It was now the height of the season, and every ship that came fromEngland left a few people on the shores of Santa Marina who droveup to the hotel. The fact that the Ambroses had a house where onecould escape momentarily from the slightly inhuman1 atmosphere of anhotel was a source of genuine pleasure not only to Hirst and Hewet,but to the Elliots, the Thornburys, the Flushings, Miss Allan,Evelyn M., together with other people whose identity was so littledeveloped that the Ambroses did not discover that they possessed2 names.
By degrees there was established a kind of correspondence betweenthe two houses, the big and the small, so that at most hoursof the day one house could guess what was going on in the other,and the words "the villa3" and "the hotel" called up the idea of twoseparate systems of life. Acquaintances showed signs of developinginto friends, for that one tie to Mrs. Parry's drawing-room hadinevitably split into many other ties attached to different partsof England, and sometimes these alliances seemed cynically4 fragile,and sometimes painfully acute, lacking as they did the supportingbackground of organised English life. One night when the moon wasround between the trees, Evelyn M. told Helen the story of her life,and claimed her everlasting5 friendship; or another occasion,merely because of a sigh, or a pause, or a word thoughtlessly dropped,poor Mrs. Elliot left the villa half in tears, vowing7 never againto meet the cold and scornful woman who had insulted her, and in truth,meet again they never did. It did not seem worth while to piecetogether so slight a friendship.
Hewet, indeed, might have found excellent material at this time upat the villa for some chapters in the novel which was to be called"Silence, or the Things People don't say." Helen and Rachel hadbecome very silent. Having detected, as she thought, a secret,and judging that Rachel meant to keep it from her, Mrs. Ambroserespected it carefully, but from that cause, though unintentionally,a curious atmosphere of reserve grew up between them. Instead ofsharing their views upon all subjects, and plunging8 after an ideawherever it might lead, they spoke9 chiefly in comment uponthe people they saw, and the secret between them made itself feltin what they said even of Thornburys and Elliots. Always calmand unemotional in her judgments10, Mrs. Ambrose was now inclinedto be definitely pessimistic. She was not severe upon individualsso much as incredulous of the kindness of destiny, fate, what happensin the long run, and apt to insist that this was generally adverseto people in proportion as they deserved well. Even this theory shewas ready to discard in favour of one which made chaos11 triumphant,things happening for no reason at all, and every one groping aboutin illusion and ignorance. With a certain pleasure she developedthese views to her niece, taking a letter from home as her test:
which gave good news, but might just as well have given bad.
How did she know that at this very moment both her children werenot lying dead, crushed by motor omnibuses? "It's happeningto somebody: why shouldn't it happen to me?" she would argue,her face taking on the stoical expression of anticipated sorrow.
however sincere these views may have been, they were undoubtedlycalled forth12 by the irrational13 state of her niece's mind.
It was so fluctuating, and went so quickly from joy to despair,that it seemed necessary to confront it with some stable opinionwhich naturally became dark as well as stable. Perhaps Mrs. Ambrosehad some idea that in leading the talk into these quarters she mightdiscover what was in Rachel's mind, but it was difficult to judge,for sometimes she would agree with the gloomiest thing that was said,at other times she refused to listen, and rammed14 Helen's theoriesdown her throat with laughter, chatter15, ridicule16 of the wildest,and fierce bursts of anger even at what she called the "croaking17 of araven in the mud.""It's hard enough without that," she asserted.
"What's hard?" Helen demanded.
"Life," she replied, and then they both became silent.
Helen might draw her own conclusions as to why life was hard, as to whyan hour later, perhaps, life was something so wonderful and vividthat the eyes of Rachel beholding18 it were positively19 exhilaratingto a spectator. True to her creed20, she did not attempt to interfere,although there were enough of those weak moments of depressionto make it perfectly21 easy for a less scrupulous22 person to pressthrough and know all, and perhaps Rachel was sorry that she didnot choose. All these moods ran themselves into one general effect,which Helen compared to the sliding of a river, quick, quicker,quicker still, as it races to a waterfall. Her instinct was to cryout Stop! but even had there been any use in crying Stop! she wouldhave refrained, thinking it best that things should take their way,the water racing23 because the earth was shaped to make it race.
It seemed that Rachel herself had no suspicion that she was watched,or that there was anything in her manner likely to draw attention to her.
What had happened to her she did not know. Her mind was very muchin the condition of the racing water to which Helen compared it.
She wanted to see Terence; she was perpetually wishing to seehim when he was not there; it was an agony to miss seeing him;agonies were strewn all about her day on account of him, but she neverasked herself what this force driving through her life arose from.
She thought of no result any more than a tree perpetually presseddownwards by the wind considers the result of being pressed downwardsby the wind.
During the two or three weeks which had passed since their walk,half a dozen notes from him had accumulated in her drawer. She wouldread them, and spend the whole morning in a daze25 of happiness;the sunny land outside the window being no less capable of analysingits own colour and heat than she was of analysing hers. In these moodsshe found it impossible to read or play the piano, even to move beingbeyond her inclination26. The time passed without her noticing it.
When it was dark she was drawn27 to the window by the lights of the hotel.
A light that went in and out was the light in Terence's window:
there he sat, reading perhaps, or now he was walking up and downpulling out one book after another; and now he was seated in hischair again, and she tried to imagine what he was thinking about.
The steady lights marked the rooms where Terence sat with peoplemoving round him. Every one who stayed in the hotel had a peculiarromance and interest about them. They were not ordinary people.
