Lord Ivywood would probably have sold the dog, but he consulted experts (as he did on everything he didn’t understand and many things that he did), and the impression he gathered from them was that the dog, technically4 considered, would fetch very little; mostly, it seemed, because of the mixture of qualities that it possessed5. It was a sort of mongrel bull-terrier, but with rather too much of the bull-dog; and this fact seemed to weaken its price as much as it strengthened its jaw6. His Lordship also gained a hazy7 impression that the dog might have been valuable as a watch-dog if it had not been able to follow game like a pointer; and that even in the latter walk of life it would always be discredited8 by an unfortunate talent for swimming as well as a retriever. But Lord Ivywood’s impressions may very well have been slightly confused, as he was probably thinking about the Black stone of Mecca, or some such subject at the moment. The victim of this entanglement9 of virtues10, therefore, still lay about in the sunlight of Ivywood, exhibiting no general result of that entanglement except the most appalling11 ugliness.
Now Lady Joan Brett did appreciate dogs. It was the whole of her type and a great deal of her tragedy that all that was natural in her was still alive under all that was artificial; and she could smell hawthorn12 or the sea as far off as a dog can smell his dinner. Like most aristocrats13 she would carry cynicism almost to the suburbs of the city of Satan; she was quite as irreligious as Lord Ivywood, or rather more. She could be quite equally frigid14 or supercilious16 when she felt inclined. And in the great social talent of being tired, she could beat him any day of the week. But the difference remained in spite of her sophistries17 and ambitions; that her elemental communications were not cut, and his were. For her the sunrise was still the rising of a sun, and not the turning on of a light by a convenient cosmic servant. For her the Spring was really the Season in the country, and not merely the Season in town. For her cocks and hens were natural appendages19 to an English house; and not (as Lord Ivywood had proved to her from an encyclopædia) animals of Indian origin, recently imported by Alexander the Great. And so for her a dog was a dog, and not one of the higher animals, nor one of the lower animals, nor something that had the sacredness of life, nor something that ought to be muzzled20, nor something that ought not to be vivisected. She knew that in every practical sense proper provision would be made for the dog; as, indeed, provision was made for the yellow dogs in Constantinople by Abdul Hamid, whose life Lord Ivywood was writing for the Progressive Potentates21 series. Nor was she in the least sentimental22 about the dog or anxious to turn him into a pet. It simply came natural to her in passing to rub all his hair the wrong way and call him something which she instantly forgot.
The man who was mowing23 the garden lawn looked up for a moment, for he had never seen the dog behave in exactly that way before. Quoodle arose, shook himself, and trotted24 on in front of the lady, leading her up an iron side staircase, of which, as it happened, she had never made use before. It was then, most probably, that she first took any special notice of him; and her pleasure, like that which she took in the sublime25 prophet from Turkey, was of a humorous character. For the complex quadruped had retained the bow legs of the bull-dog; and, seen from behind, reminded her ridiculously of a swaggering little Major waddling26 down to his Club.
The dog and the iron stairway between them led her into a series of long rooms, one opening into the other. They formed part of what she had known in earlier days as the disused Wing of Ivywood House, which had been neglected or shut up, probably because it bore some defacements from the fancies of the mad ancestor, the memory of whom the present Lord Ivywood did not think helpful to his own political career. But it seemed to Joan that there were indications of a recent attempt to rehabilitate27 the place. There was a pail of whitewash28 in one of the empty rooms, a step-ladder in another, here and there a curtain rod, and at last, in the fourth room a curtain. It hung all alone on the old woodwork, but it was a very gorgeous curtain, being a kind of orange-gold relieved with wavy29 bars of crimson30, which somehow seemed to suggest the very spirit and presence of serpents, though they had neither eyes nor mouths among them.
In the next of the endless series of rooms she came upon a kind of ottoman, striped with green and silver standing31 alone on the bare floor. She sat down on it from a mixed motive32 of fatigue33 and of impudence34, for she dimly remembered a story which she had always thought one of the funniest in the world, about a lady only partly initiated35 in Theosophy who had been in the habit of resting on a similar object, only to discover afterward36 that it was a Mahatma, covered with his eastern garment and prostrate37 and rigid15 in ecstasy38. She had no hopes of sitting on a Mahatma herself, but the very thought of it made her laugh, because it would make Lord Ivywood look such a fool. She was not sure whether she liked or disliked Lord Ivywood, but she felt quite certain that it would gratify her to make him look a fool. The moment she had sat down on the ottoman, the dog, who had been trotting39 beside her, sat down also, and on the edge of her skirt.
