The comparatively late hour at which Lord Ivywood had made his discovery had been largely due to a very long speech which Joan had not heard, and which was delivered immediately before the few concluding observations she had heard from Dr. Gluck. The speech was made by an eccentric, of course. Most of those who attended, and nearly all of those who talked, were eccentric in one way or another. But he was an eccentric of great wealth and good family, an M.P., a J.P., a relation of Lady Enid, a man well known in art and letters; in short, a personality who could not be prevented from being anything he chose, from a revolutionist to a bore. Dorian Wimpole had first become famous outside his own class under the fanciful title of the Poet of the Birds. A volume of verse, expanding the several notes or cries of separate song-birds into fantastic soliloquies of these feathered philosophers, had really contained a great deal of ingenuity4 and elegance5. Unfortunately, he was one of those who always tend to take their own fancies seriously, and in whose otherwise legitimate6 extravagance there is too little of the juice of jest. Hence, in his later works, when he explained “The Fable7 of the Angel,” by trying to prove that the fowls8 of the air were creatures higher than man or the anthropoids, his manner was felt to be too austere9; and when he moved an amendment10 to Lord Ivywood’s scheme for the model village called Peaceways, urging that its houses should all follow the more hygienic architecture of nests hung in trees, many regretted that he had lost his light touch. But, when he went beyond birds and filled his poems with conjectural11 psychology12 about all the Zoological Gardens, his meaning became obscure; and Lady Susan had even described it as his bad period. It was all the more uncomfortable reading because he poured forth13 the imaginary hymns14, love-songs and war-songs of the lower animals, without a word of previous explanation. Thus, if someone seeking for an ordinary drawing-room song came on lines that were headed “A Desert Love Song,” and which began—
“Her head is high against the stars,
Her hump is heaved in pride,”
the compliment to the lady would at first seem startling, until the reader realised that all the characters in the idyll were camels. Or, if he began a poem simply entitled, “The March of Democracy,” and found in the first lines—
“Comrades, marching evermore,
Fix your teeth in floor and door,”
he might be doubtful about such a policy for the masses; until he discovered that it was supposed to be addressed by an eloquent15 and aspiring16 rat to the social solidarity17 of his race. Lord Ivywood had nearly quarrelled with his poetic18 relative over the uproarious realism of the verses called “A Drinking Song,” until it was carefully explained to him that the drink was water, and that the festive19 company consisted of bisons. His vision of the perfect husband, as it exists in the feelings of the young female walrus20, is thoughtful and suggestive; but would doubtless receive many emendations from anyone who had experienced those feelings. And in his sonnet21 called “Motherhood” he has made the young scorpion22 consistent and convincing, yet somehow not wholly lovable. In justice to him, however, it should be remembered that he attacked the most difficult cases on principle, declaring that there was no earthly creature that a poet should forget.
He was of the blond type of his cousin, with flowing fair hair and mustache, and a bright blue, absent-minded eye; he was very well dressed in the carefully careless manner, with a brown velvet23 jacket and the image on his ring of one of those beasts men worshipped in Egypt.
His speech was graceful24 and well worded and enormously long, and it was all about an oyster25. He passionately26 protested against the suggestion of some humanitarians27 who were vegetarians28 in other respects, but maintained that organisms so simple might fairly be counted as exceptions. Man, he said, even at his miserable29 best, was always trying to excommunicate some one citizen of the cosmos30, to forget some one creature that he should remember. Now, it seemed that creature was the oyster. He gave a long account of the tragedy of the oyster, a really imaginative and picturesque31 account; full of fantastic fishes, and coral crags crawling and climbing, and bearded creatures streaking32 the seashore and the green darkness in the cellars of the sea.
“What a horrid33 irony34 it is,” he cried, “that this is the only one of the lower creatures whom we call a Native! We speak of him, and of him alone as if he were a native of the country. Whereas, indeed, he is an exile in the universe. What can be conceived more pitiful than the eternal frenzy35 of the impotent amphibian36? What is more terrible than the tear of an oyster? Nature herself has sealed it with the hard seal of eternity37. The creature man forgets bears against him a testimony38 that cannot be forgotten. For the tears of widows and of captives are wiped away at last like the tears of children. They vanish like the mists of morning or the small pools after a flood. But the tear of the oyster is a pearl.”
The Poet of the Birds was so excited with his own speech that, after the meeting, he walked out with a wild eye to the motor car, which had been long awaiting him, the chauffeur39 giving some faint signs of relief.
“Toward home, for the present,” said the poet, and stared at the moon with an inspired face.