She would attribute wisdom to Mrs. Elliot, beauty to Susan Warrington,a splendid vitality28 to Evelyn M., because Terence spoke to them.
As unreflecting and pervasive29 were the moods of depression.
Her mind was as the landscape outside when dark beneath cloudsand straitly lashed30 by wind and hail. Again she would sit passivein her chair exposed to pain, and Helen's fantastical or gloomywords were like so many darts31 goading32 her to cry out against thehardness of life. Best of all were the moods when for no reasonagain this stress of feeling slackened, and life went on as usual,only with a joy and colour in its events that was unknown before;they had a significance like that which she had seen in the tree:
the nights were black bars separating her from the days;she would have liked to run all the days into one long continuityof sensation. Although these moods were directly or indirectlycaused by the presence of Terence or the thought of him, she neversaid to herself that she was in love with him, or consideredwhat was to happen if she continued to feel such things, so thatHelen's image of the river sliding on to the waterfall had a greatlikeness to the facts, and the alarm which Helen sometimes feltwas justified33.
In her curious condition of unanalysed sensations she was incapableof making a plan which should have any effect upon her state of mind.
She abandoned herself to the mercy of accidents, missing Terence one day,meeting him the next, receiving his letters always with a startof surprise. Any woman experienced in the progress of courtshipwould have come by certain opinions from all this which would havegiven her at least a theory to go upon; but no one had ever beenin love with Rachel, and she had never been in love with any one.
Moreover, none of the books she read, from _Wuthering_ _Heights_to _Man_ _and_ _Superman_, and the plays of Ibsen, suggested fromtheir analysis of love that what their heroines felt was what shewas feeling now. It seemed to her that her sensations had no name.
She met Terence frequently. When they did not meet, he was aptto send a note with a book or about a book, for he had not beenable after all to neglect that approach to intimacy34. But sometimeshe did not come or did not write for several days at a time.
Again when they met their meeting might be one of inspiriting joyor of harassing35 despair. Over all their partings hung the senseof interruption, leaving them both unsatisfied, though ignorantthat the other shared the feeling.
If Rachel was ignorant of her own feelings, she was even morecompletely ignorant of his. At first he moved as a god;as she came to know him better he was still the centre of light,but combined with this beauty a wonderful power of making her daringand confident of herself. She was conscious of emotions and powerswhich she had never suspected in herself, and of a depth in the worldhitherto unknown. When she thought of their relationship she sawrather than reasoned, representing her view of what Terence feltby a picture of him drawn across the room to stand by her side.
This passage across the room amounted to a physical sensation,but what it meant she did not know.
Thus the time went on, wearing a calm, bright look upon its surface.
Letters came from England, letters came from Willoughby,and the days accumulated their small events which shaped the year.
Superficially, three odes of Pindar were mended, Helen covered aboutfive inches of her embroidery36, and St. John completed the firsttwo acts of a play. He and Rachel being now very good friends,he read them aloud to her, and she was so genuinely impressedby the skill of his rhythms and the variety of his adjectives,as well as by the fact that he was Terence's friend, that he beganto wonder whether he was not intended for literature rather thanfor law. It was a time of profound thought and sudden revelationsfor more than one couple, and several single people.
A Sunday came, which no one in the villa with the exception ofRachel and the Spanish maid proposed to recognise. Rachel stillwent to church, because she had never, according to Helen,taken the trouble to think about it. Since they had celebratedthe service at the hotel she went there expecting to get somepleasure from her passage across the garden and through the hallof the hotel, although it was very doubtful whether she wouldsee Terence, or at any rate have the chance of speaking to him.
As the greater number of visitors at the hotel were English,there was almost as much difference between Sunday and Wednesdayas there is in England, and Sunday appeared here as there, the muteblack ghost or penitent37 spirit of the busy weekday. The Englishcould not pale the sunshine, but they could in some miraculous38 wayslow down the hours, dull the incidents, lengthen39 the meals, and makeeven the servants and page-boys wear a look of boredom40 and propriety41.
The best clothes which every one put on helped the general effect;it seemed that no lady could sit down without bending a clean starchedpetticoat, and no gentleman could breathe without a sudden cracklefrom a stiff shirt-front. As the hands of the clock neared eleven,on this particular Sunday, various people tended to draw togetherin the hall, clasping little redleaved books in their hands.
The clock marked a few minutes to the hour when a stout42 black figurepassed through the hall with a preoccupied44 expression, as thoughhe would rather not recognise salutations, although aware of them,and disappeared down the corridor which led from it.
"Mr. Bax," Mrs. Thornbury whispered.
The little group of people then began to move off in the samedirection as the stout black figure. Looked at in an oddway by people who made no effort to join them, they movedwith one exception slowly and consciously towards the stairs.
Mrs. Flushing was the exception. She came running downstairs,strode across the hall, joined the procession much out of breath,demanding of Mrs. Thornbury in an agitated45 whisper, "Where, where?""We are all going," said Mrs. Thornbury gently, and soon theywere descending47 the stairs two by two. Rachel was amongthe first to descend46. She did not see that Terence and Hirstcame in at the rear possessed of no black volume, but of onethin book bound in light-blue cloth, which St. John carried under his arm.
