But no brush was able to efface1 completely the expression of happiness,so that Mrs. Ambrose could not treat them when they came downstairs as ifthey had spent the morning in a way that could be discussed naturally.
This being so, she joined in the world's conspiracy2 to considerthem for the time incapacitated from the business of life,struck by their intensity3 of feeling into enmity against life,and almost succeeded in dismissing them from her thoughts.
She reflected that she had done all that it was necessary to do inpractical matters. She had written a great many letters, and had obtainedWilloughby's consent. She had dwelt so often upon Mr. Hewet's prospects,his profession, his birth, appearance, and temperament4, that she hadalmost forgotten what he was really like. When she refreshed herselfby a look at him, she used to wonder again what he was like, and then,concluding that they were happy at any rate, thought no more about it.
She might more profitably consider what would happen in three years'
time, or what might have happened if Rachel had been leftto explore the world under her father's guidance. The result,she was honest enough to own, might have been better--who knows?
She did not disguise from herself that Terence had faults. She wasinclined to think him too easy and tolerant, just as he was inclinedto think her perhaps a trifle hard--no, it was rather that shewas uncompromising. In some ways she found St. John preferable;but then, of course, he would never have suited Rachel.
Her friendship with St. John was established, for although shefluctuated between irritation5 and interest in a way that did creditto the candour of her disposition6, she liked his company on the whole.
He took her outside this little world of love and emotion.
He had a grasp of facts. Supposing, for instance, that England madea sudden move towards some unknown port on the coast of Morocco,St. John knew what was at the back of it, and to hear him engagedwith her husband in argument about finance and the balance of power,gave her an odd sense of stability. She respected their argumentswithout always listening to them, much as she respected a solidbrick wall, or one of those immense municipal buildings which,although they compose the greater part of our cities, have been builtday after day and year after year by unknown hands. She liked to sitand listen, and even felt a little elated when the engaged couple,after showing their profound lack of interest, slipped from the room,and were seen pulling flowers to pieces in the garden. It was notthat she was jealous of them, but she did undoubtedly7 envy themtheir great unknown future that lay before them. Slipping fromone such thought to another, she was at the dining-room with fruitin her hands. Sometimes she stopped to straighten a candle stoopingwith the heat, or disturbed some too rigid8 arrangement of the chairs.
She had reason to suspect that Chailey had been balancing herselfon the top of a ladder with a wet duster during their absence,and the room had never been quite like itself since. Returning fromthe dining-room for the third time, she perceived that one ofthe arm-chairs was now occupied by St. John. He lay back in it,with his eyes half shut, looking, as he always did, curiously9 buttonedup in a neat grey suit and fenced against the exuberance10 of a foreignclimate which might at any moment proceed to take liberties with him.
Her eyes rested on him gently and then passed on over his head.
Finally she took the chair opposite.
"I didn't want to come here," he said at last, "but I was positivelydriven to it. . . . Evelyn M.," he groaned11.
He sat up, and began to explain with mock solemnity how the detestablewoman was set upon marrying him.
"She pursues me about the place. This morning she appearedin the smoking-room. All I could do was to seize my hat and fly.
I didn't want to come, but I couldn't stay and face another mealwith her.""Well, we must make the best of it," Helen replied philosophically12.
It was very hot, and they were indifferent to any amount of silence,so that they lay back in their chairs waiting for something to happen.
The bell rang for luncheon13, but there was no sound of movement inthe house. Was there any news? Helen asked; anything in the papers?
St. John shook his head. O yes, he had a letter from home, a letterfrom his mother, describing the suicide of the parlour-maid. Shewas called Susan Jane, and she came into the kitchen one afternoon,and said that she wanted cook to keep her money for her; she hadtwenty pounds in gold. Then she went out to buy herself a hat.
She came in at half-past five and said that she had taken poison.
They had only just time to get her into bed and call a doctor beforeshe died.
"There'll have to be an inquest," said St. John.
Why had she done it? He shrugged15 his shoulders. Why do peoplekill themselves? Why do the lower orders do any of the thingsthey do do? Nobody knows. They sat in silence.
