He could not return to the Pool. Alice was little hurt, so anxiety was needless; better let him leave Mr. Stocks to enjoy his heroics in peace. He would find an excuse; meanwhile, give him quiet and solitude3 to digest his bitterness. He cursed himself for the unworthiness of his thoughts. What a pass had he come to when he grudged5 a little kudos6 to a rival, grudged it churlishly, childishly. He flung from him the self-reproach. Other people would wonder at his ungenerousness, and his sulky ill-nature. They would explain by the first easy discreditable reason. What cared he for their opinion when he knew the far greater shame in his heart?
For as he strode up the woodland path to Etterick the wrappings of surface passion fell off from his view of the past hour, and he saw the bald and naked ribs7 of his own incapacity. It was a trivial incident to the world, but to himself a momentous8 self-revelation. He was a dreamer, a weakling, a fool. He had hesitated in a crisis, and another had taken his place. A thousand incidents of ready courage in past sport and travel were forgotten, and on this single slip the terrible indictment9 was founded. And the reason is at hand; this weakness had at last drawn10 near to his life’s great passion.
He found a deserted11 house, but its solitude was too noisy for his unrest. Bidding the butler tell his friends that he had gone up the hill, he crossed the sloping lawns and plunged12 into the thicket13 of rhododendrons. Soon he was out on the heather, with the great slopes, scorched14 with the heat, lying still and fragrant15 before him. He felt sick and tired, and flung himself down amid the soft brackens.
It was the man’s first taste of bitter mental anguish16. Hitherto his life had been equable and pleasant; his friends had adored him; the world had flattered him; he had been at peace with his own soul. He had known his failings, but laughed at them cavalierly; he stood on a different platform from the struggling, conscience-stricken herd17. Now he had in very truth been flung neck and crop from the pedestal of his self-esteem; and he lay groaning18 in the dust of abasement19.
Wratislaw guessed with a friend’s instinct his friend’s disquietude, and turned his steps to the hill when he had heard the butler’s message. He had known something of Lewis’s imaginary self-upbraidings, and he was prepared for them, but he was not prepared for the grey and wretched face in the lee of the pinewood. A sudden suspicion that Lewis had been guilty of some real dishonour20 flashed across his mind for the moment, only to be driven out with scorn.
“Lewie, my son, what the deuce is wrong with you?” he cried.
“I am beginning to find out my rottenness.”
Wratislaw laughed in spite of himself. “What a fool to go making psychological discoveries on such a day! Is it all over the little misfortune at the pool?”
Tragedy grew in Lewis’s eyes. “Don’t laugh, old chap. You don’t know what I did. I let her fall into the water, and then I stood staring and let another man—the other man—save her.”
“Well, and what about that? He had a better chance than you. You shouldn’t grudge4 him his good fortune.”
“Good Lord, man, you don’t think it’s that that’s troubling me! I felt murderous, but it wasn’t on his account.”
“Why not?” asked the older man drily. “You love the girl, and he’s in the running with you. What more?”
Lewis groaned22. “How can I talk about loving her when my love is such a trifling23 thing that it doesn’t nerve me to action? I tell you I love her body and soul. I live for her. The whole world is full of her. She is never a second out of my thoughts. And yet I am so little of a man that I let her come near death and never try to save her.”
“But, confound it, man, it may have been mere24 absence of mind. You were always an extraordinarily25 plucky26 chap.” Wratislaw spoke27 irritably28, for it seemed to him sheer folly29.
Lewis looked at him imploringly30. “Can you not understand?” he cried.
Wratislaw did understand, and suddenly. The problem was subtler than he had thought. Weakness was at the core of it, weakness revealed in self-deception and self-accusation alike, the weakness of the finical dreamer, the man with the unrobust conscience. But the weakness which Lewis arraigned31 himself on was the very obvious failing of the diffident and the irresolute32. Wratislaw tried the path of boisterous33 encouragement.