The chapel48 was the old chapel of the monks49. It was a profound coolplace where they had said Mass for hundreds of years, and done penancein the cold moonlight, and worshipped old brown pictures and carvedsaints which stood with upraised hands of blessing50 in the hollowsin the walls. The transition from Catholic to Protestant worshiphad been bridged by a time of disuse, when there were no services,and the place was used for storing jars of oil, liqueur, and deck-chairs;the hotel flourishing, some religious body had taken the place in hand,and it was now fitted out with a number of glazed52 yellow benches,claret-coloured footstools; it had a small pulpit, and a brass53 eaglecarrying the Bible on its back, while the piety54 of different womenhad supplied ugly squares of carpet, and long strips of embroideryheavily wrought55 with monograms56 in gold.
As the congregation entered they were met by mild sweet chordsissuing from a harmonium, where Miss Willett, concealed57 from viewby a baize curtain, struck emphatic58 chords with uncertain fingers.
The sound spread through the chapel as the rings of water spreadfrom a fallen stone. The twenty or twenty-five people who composedthe congregation first bowed their heads and then sat up and lookedabout them. It was very quiet, and the light down here seemed palerthan the light above. The usual bows and smiles were dispensed59 with,but they recognised each other. The Lord's Prayer was read over them.
As the childlike battle of voices rose, the congregation,many of whom had only met on the staircase, felt themselvespathetically united and well-disposed towards each other.
As if the prayer were a torch applied60 to fuel, a smoke seemed to riseautomatically and fill the place with the ghosts of innumerableservices on innumerable Sunday mornings at home. Susan Warringtonin particular was conscious of the sweetest sense of sisterhood,as she covered her face with her hands and saw slips of bent61 backsthrough the chinks between her fingers. Her emotions rose calmlyand evenly, approving of herself and of life at the same time.
It was all so quiet and so good. But having created this peacefulatmosphere Mr. Bax suddenly turned the page and read a psalm62.
Though he read it with no change of voice the mood was broken.
"Be merciful unto me, O God," he read, "for man goeth about to devour63 me:
he is daily fighting and troubling me. . . . They daily mistakemy words: all that they imagine is to do me evil. They holdall together and keep themselves close. . . . Break their teeth,O God, in their mouths; smite64 the jaw-bones of the lions, O Lord:
let them fall away like water that runneth apace; and when they shoottheir arrows let them be rooted out."Nothing in Susan's experience at all corresponded with this,and as she had no love of language she had long ceased to attendto such remarks, although she followed them with the same kindof mechanical respect with which she heard many of Lear's speechesread aloud. Her mind was still serene65 and really occupied withpraise of her own nature and praise of God, that is of the solemnand satisfactory order of the world.
But it could be seen from a glance at their faces that most of the others,the men in particular, felt the inconvenience of the sudden intrusionof this old savage66. They looked more secular67 and critical as thenlistened to the ravings of the old black man with a cloth round hisloins cursing with vehement68 gesture by a camp-fire in the desert.
After that there was a general sound of pages being turned as ifthey were in class, and then they read a little bit of the OldTestament about making a well, very much as school boys translatean easy passage from the _Anabasis_ when they have shut up theirFrench grammar. Then they returned to the New Testament69 and the sadand beautiful figure of Christ. While Christ spoke they madeanother effort to fit his interpretation70 of life upon the livesthey lived, but as they were all very different, some practical,some ambitious, some stupid, some wild and experimental, some in love,and others long past any feeling except a feeling of comfort,they did very different things with the words of Christ.
From their faces it seemed that for the most part they madeno effort at all, and, recumbent as it were, accepted the ideasthe words gave as representing goodness, in the same way, no doubt,as one of those industrious71 needlewomen had accepted the brightugly pattern on her mat as beauty.
Whatever the reason might be, for the first time in her life,instead of slipping at once into some curious pleasant cloudof emotion, too familiar to be considered, Rachel listened criticallyto what was being said. By the time they had swung in an irregularway from prayer to psalm, from psalm to history, from historyto poetry, and Mr. Bax was giving out his text, she was in a stateof acute discomfort72. Such was the discomfort she felt when forcedto sit through an unsatisfactory piece of music badly played.
Tantalised, enraged73 by the clumsy insensitiveness of the conductor,who put the stress on the wrong places, and annoyed by the vastflock of the audience tamely praising and acquiescing74 withoutknowing or caring, so she was not tantalized75 and enraged, only here,with eyes half-shut and lips pursed together, the atmosphere offorced solemnity increased her anger. All round her were peoplepretending to feel what they did not feel, while somewhere aboveher floated the idea which they could none of them grasp, which theypretended to grasp, always escaping out of reach, a beautiful idea,an idea like a butterfly. One after another, vast and hard and cold,appeared to her the churches all over the world where this blunderingeffort and misunderstanding were perpetually going on, great buildings,filled with innumerable men and women, not seeing clearly,who finally gave up the effort to see, and relapsed tamely into praiseand acquiescence77, half-shutting their eyes and pursing up their lips.
The thought had the same sort of physical discomfort as is causedby a film of mist always coming between the eyes and the printed page.
She did her best to brush away the film and to conceive somethingto be worshipped as the service went on, but failed, always misledby the voice of Mr. Bax saying things which misrepresented the idea,and by the patter of baaing inexpressive human voices falling roundher like damp leaves. The effort was tiring and dispiriting.
She ceased to listen, and fixed78 her eyes on the face of a womannear her, a hospital nurse, whose expression of devout79 attentionseemed to prove that she was at any rate receiving satisfaction.