After a minute or two she rose (and the dog rose), and she looked yet farther down that long perspective of large rooms, in which men like Phillip Ivywood forget that they are only men. The next was more ornate and the next yet more so; it was plain that the scheme of decoration that was in progress had been started at the other end. She could now see that the long lane ended in rooms that from afar off looked like the end of a kaleidoscope, rooms like nests made only from humming birds or palaces built of fixed40 fireworks. Out of this furnace of fragmentary colours she saw Ivywood advancing toward her, with his black suit and his white face accented by the contrast. His lips were moving, for he was talking to himself, as many orators41 do. He did not seem to see her, and she had to strangle a subconscious42 and utterly43 senseless cry, “He is blind!”
The next moment he was welcoming her intrusion with the well-bred surprise and rather worldly simplicity44 suitable to such a case, and Joan fancied she understood why his face had seemed a little bleaker45 and blinder than usual. It was by contrast. He was carrying clutched to his forefinger46, as his ancestors might have carried a falcon47 clutched to the wrist, a small bright coloured semi-tropical bird, the expression of whose head, neck and eye was the very opposite of his own. Joan thought she had never seen a living creature with a head so lively and insulting. Its provocative48 eye and pointed49 crest50 seemed to be offering to fight fifty game-cocks. It was no wonder (she told herself) that by the side of this gaudy51 gutter-snipe with feathers Ivywood’s faint-coloured hair and frigid face looked like the hair and face of a corpse52 walking.
“You’ll never know what this is,” said Ivywood, in his most charming manner. “You’ve heard of him a hundred times and never had a notion of what he was. This is the Bulbul.”
“I never knew,” replied Joan. “I am afraid I never cared. I always thought it was something like a nightingale.”
“Ah, yes,” answered Ivywood, “but this is the real Bulbul peculiar53 to the East, Pycnonotus Hæmorrhous. You are thinking of Daulias Golzii.”
“I suppose I am,” replied Lady Joan with a faint smile. “It is an obsession54. When shall I not be thinking of Daulias Galsworthy? Was it Galsworthy?” Then feeling quite touched by the soft austerity of her companion’s face, she caressed55 the gaudy and pugnacious57 bird with one finger and said, “It’s a dear little thing.”
The quadruped intimately called Quoodle did not approve of all this at all. Like most dogs, he liked to be with human beings when they were silent, and he extended a magnificent toleration to them as long as they were talking to each other. But conversational58 attention paid to any other animal at all remote from a mongrel bull-terrier wounded Mr. Quoodle in his most sensitive and gentlemanly feelings. He emitted a faint growl59. Joan, with all the instincts that were in her, bent60 down and pulled his hair about once more, and felt the instant necessity of diverting the general admiration61 from Pycnonotus Hæmorrhous. She turned it to the decoration at the end of the refurnished wing; for they had already come to the last of the long suite62 of rooms, which ended in some unfinished but exquisite63 panelling in white and coloured woods, inlaid in the oriental manner. At one corner the whole corridor ended by curving into a round turret64 chamber65 overlooking the landscape; and which Joan, who had known the house in childhood, was sure was an innovation. On the other hand a black gap, still left in the lower left-hand corner of the oriental woodwork, suddenly reminded her of something she had forgotten.
“Surely,” she said (after much mere18 æsthetic ecstasy), “there used to be a staircase there, leading to the old kitchen garden, or the old chapel66 or something.”
Ivywood nodded gravely. “Yes,” he said, “it did lead to the ruins of a Mediæval Chapel, as you say. The truth is it led to several things that I cannot altogether consider a credit to the family in these days. All that scandal and joking about the unsuccessful tunnel (your mother may have told you of it), well, it did us no good in the County, I’m afraid; so as it’s a mere scrap67 of land bordering on the sea, I’ve fenced it off and let it grow wild. But I’m boarding up the end of the room here for quite another reason. I want you to come and see it.”
He led her into the round corner turret in which the new architecture ended, and Joan, with her thirst for the beautiful, could not stifle68 a certain thrill of beatitude at the prospect69. Five open windows of a light and exquisite Saracenic outline looked out over the bronze and copper70 and purple of the Autumn parks and forests to the peacock colours of the sea. There was neither house nor living thing in sight, and, familiar as she had been with that coast, she knew she was looking out from a new angle of vision on a new landscape of Ivywood.
“You can write sonnets71?” said Ivywood with something more like emotion in his voice than she had ever heard in it. “What comes first into your mind with these open windows?”