"The bell's run fifteen minutes and they're not down," said Helenat length.
When they appeared, St. John explained why it had been necessaryfor him to come to luncheon. He imitated Evelyn's enthusiastictone as she confronted him in the smoking-room. "She thinks therecan be nothing _quite_ so thrilling as mathematics, so I've lenther a large work in two volumes. It'll be interesting to seewhat she makes of it."Rachel could now afford to laugh at him. She reminded him of Gibbon;she had the first volume somewhere still; if he were undertakingthe education of Evelyn, that surely was the test; or she had heardthat Burke, upon the American Rebellion--Evelyn ought to read themboth simultaneously16. When St. John had disposed of her argumentand had satisfied his hunger, he proceeded to tell them that thehotel was seething17 with scandals, some of the most appalling18 kind,which had happened in their absence; he was indeed much givento the study of his kind.
"Evelyn M., for example--but that was told me in confidence.""Nonsense!" Terence interposed.
"You've heard about poor Sinclair, too?""Oh, yes, I've heard about Sinclair. He's retired19 to his minewith a revolver. He writes to Evelyn daily that he's thinking ofcommitting suicide. I've assured her that he's never been so happyin his life, and, on the whole, she's inclined to agree with me.""But then she's entangled20 herself with Perrott," St. John continued;"and I have reason to think, from something I saw in the passage,that everything isn't as it should be between Arthur and Susan.
There's a young female lately arrived from Manchester. A very goodthing if it were broken off, in my opinion. Their married life issomething too horrible to contemplate21.
Oh, and I distinctly heard old Mrs. Paley rapping out the mostfearful oaths as I passed her bedroom door. It's supposed that shetortures her maid in private--it's practically certain she does.
One can tell it from the look in her eyes.""When you're eighty and the gout tweezes you, you'll be swearinglike a trooper," Terence remarked. "You'll be very fat, very testy,very disagreeable. Can't you imagine him--bald as a coot, with a pairof sponge-bag trousers, a little spotted22 tie, and a corporation?"After a pause Hirst remarked that the worst infamy23 had stillto be told. He addressed himself to Helen.
"They've hoofed24 out the prostitute. One night while we were away thatold numskull Thornbury was doddering about the passages very late.
(Nobody seems to have asked him what _he_ was up to.) He sawthe Signora Lola Mendoza, as she calls herself, cross the passagein her nightgown. He communicated his suspicions next morningto Elliot, with the result that Rodriguez went to the woman andgave her twenty-four hours in which to clear out of the place.
No one seems to have enquired into the truth of the story, or tohave asked Thornbury and Elliot what business it was of theirs;they had it entirely25 their own way. I propose that we should allsign a Round Robin26, go to Rodriguez in a body, and insist upona full enquiry. Something's got to be done, don't you agree?"Hewet remarked that there could be no doubt as to the lady's profession.
"Still," he added, "it's a great shame, poor woman; only I don'tsee what's to be done--""I quite agree with you, St. John," Helen burst out. "It's monstrous27.
The hypocritical smugness of the English makes my blood boil.
A man who's made a fortune in trade as Mr. Thornbury has is boundto be twice as bad as any prostitute."She respected St. John's morality, which she took far more seriouslythan any one else did, and now entered into a discussion with himas to the steps that were to be taken to enforce their peculiarview of what was right. The argument led to some profoundlygloomy statements of a general nature. Who were they, after all--what authority had they--what power against the mass of superstitionand ignorance? It was the English, of course; there must be somethingwrong in the English blood. Directly you met an English person,of the middle classes, you were conscious of an indefinable sensationof loathing28; directly you saw the brown crescent of houses above Dover,the same thing came over you. But unfortunately St. John added,you couldn't trust these foreigners--They were interrupted by sounds of strife30 at the further endof the table. Rachel appealed to her aunt.
"Terence says we must go to tea with Mrs. Thornbury because she'sbeen so kind, but I don't see it; in fact, I'd rather have my righthand sawn in pieces--just imagine! the eyes of all those women!""Fiddlesticks, Rachel," Terence replied. "Who wants to look at you?