But looking at her carefully she came to the conclusion that thehospital nurse was only slavishly acquiescent80, and that the look ofsatisfaction was produced by no splendid conception of God within her.
How indeed, could she conceive anything far outside her own experience,a woman with a commonplace face like hers, a little round red face,upon which trivial duties and trivial spites had drawn lines, whose weakblue eyes saw without intensity81 or individuality, whose featureswere blurred82, insensitive, and callous83? She was adoring somethingshallow and smug, clinging to it, so the obstinate84 mouth witnessed,with the assiduity of a limpet; nothing would tear her from herdemure belief in her own virtue85 and the virtues86 of her religion.
She was a limpet, with the sensitive side of her stuck to a rock,for ever dead to the rush of fresh and beautiful things past her.
The face of this single worshipper became printed on Rachel's mindwith an impression of keen horror, and she had it suddenly revealedto her what Helen meant and St. John meant when they proclaimed theirhatred of Christianity. With the violence that now marked her feelings,she rejected all that she had implicitly87 believed.
Meanwhile Mr. Bax was half-way through the second lesson.
She looked at him. He was a man of the world with supple88 lipsand an agreeable manner, he was indeed a man of much kindlinessand simplicity89, though by no means clever, but she was not inthe mood to give any one credit for such qualities, and examinedhim as though he were an epitome90 of all the vices51 of his service.
Right at the back of the chapel Mrs. Flushing, Hirst, and Hewetsat in a row in a very different frame of mind. Hewet was staringat the roof with his legs stuck out in front of him, for as hehad never tried to make the service fit any feeling or idea of his,he was able to enjoy the beauty of the language without hindrance91.
His mind was occupied first with accidental things, such as thewomen's hair in front of him, the light on the faces, then withthe words which seemed to him magnificent, and then more vaguelywith the characters of the other worshippers. But when he suddenlyperceived Rachel, all these thoughts were driven out of his head,and he thought only of her. The psalms93, the prayers, the Litany,and the sermon were all reduced to one chanting sound which paused,and then renewed itself, a little higher or a little lower.
He stared alternately at Rachel and at the ceiling, but his expressionwas now produced not by what he saw but by something in his mind.
He was almost as painfully disturbed by his thoughts as she wasby hers.
Early in the service Mrs. Flushing had discovered that she had taken upa Bible instead of a prayer-book, and, as she was sitting next to Hirst,she stole a glance over his shoulder. He was reading steadily94 inthe thin pale-blue volume. Unable to understand, she peered closer,upon which Hirst politely laid the book before her, pointing tothe first line of a Greek poem and then to the translation opposite.
"What's that?" she whispered inquisitively95.
"Sappho," he replied. "The one Swinburne did--the best thingthat's ever been written."Mrs. Flushing could not resist such an opportunity. She gulpeddown the Ode to Aphrodite during the Litany, keeping herself withdifficulty from asking when Sappho lived, and what else she wroteworth reading, and contriving96 to come in punctually at the endwith "the forgiveness of sins, the Resurrection of the body,and the life everlastin'. Amen."Meanwhile Hirst took out an envelope and began scribbling97 on the backof it. When Mr. Bax mounted the pulpit he shut up Sappho with hisenvelope between the pages, settled his spectacles, and fixed hisgaze intently upon the clergyman. Standing76 in the pulpit he lookedvery large and fat; the light coming through the greenish unstainedwindow-glass made his face appear smooth and white like a very large egg.
He looked round at all the faces looking mildly up at him,although some of them were the faces of men and women old enough to behis grandparents, and gave out his text with weighty significance.
The argument of the sermon was that visitors to this beautiful land,although they were on a holiday, owed a duty to the natives.
It did not, in truth, differ very much from a leading article upontopics of general interest in the weekly newspapers. It rambledwith a kind of amiable98 verbosity99 from one heading to another,suggesting that all human beings are very much the same undertheir skins, illustrating100 this by the resemblance of the gameswhich little Spanish boys play to the games little boys in Londonstreets play, observing that very small things do influence people,particularly natives; in fact, a very dear friend of Mr. Bax's hadtold him that the success of our rule in India, that vast country,largely depended upon the strict code of politeness which theEnglish adopted towards the natives, which led to the remarkthat small things were not necessarily small, and that somehowto the virtue of sympathy, which was a virtue never more neededthan to-day, when we lived in a time of experiment and upheaval--witness the aeroplane and wireless101 telegraph, and there wereother problems which hardly presented themselves to our fathers,but which no man who called himself a man could leave unsettled.
Here Mr. Bax became more definitely clerical, if it were possible,he seemed to speak with a certain innocent craftiness102, as he pointedout that all this laid a special duty upon earnest Christians104.
What men were inclined to say now was, "Oh, that fellow--he's a parson."What we want them to say is, "He's a good fellow"--in other words,"He is my brother." He exhorted105 them to keep in touch with menof the modern type; they must sympathise with their multifariousinterests in order to keep before their eyes that whatever discoverieswere made there was one discovery which could not be superseded,which was indeed as much of a necessity to the most successfuland most brilliant of them all as it had been to their fathers.