“Get up, you old fool, and come down to the house. You a coward! You are simply a romancer with an unfortunate knack34 of tragedy.” The man must be laughed out of this folly. If he were not he would show the self-accusing front to the world, and the Manorwaters, Alice, Stocks—all save his chosen intimates—would credit him with a cowardice35 of which he had no taint36.
Arthur and George, resigned now to the inevitable37 lady, had seen in the incident only the anxiety of a man for his beloved, and just a hint of the ungenerous in his treatment of Mr. Stocks. They were not prepared for the silent tragic38 figure which Wratislaw brought with him.
Arthur had a glint of the truth, but the obtuse39 George saw nothing. “Do you know that you are going to have the Wisharts for neighbours for a couple of months yet? Old Wishart has taken Glenavelin from the end of August.”
This would have been pleasant hearing at another time, but now it simply drove home the nail of his bitter reflections. Alice would be near him, a terrible reproach—she, the devotee of strength and competence40. He could not win her, and it is characteristic of the man that he had ceased to think of Mr. Stocks as his rival. He would lose her to no rival; to his ragged41 incapacity alone would his ill fortune be due.
He struggled to act the part of the cheerful host, and Wratislaw watched his efforts grimly. He ate little at dinner, showed no desire to smoke, and played billiards42 so badly that Wratislaw, an execrable player, won the first and last game of his life. The victor took him out of doors thereafter to walk on the moonlit, fragrant lawn.
“You are taking things to heart,” said he.
“And to me it’s the last link in a chain. I have suspected myself for long, now I know myself and—ugh! the knowledge is a hideous44 thing.”
Wratislaw stood regarding his companion seriously. “I wonder what will happen to you, Lewie. Life is serious enough without inventing a crotchety virtue45 to make it miserable.”
“Can’t you understand me, Tommy? It isn’t that I’m a cad, it’s that I am a coward. I couldn’t be a cad supposing I tried. These things are a matter chiefly of blood and bone, and I am not made that way. But God help me! I am a coward. I can’t fight worth twopence. Look at my performance a fortnight ago. The ordinary gardener’s boy can beat me at making love. I am full of generous impulses and sentiments, but what’s the use of them? Everything grows cold and I am a dumb icicle when it comes to action. I knew all this before, but I thought I had kept my bodily courage. I’ve had a good enough training, and I used to have pluck.”
“But you don’t mean to tell me that it was funk that kept you out of the pool to-day?” cried the impatient Wratislaw.
“How do I know that it wasn’t?” came the wretched answer.
Wratislaw turned on his heel and made to go back.
“You’re an infernal idiot, Lewie, and an infernal child. Thank heaven! your friends know you better than you know yourself.”
The next morning it was a different man who came down to breakfast. He had lost his haggard air, and seemed to have forgotten the night’s episode.
“Was I very rude to everybody last night?” he asked. “I have a vague recollection of playing the fool.”
“You were particularly rude about yourself,” said Wratislaw.
The young man laughed. “It’s a way I have sometimes. It’s an awkward thing when a man’s foes46 are of his own household.”
The others seemed to see a catch in his mirth, a ring as of something hollow. He opened some letters, and looked up from one with a twitching47 face and a curious droop48 of the eyelids49. “Miss Wishart is all right,” he said. “My aunt says that she is none the worse, but that Stocks has caught a tremendous cold. An unromantic ending!”
The meal ended, they wandered out to the lawn to smoke, and Wratislaw found himself standing50 with a hand on his host’s shoulder. He noticed something distraught in his glance and air.
“Are you fit again to-day?” he asked.
“Quite fit, thanks,” said Lewis, but his face belied51 him. He had forgiven himself the incident of yesterday, but no proof of a non sequitur could make him relinquish52 his dismal53 verdict. The wide morning landscape lay green and soothing54 at his feet. Down in the glen men were winning the bog-hay; up on the hill slopes they were driving lambs; the Avelin hurried to the Gled, and beyond was the great ocean and the infinite works of man. The whole brave bustling55 world was astir, little and great ships hasting out of port, the soldier scaling the breach56, the adventurer travelling the deserts. And he, the fool, had no share in this braggart57 heritage. He could not dare to look a man straight in the face, for like the king in the old fable58 he had lost his soul.