“I know what you mean,” said Joan after a silence. “The same hath oft....”
“I want it to be like that,” said Ivywood in a low and singularly moved intonation74. “I want this to be the end of the house. I want this to be the end of the world. Don’t you feel that is the real beauty of all this eastern art; that it is coloured like the edges of things, like the little clouds of morning and the islands of the blest? Do you know,” and he lowered his voice yet more, “it has the power over me of making me feel as if I were myself absent and distant; some oriental traveller who was lost and for whom men were looking. When I see that greenish lemon yellow enamel75 there let into the white, I feel that I am standing thousands of leagues from where I stand.”
“You are right,” said Joan, looking at him with some wonder, “I have felt like that myself.”
“This art,” went on Ivywood as in a dream, “does indeed take the wings of the morning and abide76 in the uttermost parts of the sea. They say it contains no form of life, but surely we can read its alphabet as easily as the red hieroglyphics77 of sunrise and sunset which are on the fringes of the robe of God.”
“I never heard you talk like that before,” said the lady, and again stroked the vivid violet feathers of the small eastern bird.
Mr. Quoodle could stand it no longer. He had evidently formed a very low opinion of the turret chamber and of oriental art generally, but seeing Joan’s attention once more transferred to his rival, he trotted out into the longer room, and finding the gap in the woodwork which was soon to be boarded up, but which still opened on an old dark staircase, he went “galumphing” down the stairs.
Lord Ivywood gently placed the bird on the girl’s own finger, and went to one of the open windows, leaning out a little.
“Look here,” he said, “doesn’t this express what we both feel? Isn’t this the sort of fairy-tale house that ought to hang on the last wall of the world?”
And he motioned her to the window-sill, just outside which hung the bird’s empty cage, beautifully wrought78 in brass79 or some of the yellow metals.
“Why that is the best of all!” cried Lady Joan. “It makes one feel as if it really were the Arabian Nights. As if this were a tower of the gigantic Genii with turrets80 up to the moon; and this were an enchanted81 Prince caged in a golden palace suspended by the evening star.”
Something stirred in her dim but teeming82 subconsciousness83, something like a chill or change like that by which we half know that weather has altered, or distant and unnoticed music suddenly ceased.
“Where is the dog?” she asked suddenly.
Ivywood turned with a mild, grey eye.
“Was there a dog here?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Lady Joan Brett, and gave him back the bird, which he restored carefully to its cage.
The dog after whom she inquired had in truth trundled down a dark, winding84 staircase and turned into the daylight, into a part of the garden he had never seen before; nor, indeed, had anybody else for some time past. It was altogether tangled85 and overgrown with weeds, and the only trace of human handiwork, the wreck86 of an old Gothic Chapel, stood waist high in numberless nettles87 and soiled with crawling fungoids. Most of these merely discoloured the grey crumbling88 stone with shades of bronze or brown; but some of them, particularly on the side farthest from the house, were of orange or purple tints89 almost bright enough for Lord Ivywood’s oriental decoration. Some fanciful eyes that fell on the place afterward found something like an allegory in those graven and broken saints or archangels feeding such fiery90 and ephemeral parasites91 as those toadstools like blood or gold. But Mr. Quoodle had never set himself up as an allegorist, and he merely trotted deeper and deeper into the grey-green English jungle. He grumbled92 very much at the thistles and nettles, much as a city man will grumble93 at the jostling of a crowd. But he continued to press forward, with his nose near the ground, as if he had already smelt94 something that interested him. And, indeed, he had smelt something in which a dog, except on special occasions, is much more interested than he is in dogs. Breaking through a last barrier of high and hoary95 purple thistles he came out on a semicircle of somewhat clearer ground, dotted with slender trees, and having, by way of back scene, the brown brick arch of an old tunnel. The tunnel was boarded up with a very irregular fence or mask made of motley wooden lathes96, and looked, somehow, rather like a pantomime cottage. In front of this a sturdy man in very shabby shooting clothes was standing attending to a battered97 old frying-pan which he held over a rather irregular flame which, small as it was, smelt strongly of burnt rum. In the frying-pan, and also on the top of a cask or barrel that served for a table hard by, were a number of the grey, brown, and even orange fungi98 which were plastered over the stone angels and dragons of the fallen chapel.
“Hullo, old man,” said the person in the shooting jacket with tranquillity99 and without looking up from his cooking. “Come to pay us a visit? Come along then.” He flashed one glance at the dog and returned to the frying pan. “If your tail were two inches shorter, you’d be worth a hundred pounds. Had any breakfast?”