The humblest could help; the least important things had an influence(here his manner became definitely priestly and his remarks seemedto be directed to women, for indeed Mr. Bax's congregations weremainly composed of women, and he was used to assigning them theirduties in his innocent clerical campaigns). Leaving more definiteinstruction, he passed on, and his theme broadened into a perorationfor which he drew a long breath and stood very upright,--"As a dropof water, detached, alone, separate from others, falling fromthe cloud and entering the great ocean, alters, so scientiststell us, not only the immediate107 spot in the ocean where it falls,but all the myriad108 drops which together compose the great universeof waters, and by this means alters the configuration109 of the globeand the lives of millions of sea creatures, and finally the livesof the men and women who seek their living upon the shores--as all this is within the compass of a single drop of water,such as any rain shower sends in millions to lose themselvesin the earth, to lose themselves we say, but we know very wellthat the fruits of the earth could not flourish without them--so is a marvel110 comparable to this within the reach of each oneof us, who dropping a little word or a little deed into the greatuniverse alters it; yea, it is a solemn thought, _alters_ it,for good or for evil, not for one instant, or in one vicinity,but throughout the entire race, and for all eternity111." Whipping roundas though to avoid applause, he continued with the same breath,but in a different tone of voice,--"And now to God the Father . .
."He gave his blessing, and then, while the solemn chords again issuedfrom the harmonium behind the curtain, the different people beganscraping and fumbling112 and moving very awkwardly and consciouslytowards the door. Half-way upstairs, at a point where the light andsounds of the upper world conflicted with the dimness and the dyinghymn-tune of the under, Rachel felt a hand drop upon her shoulder.
"Miss Vinrace," Mrs. Flushing whispered peremptorily113, "stay to luncheon114.
It's such a dismal115 day. They don't even give one beef for luncheon.
Please stay."Here they came out into the hall, where once more the littleband was greeted with curious respectful glances by the peoplewho had not gone to church, although their clothing made it clearthat they approved of Sunday to the very verge116 of going to church.
Rachel felt unable to stand any more of this particular atmosphere,and was about to say she must go back, when Terence passed them,drawn along in talk with Evelyn M. Rachel thereupon contentedherself with saying that the people looked very respectable,which negative remark Mrs. Flushing interpreted to mean that shewould stay.
"English people abroad!" she returned with a vivid flash of malice117.
"Ain't they awful! But we won't stay here," she continued,plucking at Rachel's arm. "Come up to my room."She bore her past Hewet and Evelyn and the Thornburys and the Elliots.
Hewet stepped forward.
"Luncheon--" he began.
"Miss Vinrace has promised to lunch with me," said Mrs. Flushing,and began to pound energetically up the staircase, as thoughthe middle classes of England were in pursuit. She did not stopuntil she had slammed her bedroom door behind them.
"Well, what did you think of it?" she demanded, panting slightly.
All the disgust and horror which Rachel had been accumulating burstforth beyond her control.
"I thought it the most loathsome118 exhibition I'd ever seen!"she broke out. "How can they--how dare they--what do you mean by it--Mr. Bax, hospital nurses, old men, prostitutes, disgusting--"She hit off the points she remembered as fast as she could, but shewas too indignant to stop to analyse her feelings. Mrs. Flushingwatched her with keen gusto as she stood ejaculating with emphaticmovements of her head and hands in the middle of the room.
"Go on, go on, do go on," she laughed, clapping her hands.
"It's delightful119 to hear you!""But why do you go?" Rachel demanded.
"I've been every Sunday of my life ever since I can remember,"Mrs. Flushing chuckled120, as though that were a reason by itself.
Rachel turned abruptly121 to the window. She did not know what itwas that had put her into such a passion; the sight of Terence inthe hall had confused her thoughts, leaving her merely indignant.
She looked straight at their own villa, half-way up the side ofthe mountain. The most familiar view seen framed through glass hasa certain unfamiliar123 distinction, and she grew calm as she gazed.
Then she remembered that she was in the presence of some one shedid not know well, and she turned and looked at Mrs. Flushing.
Mrs. Flushing was still sitting on the edge of the bed, looking up,with her lips parted, so that her strong white teeth showed intwo rows.
"Tell me," she said, "which d'you like best, Mr. Hewet or Mr. Hirst?""Mr. Hewet," Rachel replied, but her voice did not sound natural.
"Which is the one who reads Greek in church?" Mrs. Flushing demanded.
It might have been either of them and while Mrs. Flushing proceededto describe them both, and to say that both frightened her, but onefrightened her more than the other, Rachel looked for a chair.
The room, of course, was one of the largest and most luxuriousin the hotel. There were a great many arm-chairs and setteescovered in brown holland, but each of these was occupied by a largesquare piece of yellow cardboard, and all the pieces of cardboardwere dotted or lined with spots or dashes of bright oil paint.
"But you're not to look at those," said Mrs. Flushing as she sawRachel's eye wander. She jumped up, and turned as many as she could,face downwards24, upon the floor. Rachel, however, managed topossess herself of one of them, and, with the vanity of an artist,Mrs. Flushing demanded anxiously, "Well, well?""It's a hill," Rachel replied. There could be no doubt thatMrs. Flushing had represented the vigorous and abrupt122 fling of theearth up into the air; you could almost see the clods flying as it whirled.
Rachel passed from one to another. They were all marked by somethingof the jerk and decision of their maker124; they were all perfectly untrainedonslaughts of the brush upon some half-realised idea suggested byhill or tree; and they were all in some way characteristic of Mrs. Flushing.
"I see things movin'," Mrs. Flushing explained. "So"--sheswept her hand through a yard of the air. She then took up oneof the cardboards which Rachel had laid aside, seated herselfon a stool, and began to flourish a stump125 of charcoal126. While sheoccupied herself in strokes which seemed to serve her as speechserves others, Rachel, who was very restless, looked about her.