You're consumed with vanity! You're a monster of conceit31!
Surely, Helen, you ought to have taught her by this time that she'sa person of no conceivable importance whatever--not beautiful,or well dressed, or conspicuous32 for elegance33 or intellect,or deportment. A more ordinary sight than you are," he concluded,"except for the tear across your dress has never been seen.
However, stay at home if you want to. I'm going."She appealed again to her aunt. It wasn't the being looked at, she explained,but the things people were sure to say. The women in particular.
She liked women, but where emotion was concerned they were as flieson a lump of sugar. They would be certain to ask her questions.
Evelyn M. would say: "Are you in love? Is it nice being in love?"And Mrs. Thornbury--her eyes would go up and down, up and down--she shuddered34 at the thought of it. Indeed, the retirementof their life since their engagement had made her so sensitive,that she was not exaggerating her case.
She found an ally in Helen, who proceeded to expound35 her viewsof the human race, as she regarded with complacency the pyramidof variegated36 fruits in the centre of the table. It wasn'tthat they were cruel, or meant to hurt, or even stupid exactly;but she had always found that the ordinary person had so littleemotion in his own life that the scent29 of it in the lives of otherswas like the scent of blood in the nostrils37 of a bloodhound.
Warming to the theme, she continued:
"Directly anything happens--it may be a marriage, or a birth,or a death--on the whole they prefer it to be a death--every onewants to see you. They insist upon seeing you. They've gotnothing to say; they don't care a rap for you; but you've got to goto lunch or to tea or to dinner, and if you don't you're damned.
It's the smell of blood," she continued; "I don't blame 'em; onlythey shan't have mind if I know it!"She looked about her as if she had called up a legion of human beings,all hostile and all disagreeable, who encircled the table,with mouths gaping38 for blood, and made it appear a little islandof neutral country in the midst of the enemy's country.
Her words roused her husband, who had been muttering rhythmicallyto himself, surveying his guests and his food and his wife with eyesthat were now melancholy39 and now fierce, according to the fortunesof the lady in his ballad40. He cut Helen short with a protest.
He hated even the semblance41 of cynicism in women. "Nonsense, nonsense,"he remarked abruptly42.
Terence and Rachel glanced at each other across the table, which meantthat when they were married they would not behave like that.
The entrance of Ridley into the conversation had a strange effect.
It became at once more formal and more polite. It would have beenimpossible to talk quite easily of anything that came into their heads,and to say the word prostitute as simply as any other word.
The talk now turned upon literature and politics, and Ridley toldstories of the distinguished43 people he had known in his youth.
Such talk was of the nature of an art, and the personalitiesand informalities of the young were silenced. As they rose to go,Helen stopped for a moment, leaning her elbows on the table.
"You've all been sitting here," she said, "for almost an hour,and you haven't noticed my figs44, or my flowers, or the waythe light comes through, or anything. I haven't been listening,because I've been looking at you. You looked very beautiful;I wish you'd go on sitting for ever."She led the way to the drawing-room, where she took up her embroidery,and began again to dissuade45 Terence from walking down to thehotel in this heat. But the more she dissuaded46, the more hewas determined47 to go. He became irritated and obstinate48.
There were moments when they almost disliked each other.
He wanted other people; he wanted Rachel, to see them with him.
He suspected that Mrs. Ambrose would now try to dissuade herfrom going. He was annoyed by all this space and shade and beauty,and Hirst, recumbent, drooping49 a magazine from his wrist.
"I'm going," he repeated. "Rachel needn't come unless she wants to.""If you go, Hewet, I wish you'd make enquiries about the prostitute,"said Hirst. "Look here," he added, "I'll walk half the way with you."Greatly to their surprise he raised himself, looked at his watch,and remarked that, as it was now half an hour since luncheon,the gastric50 juices had had sufficient time to secrete51; he was tryinga system, he explained, which involved short spells of exerciseinterspaced by longer intervals52 of rest.
"I shall be back at four," he remarked to Helen, "when I shall liedown on the sofa and relax all my muscles completely.""So you're going, Rachel?" Helen asked. "You won't stay with me?"She smiled, but she might have been sad.