点击收听单词发音
1 solitary | |
adj.孤独的,独立的,荒凉的;n.隐士 | |
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2 shameful | |
adj.可耻的,不道德的 | |
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3 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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4 grudge | |
n.不满,怨恨,妒嫉;vt.勉强给,不情愿做 | |
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5 grudged | |
怀恨(grudge的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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6 kudos | |
n.荣誉,名声 | |
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7 ribs | |
n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 );(船或屋顶等的)肋拱;肋骨状的东西;(织物的)凸条花纹 | |
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8 momentous | |
adj.重要的,重大的 | |
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9 indictment | |
n.起诉;诉状 | |
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10 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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11 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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12 plunged | |
v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 );暴跌;骤降;突降 | |
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13 thicket | |
n.灌木丛,树林 | |
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14 scorched | |
烧焦,烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 ); 使(植物)枯萎,把…晒枯; 高速行驶; 枯焦 | |
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15 fragrant | |
adj.芬香的,馥郁的,愉快的 | |
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16 anguish | |
n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦,烦恼 | |
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17 herd | |
n.兽群,牧群;vt.使集中,把…赶在一起 | |
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18 groaning | |
adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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19 abasement | |
n.滥用 | |
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20 dishonour | |
n./vt.拒付(支票、汇票、票据等);vt.凌辱,使丢脸;n.不名誉,耻辱,不光彩 | |
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21 miserable | |
adj.悲惨的,痛苦的;可怜的,糟糕的 | |
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22 groaned | |
v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 );发牢骚;抱怨;受苦 | |
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23 trifling | |
adj.微不足道的;没什么价值的 | |
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24 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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25 extraordinarily | |
adv.格外地;极端地 | |
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26 plucky | |
adj.勇敢的 | |
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27 spoke | |
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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28 irritably | |
ad.易生气地 | |
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29 folly | |
n.愚笨,愚蠢,蠢事,蠢行,傻话 | |
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30 imploringly | |
adv. 恳求地, 哀求地 | |
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31 arraigned | |
v.告发( arraign的过去式和过去分词 );控告;传讯;指责 | |
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32 irresolute | |
adj.无决断的,优柔寡断的,踌躇不定的 | |
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33 boisterous | |
adj.喧闹的,欢闹的 | |
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34 knack | |
n.诀窍,做事情的灵巧的,便利的方法 | |
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35 cowardice | |
n.胆小,怯懦 | |
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36 taint | |
n.污点;感染;腐坏;v.使感染;污染 | |
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37 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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38 tragic | |
adj.悲剧的,悲剧性的,悲惨的 | |
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39 obtuse | |
adj.钝的;愚钝的 | |
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40 competence | |
n.能力,胜任,称职 | |
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41 ragged | |
adj.衣衫褴褛的,粗糙的,刺耳的 | |
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42 billiards | |
n.台球 | |
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43 mania | |
n.疯狂;躁狂症,狂热,癖好 | |
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44 hideous | |
adj.丑陋的,可憎的,可怕的,恐怖的 | |
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45 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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46 foes | |
敌人,仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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47 twitching | |
n.颤搐 | |
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48 droop | |
v.低垂,下垂;凋萎,萎靡 | |
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49 eyelids | |
n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 );眼睛也不眨一下;不露声色;面不改色 | |
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50 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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51 belied | |
v.掩饰( belie的过去式和过去分词 );证明(或显示)…为虚假;辜负;就…扯谎 | |
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52 relinquish | |
v.放弃,撤回,让与,放手 | |
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53 dismal | |
adj.阴沉的,凄凉的,令人忧郁的,差劲的 | |
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54 soothing | |
adj.慰藉的;使人宽心的;镇静的 | |
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55 bustling | |
adj.喧闹的 | |
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56 breach | |
n.违反,不履行;破裂;vt.冲破,攻破 | |
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57 braggart | |
n.吹牛者;adj.吹牛的,自夸的 | |
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58 fable | |
n.寓言;童话;神话 | |
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