The dog trotted across to him and began nosing and sniffing100 round his dilapidated leather gaiters. The man did not interrupt his cookery, on which his eyes were fixed and both his hands were busy; but he crooked101 his knee and foot so as to caress56 the quadruped in a nerve under the angle of the jaw, the stimulation102 of which (as some men of science have held) is for a dog what a good cigar is for a man. At the same moment a huge voice like on ogre’s came from within the masked tunnel, calling out, “And who are ye talking to?”
A very crooked kind of window in the upper part of the pantomime cottage burst open and an enormous head, with erect103, startling, and almost scarlet104 hair and blue eyes as big as a bullfrog’s, was thrust out above the scene.
“Hump,” cried the ogre. “Me moral counsels have been thrown away. In the last week I’ve sung you fourteen and a half songs of me own composition; instead of which you go about stealing dogs. You’re following in the path of Parson Whats-his-name in every way, I’m afraid.”
“No,” said the man with the frying pan, impartially105, “Parson Whitelady struck a very good path for doubling on Pebblewick, that I was glad to follow. But I think he was quite silly to steal dogs. He was young and brought up pious106. I know too much about dogs to steal one.”
“Well,” asked the large red-haired man, “and how do you get a dog like that?”
“I let him steal me,” said the person stirring the pan. And indeed the dog was sitting erect and even arrogant107 at his feet, as if he was a watch-dog at a high salary, and had been there before the building of the tunnel.
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1
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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technically
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| adv.专门地，技术上地 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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discredited
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| 不足信的，不名誉的 | |
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entanglement
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| n.纠缠，牵累 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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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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hawthorn
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| 山楂 | |
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aristocrats
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| n.贵族( aristocrat的名词复数 ) | |
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frigid
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| adj.寒冷的，凛冽的；冷淡的；拘禁的 | |
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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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supercilious
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| adj.目中无人的，高傲的；adv.高傲地；n.高傲 | |
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sophistries
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| n.诡辩术( sophistry的名词复数 )；（一次）诡辩 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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appendages
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| n.附属物( appendage的名词复数 )；依附的人；附属器官；附属肢体（如臂、腿、尾等） | |
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muzzled
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| 给（狗等）戴口套( muzzle的过去式和过去分词 )； 使缄默，钳制…言论 | |
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potentates
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| n.君主，统治者( potentate的名词复数 )；有权势的人 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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mowing
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| n.割草，一次收割量，牧草地v.刈，割( mow的现在分词 ) | |
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trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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waddling
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的现在分词 ) | |
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rehabilitate
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| vt.改造(罪犯)，修复；vi.复兴，(罪犯)经受改造 | |
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whitewash
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| v.粉刷，掩饰；n.石灰水，粉刷，掩饰 | |
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wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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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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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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trotting
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| 小跑，急走( trot的现在分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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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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orators
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| n.演说者，演讲家( orator的名词复数 ) | |
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subconscious
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| n./adj.潜意识(的)，下意识(的) | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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45
bleaker
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| 阴冷的( bleak的比较级 )； （状况）无望的； 没有希望的； 光秃的 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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falcon
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| n.隼，猎鹰 | |
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provocative
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| adj.挑衅的，煽动的，刺激的，挑逗的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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gaudy
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| adj.华而不实的；俗丽的 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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pugnacious
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| adj.好斗的 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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64
turret
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| n.塔楼，角塔 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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68
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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intonation
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| n.语调，声调；发声 | |
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75
enamel
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| n.珐琅，搪瓷，瓷釉；(牙齿的)珐琅质 | |
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76
abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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hieroglyphics
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| n.pl.象形文字 | |
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78
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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80
turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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81
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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82
teeming
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| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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83
subconsciousness
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| 潜意识；下意识 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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nettles
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| n.荨麻( nettle的名词复数 ) | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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89
tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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90
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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parasites
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| 寄生物( parasite的名词复数 )； 靠他人为生的人； 诸虫 | |
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92
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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93
grumble
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| vi.抱怨；咕哝；n.抱怨，牢骚；咕哝，隆隆声 | |
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94
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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95
hoary
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| adj.古老的；鬓发斑白的 | |
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lathes
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| 车床( lathe的名词复数 ) | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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98
fungi
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| n.真菌，霉菌 | |
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99
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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100
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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101
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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102
stimulation
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| n.刺激，激励，鼓舞 | |
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103
erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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104
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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105
impartially
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| adv.公平地，无私地 | |
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106
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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107
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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