extreme propriety29 of her appearance, boldly pulled aside the curtain and looked across, through naked glass, at the hotel nearly opposite. There was not a sound, not a movement, in Cork30 Street. Cork Street, the flat, the hotel, the city, the universe, lay entranced and stupefied beneath the grey vapours of the Sabbath. The sensation to Christine was melancholy31, but it was exquisitely32 melancholy.
The solid hotel dissolved, and in its place Christine saw the interesting, pathetic phantom33 of her own existence. A stern, serious existence, full of disappointments, and not free from dangerous episodes, an existence which entailed34 much solitude35 and loss of liberty; but the verdict upon it was that in the main it might easily have been more unsatisfactory than it was. With her indolence and her unappeasable temperament36 what other vocation37 indeed, save that of marriage, could she have taken up? And her temperament would have rendered any marriage an impossible prison for her. She was a modest success—her mother had always counselled her against ambition—but she was a success. Her magic power was at its height. She continued to save money and had become a fairly regular frequenter of the West End branch of the Crédit Lyonnais. (Incidentally she had come to an arrangement with her Paris landlord.)
But, more important than money, she was saving her health, and especially her complexion38—the source of money. Her complexion could still survive the minutest examination. She achieved this supreme39 end by plenty of sleep and by keeping to the minimum of alcohol. Of course she had to drink professionally; clients insisted; some of them were exhilarated by the spectacle of a girl tipsy; but she was very ingenious in avoiding alcohol. When invited to supper she would respond with an air of restrained eagerness: "Oh, yes, with pleasure!" And then carelessly add: "Unless you would prefer to come quietly home with me. My maid is an excellent cook and one is very comfortable chez-moi." And often the prospect40 thus sketched41 would piquantly42 allure43 a client. Nevertheless at intervals44 she could savour a fashionable restaurant as well as any harum-scarum minx there. Her secret fear was still obesity45. She was capable of imagining herself at fat as Marthe—and ruined; for, though a few peculiar46 amateurs appreciated solidity, the great majority of men did not. However, she was not getting stouter47.
She had a secret sincere respect for certain of her own qualities; and if women of the world condemned48 certain other qualities in her, well, she despised women of the world—selfish idlers who did nothing, who contributed nothing, to the sum of life, whereas she was a useful and indispensable member of society, despite her admitted indolence. In this summary way she comforted herself in her loss of caste.
Without Gilbert, of course, her existence would have been fatally dull, and she might have been driven to terrible remedies against ennui49 and emptiness. The depth and violence of her feeling for Gilbert were indescribable—at any rate by her. She turned again from the darkening window to the sofa and sat down and tried to recall the figures of the dozens of men who had sat there, and she could recall at most six or eight, and Gilbert alone was real. What a paragon51!... Her scorn for girls who succumbed52 to souteneurs was measureless; as a fact she had met few who did.... She would have liked to beautify her flat for Gilbert, but in the first place she did not wish to spend money on it, in the second place she was too indolent to buckle53 to the enterprise, and in the third place if she beautified it she would be doing so not for Gilbert, but for the monotonous54 procession of her clients. Her flat was a public resort, and so she would do nothing to it. Besides, she did not care a fig50 about the look of furniture; the feel of furniture alone interested her; she wanted softness and warmth and no more.
She moved across to the piano, remembering that she had not practised that day, and that she had promised Gilbert to practise every day. He was teaching her. At the beginning she had [114] dreamt of acquiring brilliance55 such as his on the piano, but she had soon seen the futility56 of the dream and had moderated her hopes accordingly. Even with terrific efforts she could not make her hands do the things that his did quite easily at the first attempt. She had, for example, abandoned the Rosenkavalier waltz, having never succeeded in struggling through more than about ten bars of it, and those the simplest. But her French dances she had notably57 improved in. She knew some of them by heart and could patter them off with a very tasteful vivacity58. Instead of practising, she now played gently through a slow waltz from memory. If the snoring man was wakened, so much the worse—or so much the better! She went on playing, and evening continued to fall, until she could scarcely see the notes. Then she heard movements in the bedroom, a sigh, a bump, some English words that she did not comprehend. She still, by force of resolution, went on playing, to protect herself, to give herself countenance59. At length she saw a dim male figure against the pale oblong of the doorway60 between the two rooms, and behind the figure a point of glowing red in the stove.
"I say—what time is it?"
She recognised the heavy, resonant61, vibrating voice. She had stopped playing because she was making so many mistakes.
"Late—late!" she murmured timidly.
The next moment the figure was kneeling at her feet, and her left hand had been seized in a hot hand and kissed—respectfully.
"Forgive me, you beautiful creature!" begged the deep, imploring62 voice. "I know I don't deserve it. But forgive me! I worship women, honestly."
Assuredly she had not expected this development. She thought: "Is he not sober yet?" But the query63 had no conviction in it. She wanted to believe that he was sober. At any rate he had removed the absurd towels from his boots.
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1
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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intoxicated
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| 喝醉的，极其兴奋的 | |
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condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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inebriety
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| n.醉，陶醉 | |
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bouts
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| n.拳击（或摔跤）比赛( bout的名词复数 )；一段（工作）；（尤指坏事的）一通；（疾病的）发作 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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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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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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deterred
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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slovenliness
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apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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22
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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lusciously
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pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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28
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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29
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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cork
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| n.软木，软木塞 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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35
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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38
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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41
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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42
piquantly
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43
allure
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| n.诱惑力，魅力；vt.诱惑，引诱，吸引 | |
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44
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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45
obesity
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| n.肥胖，肥大 | |
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46
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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stouter
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| 粗壮的( stout的比较级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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48
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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49
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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50
fig
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| n.无花果(树) | |
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51
paragon
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| n.模范，典型 | |
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52
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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53
buckle
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| n.扣子，带扣；v.把...扣住，由于压力而弯曲 | |
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54
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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55
brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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56
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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57
notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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58
vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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59
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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60
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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61
resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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