"Open the wardrobe," said Mrs. Flushing after a pause, speakingindistinctly because of a paint-brush in her mouth, "and look at the things."As Rachel hesitated, Mrs. Flushing came forward, still with a paint-brushin her mouth, flung open the wings of her wardrobe, and tosseda quantity of shawls, stuffs, cloaks, embroideries127, on to the bed.
Rachel began to finger them. Mrs. Flushing came up once more,and dropped a quantity of beads128, brooches, earrings129, bracelets130, tassels,and combs among the draperies. Then she went back to her stooland began to paint in silence. The stuffs were coloured and darkand pale; they made a curious swarm131 of lines and colours uponthe counterpane, with the reddish lumps of stone and peacocks'
feathers and clear pale tortoise-shell combs lying among them.
"The women wore them hundreds of years ago, they wear 'em still,"Mrs. Flushing remarked. "My husband rides about and finds 'em;they don't know what they're worth, so we get 'em cheap. And weshall sell 'em to smart women in London," she chuckled, as thoughthe thought of these ladies and their absurd appearance amused her.
After painting for some minutes, she suddenly laid down her brush andfixed her eyes upon Rachel.
"I tell you what I want to do," she said. "I want to go up thereand see things for myself. It's silly stayin' here with a packof old maids as though we were at the seaside in England. I wantto go up the river and see the natives in their camps. It's onlya matter of ten days under canvas. My husband's done it. One wouldlie out under the trees at night and be towed down the river by day,and if we saw anythin' nice we'd shout out and tell 'em to stop."She rose and began piercing the bed again and again with a longgolden pin, as she watched to see what effect her suggestion hadupon Rachel.
"We must make up a party," she went on. "Ten people could hirea launch. Now you'll come, and Mrs. Ambrose'll come, and willMr. Hirst and t'other gentleman come? Where's a pencil?"She became more and more determined132 and excited as she evolved her plan.
She sat on the edge of the bed and wrote down a list of surnames,which she invariably spelt wrong. Rachel was enthusiastic, for indeedthe idea was immeasurably delightful to her. She had always had agreat desire to see the river, and the name of Terence threw a lustreover the prospect133, which made it almost too good to come true.
She did what she could to help Mrs. Flushing by suggesting names,helping her to spell them, and counting up the days of the week uponher fingers. As Mrs. Flushing wanted to know all she could tellher about the birth and pursuits of every person she suggested,and threw in wild stories of her own as to the temperaments134 andhabits of artists, and people of the same name who used to cometo Chillingley in the old days, but were doubtless not the same,though they too were very clever men interested in Egyptology,the business took some time.
At last Mrs. Flushing sought her diary for help, the methodof reckoning dates on the fingers proving unsatisfactory.
She opened and shut every drawer in her writing-table, and thencried furiously, "Yarmouth! Yarmouth! Drat the woman!
She's always out of the way when she's wanted!"At this moment the luncheon gong began to work itself into itsmidday frenzy135. Mrs. Flushing rang her bell violently. The doorwas opened by a handsome maid who was almost as upright as her mistress.
"Oh, Yarmouth," said Mrs. Flushing, "just find my diary and seewhere ten days from now would bring us to, and ask the hall porterhow many men 'ud be wanted to row eight people up the river for a week,and what it 'ud cost, and put it on a slip of paper and leave iton my dressing-table. Now--" she pointed103 at the door with a superbforefinger so that Rachel had to lead the way.
"Oh, and Yarmouth," Mrs. Flushing called back over her shoulder.
"Put those things away and hang 'em in their right places, there's agood girl, or it fusses Mr. Flushin'."To all of which Yarmouth merely replied, "Yes, ma'am."As they entered the long dining-room it was obvious that the daywas still Sunday, although the mood was slightly abating136.
The Flushings' table was set by the side in the window,so that Mrs. Flushing could scrutinise each figure as it entered,and her curiosity seemed to be intense.
"Old Mrs. Paley," she whispered as the wheeled chair slowly made itsway through the door, Arthur pushing behind. "Thornburys" came next.
"That nice woman," she nudged Rachel to look at Miss Allan.
"What's her name?" The painted lady who always came in late,tripping into the room with a prepared smile as though she came outupon a stage, might well have quailed137 before Mrs. Flushing's stare,which expressed her steely hostility138 to the whole tribe of painted ladies.
Next came the two young men whom Mrs. Flushing called collectivelythe Hirsts. They sat down opposite, across the gangway.
Mr. Flushing treated his wife with a mixture of admiration139 and indulgence,making up by the suavity140 and fluency141 of his speech for the abruptnessof hers. While she darted142 and ejaculated he gave Rachel a sketchof the history of South American art. He would deal with one of hiswife's exclamations143, and then return as smoothly144 as ever to his theme.
He knew very well how to make a luncheon pass agreeably, without beingdull or intimate. He had formed the opinion, so he told Rachel,that wonderful treasures lay hid in the depths of the land;the things Rachel had seen were merely trifles picked up in the courseof one short journey. He thought there might be giant gods hewnout of stone in the mountain-side; and colossal145 figures standingby themselves in the middle of vast green pasture lands, where nonebut natives had ever trod. Before the dawn of European art hebelieved that the primitive146 huntsmen and priests had built templesof massive stone slabs147, had formed out of the dark rocks and the greatcedar trees majestic148 figures of gods and of beasts, and symbolsof the great forces, water, air, and forest among which they lived.