Was she sad, or was she really laughing? Rachel could not tell, and shefelt for the moment very uncomfortable between Helen and Terence.
Then she turned away, saying merely that she would go with Terence,on condition that he did all the talking.
A narrow border of shadow ran along the road, which was broadenough for two, but not broad enough for three. St. John thereforedropped a little behind the pair, and the distance betweenthem increased by degrees. Walking with a view to digestion,and with one eye upon his watch, he looked from time to time atthe pair in front of him. They seemed to be so happy, so intimate,although they were walking side by side much as other people walk.
They turned slightly toward each other now and then, and saidsomething which he thought must be something very private.
They were really disputing about Helen's character, and Terence wastrying to explain why it was that she annoyed him so much sometimes.
But St. John thought that they were saying things which they didnot want him to hear, and was led to think of his own isolation53.
These people were happy, and in some ways he despised them forbeing made happy so simply, and in other ways he envied them.
He was much more remarkable54 than they were, but he was not happy.
People never liked him; he doubted sometimes whether even Helenliked him. To be simple, to be able to say simply what one felt,without the terrific self-consciousness which possessed55 him,and showed him his own face and words perpetually in a mirror,that would be worth almost any other gift, for it made one happy.
Happiness, happiness, what was happiness? He was never happy.
He saw too clearly the little vices56 and deceits and flawsof life, and, seeing them, it seemed to him honest to take noticeof them. That was the reason, no doubt, why people generallydisliked him, and complained that he was heartless and bitter.
Certainly they never told him the things he wanted to be told,that he was nice and kind, and that they liked him. But it wastrue that half the sharp things that he said about them were saidbecause he was unhappy or hurt himself. But he admitted that hehad very seldom told any one that he cared for them, and when hehad been demonstrative, he had generally regretted it afterwards.
His feelings about Terence and Rachel were so complicated that hehad never yet been able to bring himself to say that he was gladthat they were going to be married. He saw their faults so clearly,and the inferior nature of a great deal of their feeling foreach other, and he expected that their love would not last.
He looked at them again, and, very strangely, for he was so usedto thinking that he seldom saw anything, the look of them filled himwith a simple emotion of affection in which there were some tracesof pity also. What, after all, did people's faults matter in comparisonwith what was good in them? He resolved that he would now tell themwhat he felt. He quickened his pace and came up with them justas they reached the corner where the lane joined the main road.
They stood still and began to laugh at him, and to ask him whetherthe gastric juices--but he stopped them and began to speak very quicklyand stiffly.
"D'you remember the morning after the dance?" he demanded.
"It was here we sat, and you talked nonsense, and Rachel made littleheaps of stones. I, on the other hand, had the whole meaningof life revealed to me in a flash." He paused for a second,and drew his lips together in a tight little purse. "Love," he said.
"It seems to me to explain everything. So, on the whole, I'm very gladthat you two are going to be married." He then turned round abruptly,without looking at them, and walked back to the villa57. He felt bothexalted and ashamed of himself for having thus said what he felt.
Probably they were laughing at him, probably they thought hima fool, and, after all, had he really said what he felt?
It was true that they laughed when he was gone; but the disputeabout Helen which had become rather sharp, ceased, and they becamepeaceful and friendly.
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efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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conspiracy
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| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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philosophically
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| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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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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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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seething
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| 沸腾的，火热的 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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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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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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spotted
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infamy
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hoofed
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| adj.有蹄的，蹄形状的，装蹄的v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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robin
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monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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conspicuous
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| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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expound
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| v.详述；解释；阐述 | |
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variegated
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| adj.斑驳的，杂色的 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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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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ballad
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| n.歌谣，民谣，流行爱情歌曲 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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distinguished
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figs
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| figures 数字，图形，外形 | |
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dissuade
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| v.劝阻，阻止 | |
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dissuaded
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| 劝（某人）勿做某事，劝阻( dissuade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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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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drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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gastric
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| adj.胃的 | |
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secrete
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| vt.分泌；隐匿，使隐秘 | |
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52
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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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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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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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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