There might be prehistoric149 towns, like those in Greece and Asia,standing in open places among the trees, filled with the works of thisearly race. Nobody had been there; scarcely anything was known.
Thus talking and displaying the most picturesque150 of his theories,Rachel's attention was fixed upon him.
She did not see that Hewet kept looking at her across the gangway,between the figures of waiters hurrying past with plates.
He was inattentive, and Hirst was finding him also very crossand disagreeable. They had touched upon all the usual topics--upon politics and literature, gossip and Christianity. They hadquarrelled over the service, which was every bit as fine as Sappho,according to Hewet; so that Hirst's paganism was mere6 ostentation151.
Why go to church, he demanded, merely in order to read Sappho?
Hirst observed that he had listened to every word of the sermon,as he could prove if Hewet would like a repetition of it; and he wentto church in order to realise the nature of his Creator, which he haddone very vividly152 that morning, thanks to Mr. Bax, who had inspiredhim to write three of the most superb lines in English literature,an invocation to the Deity153.
"I wrote 'em on the back of the envelope of my aunt's last letter,"he said, and pulled it from between the pages of Sappho.
"Well, let's hear them," said Hewet, slightly mollifiedby the prospect of a literary discussion.
"My dear Hewet, do you wish us both to be flung out of the hotelby an enraged mob of Thornburys and Elliots?" Hirst enquired154.
"The merest whisper would be sufficient to incriminate mefor ever. God!" he broke out, "what's the use of attempting to writewhen the world's peopled by such damned fools? Seriously, Hewet,I advise you to give up literature. What's the good of it?
There's your audience."He nodded his head at the tables where a very miscellaneous collectionof Europeans were now engaged in eating, in some cases in gnawing,the stringy foreign fowls155. Hewet looked, and grew more out oftemper than ever. Hirst looked too. His eyes fell upon Rachel,and he bowed to her.
"I rather think Rachel's in love with me," he remarked, as hiseyes returned to his plate. "That's the worst of friendshipswith young women--they tend to fall in love with one."To that Hewet made no answer whatever, and sat singularly still.
Hirst did not seem to mind getting no answer, for he returnedto Mr. Bax again, quoting the peroration106 about the drop of water;and when Hewet scarcely replied to these remarks either, he merelypursed his lips, chose a fig43, and relapsed quite contentedly156 intohis own thoughts, of which he always had a very large supply.
When luncheon was over they separated, taking their cups of coffee todifferent parts of the hall.
From his chair beneath the palm-tree Hewet saw Rachel come out ofthe dining-room with the Flushings; he saw them look round for chairs,and choose three in a corner where they could go on talkingin private. Mr. Flushing was now in the full tide of his discourse157.
He produced a sheet of paper upon which he made drawings as he wenton with his talk. He saw Rachel lean over and look, pointing to thisand that with her finger. Hewet unkindly compared Mr. Flushing,who was extremely well dressed for a hot climate, and ratherelaborate in his manner, to a very persuasive158 shop-keeper. Meanwhile,as he sat looking at them, he was entangled159 in the Thornburysand Miss Allan, who, after hovering160 about for a minute or two,settled in chairs round him, holding their cups in their hands.
They wanted to know whether he could tell them anything about Mr. Bax.
Mr. Thornbury as usual sat saying nothing, looking vaguely92 aheadof him, occasionally raising his eye-glasses, as if to put them on,but always thinking better of it at the last moment, and lettingthem fall again. After some discussion, the ladies put itbeyond a doubt that Mr. Bax was not the son of Mr. William Bax.
There was a pause. Then Mrs. Thornbury remarked that she was stillin the habit of saying Queen instead of King in the National Anthem161.
There was another pause. Then Miss Allan observed reflectively thatgoing to church abroad always made her feel as if she had been to asailor's funeral.
There was then a very long pause, which threatened to be final,when, mercifully, a bird about the size of a magpie162, but of a metallicblue colour, appeared on the section of the terrace that couldbe seen from where they sat. Mrs. Thornbury was led to enquirewhether we should like it if all our rooks were blue--"Whatdo _you_ think, William?" she asked, touching163 her husband on the knee.
"If all our rooks were blue," he said,--he raised his glasses;he actually placed them on his nose--"they would not live longin Wiltshire," he concluded; he dropped his glasses to his side again.
The three elderly people now gazed meditatively164 at the bird,which was so obliging as to stay in the middle of the view for aconsiderable space of time, thus making it unnecessary for them tospeak again. Hewet began to wonder whether he might not cross overto the Flushings' corner, when Hirst appeared from the background,slipped into a chair by Rachel's side, and began to talk to her withevery appearance of familiarity. Hewet could stand it no longer.
He rose, took his hat and dashed out of doors.
收听单词发音 |
1
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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cynically
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| adv.爱嘲笑地，冷笑地 | |
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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vowing
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的现在分词形式） | |
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plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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judgments
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| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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rammed
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| v.夯实（土等）( ram的过去式和过去分词 )；猛撞；猛压；反复灌输 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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ridicule
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| v.讥讽，挖苦；n.嘲弄 | |
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croaking
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| v.呱呱地叫( croak的现在分词 )；用粗的声音说 | |
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beholding
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| v.看，注视( behold的现在分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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23
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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daze
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| v.(使)茫然，(使)发昏 | |
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inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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pervasive
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| adj.普遍的；遍布的，(到处)弥漫的；渗透性的 | |
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lashed
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| adj.具睫毛的v.鞭打( lash的过去式和过去分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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31
darts
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| n.掷飞镖游戏；飞镖( dart的名词复数 )；急驰，飞奔v.投掷，投射( dart的第三人称单数 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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32
goading
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| v.刺激( goad的现在分词 )；激励；（用尖棒）驱赶；驱使（或怂恿、刺激）某人 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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harassing
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| v.侵扰，骚扰( harass的现在分词 )；不断攻击（敌人） | |
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embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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penitent
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| adj.后悔的；n.后悔者；忏悔者 | |
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38
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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39
lengthen
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| vt.使伸长，延长 | |
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40
boredom
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| n.厌烦，厌倦，乏味，无聊 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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fig
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| n.无花果(树) | |
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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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45
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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48
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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49
monks
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| n.修道士，僧侣( monk的名词复数 ) | |
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50
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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51
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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52
glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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53
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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54
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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55
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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56
monograms
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| n.字母组合( monogram的名词复数 ) | |
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57
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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58
emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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59
dispensed
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| v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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60
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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61
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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62
psalm
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| n.赞美诗，圣诗 | |
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63
devour
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| v.吞没；贪婪地注视或谛听，贪读；使着迷 | |
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64
smite
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| v.重击；彻底击败；n.打；尝试；一点儿 | |
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65
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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66
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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secular
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| n.牧师，凡人；adj.世俗的，现世的，不朽的 | |
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68
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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69
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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70
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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71
industrious
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| adj.勤劳的，刻苦的，奋发的 | |
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72
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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73
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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74
acquiescing
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的现在分词 ) | |
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75
tantalized
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| v.逗弄，引诱，折磨( tantalize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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77
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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78
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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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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80
acquiescent
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| adj.默许的，默认的 | |
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81
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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82
blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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83
callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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84
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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85
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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86
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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87
implicitly
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| adv. 含蓄地, 暗中地, 毫不保留地 | |
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88
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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89
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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90
epitome
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| n.典型，梗概 | |
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91
hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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92
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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93
psalms
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| n.赞美诗( psalm的名词复数 )；圣诗；圣歌；(中的) | |
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94
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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95
inquisitively
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| 过分好奇地； 好问地 | |
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96
contriving
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的现在分词 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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97
scribbling
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| n.乱涂[写]胡[乱]写的文章[作品]v.潦草的书写( scribble的现在分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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98
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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99
verbosity
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| n.冗长，赘言 | |
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100
illustrating
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的现在分词 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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101
wireless
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| adj.无线的；n.无线电 | |
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102
craftiness
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| 狡猾，狡诈 | |
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103
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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104
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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105
exhorted
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| v.劝告，劝说( exhort的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
peroration
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| n.（演说等之）结论 | |
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107
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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108
myriad
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| adj.无数的；n.无数，极大数量 | |
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109
configuration
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| n.结构，布局，形态，(计算机)配置 | |
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110
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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111
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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112
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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113
peremptorily
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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114
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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115
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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116
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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117
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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118
loathsome
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| adj.讨厌的，令人厌恶的 | |
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119
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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120
chuckled
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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121
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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122
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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123
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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124
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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125
stump
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| n.残株，烟蒂，讲演台；v.砍断，蹒跚而走 | |
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126
charcoal
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| n.炭，木炭，生物炭 | |
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127
embroideries
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| 刺绣( embroidery的名词复数 )； 刺绣品； 刺绣法 | |
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128
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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129
earrings
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| n.耳环( earring的名词复数 )；耳坠子 | |
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130
bracelets
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| n.手镯，臂镯( bracelet的名词复数 ) | |
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131
swarm
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| n.(昆虫)等一大群；vi.成群飞舞；蜂拥而入 | |
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132
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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133
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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134
temperaments
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| 性格( temperament的名词复数 )； （人或动物的）气质； 易冲动； （性情）暴躁 | |
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135
frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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136
abating
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| 减少( abate的现在分词 )； 减去； 降价； 撤消（诉讼） | |
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137
quailed
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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138
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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139
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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140
suavity
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| n.温和；殷勤 | |
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141
fluency
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| n.流畅，雄辩，善辩 | |
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142
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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143
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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144
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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145
colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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146
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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147
slabs
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| n.厚板，平板，厚片( slab的名词复数 )；厚胶片 | |
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148
majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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149
prehistoric
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| adj.（有记载的）历史以前的，史前的，古老的 | |
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150
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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151
ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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152
vividly
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| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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153
deity
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| n.神，神性；被奉若神明的人(或物) | |
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154
enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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155
fowls
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| 鸟( fowl的名词复数 )； 禽肉； 既不是这； 非驴非马 | |
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156
contentedly
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| adv.心满意足地 | |
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157
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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158
persuasive
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| adj.有说服力的，能说得使人相信的 | |
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159
entangled
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| adj.卷入的；陷入的；被缠住的；缠在一起的v.使某人（某物/自己）缠绕，纠缠于（某物中），使某人（自己）陷入（困难或复杂的环境中）( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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160
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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161
anthem
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| n.圣歌，赞美诗，颂歌 | |
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162
magpie
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| n.喜欢收藏物品的人，喜鹊，饶舌者 | |
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163
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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164
meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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