He was very fond of motoring, finding it fed him with inspirations; and he had been doing it from an early hour that morning, having enjoyed a slightly lessened40 sleep. He had scarcely spoken to anybody until he spoke41 to the cultured crowd at Ivywood. He did not wish to speak to anyone for many hours yet. His ideas were racing42. He had thrown on a fur coat over his velvet jacket, but he let it fly open, having long forgotten the coldness in the splendour of the moonstruck night. He realised only two things: the swiftness of his car and the swiftness of his thoughts. He felt, as it were, a fury of omniscience43; he seemed flying with every bird that sped or spun44 above the woods, with every squirrel that had leapt and tumbled within them, with every tree that had swung under and sustained the blast.
Yet in a few moments he leaned forward and tapped the glass frontage of the car, and the chauffeur suddenly squaring his shoulders, jarringly stopped the wheels. Dorian Wimpole had just seen something in the clear moonlight by the roadside, which appealed both to this and to the other side of his tradition; something that appealed to Wimpole as well as to Dorian.
Two shabby looking men, one in tattered45 gaiters and the other in what looked like the remains46 of fancy dress with the addition of hair, of so wild a red that it looked like a wig47, were halted under the hedge, apparently48 loading a donkey cart. At least two rounded, rudely cylindrical49 objects, looking more or less like tubs, stood out in the road beside the wheels, along with a sort of loose wooden post that lay along the road beside them. As a matter of fact, the man in the old gaiters had just been feeding and watering the donkey, and was now adjusting its harness more easily. But Dorian Wimpole naturally did not expect that sort of thing from that sort of man. There swelled50 up in him the sense that his omnipotence51 went beyond the poetical52; that he was a gentleman, a magistrate53, an M.P. and J.P., and so on. This callousness54 or ignorance about animals should not go on while he was a J.P.; especially since Ivywood’s last Act. He simply strode across to the stationary55 cart and said:
“You are overloading56 that animal, and it is forfeited57. And you must come with me to the police station.”
Humphrey Pump, who was very considerate to animals, and had always tried to be considerate to gentlemen, in spite of having put a bullet into one of their legs, was simply too astounded58 and distressed59 to make any answer at all. He moved a step or two backward and stared with brown, blinking eyes at the poet, the donkey, the cask, the cheese, and the sign-board lying in the road.
But Captain Dalroy, with the quicker recovery of his national temperament60, swept the poet and magistrate a vast fantastic bow and said with agreeable impudence61, “interested in donkeys, no doubt?”
“I am interested in all things men forget,” answered the poet, with a fine touch of pride, “but mostly in those like this, that are most easily forgotten.”
Somehow from those two first sentences Pump realised that these two eccentric aristocrats62 had unconsciously recognised each other. The fact that it was unconscious seemed, somehow, to exclude him all the more. He stirred a little the moonlit dust of the road with his rather dilapidated boots and eventually strolled across to speak to the chauffeur.
“Is the next police station far from here?” he asked.
The chauffeur answered with one syllable63 of which the nearest literal rendering64 is “dno.” Other spellings have been attempted, but the sentiment expressed is that of agnosticism.
But something of special brutality65 of abbreviation made the shrewd, and therefore sensitive, Mr. Pump look at the man’s face. And he saw it was not only the moonlight that made it white.
With that dumb delicacy66 that was so English in him, Pump looked at the man again, and saw he was leaning heavily on the car with one arm, and saw that the arm was shaking. He understood his countrymen enough to know that whatever he said he must say in a careless manner.
“I hope it’s nearer to your place. You must be a bit done up.”
Pump was sympathetically silent, and Mr. Wimpole’s chauffeur broke out incoherently, as if in another place.
“Blarsted beauties o’ dibrike and no breakfast. Blarsted lunch Hivywood and no lunch. Blarsted black everlastin’ hours artside while ’e ’as ’is cike an’ champine. And then it’s a dornkey.”
“You don’t mean to say,” said Pump in a very serious voice, “that you’ve had no food today?”
“Ow no!” replied the cockney, with the irony of the deathbed. “Ow, of course not.”
Pump strolled back into the road again, picked up the cheese in his left hand, and landed it on the seat beside the driver. Then his right hand went to one of his large loose equivocal pockets, and the blade of a big jack-knife caught and recaught the steady splendours of the moon.
The driver stared for several instants at the cheese, with the knife shaking in his hand. Then he began to hack68 it, and in that white witchlike light the happiness of his face was almost horrible.
Pump was wise in all such things, and knew that just as a little food will sometimes prevent sheer intoxication69, so a little stimulant70 will sometimes prevent sudden and dangerous indigestion. It was practically impossible to make the man stop eating cheese. It was far better to give him a very little of the rum, especially as it was very good rum, and better than anything he could find in any of the public-houses that were still permitted. He walked across the road again and picked up the small cask, which he put on the other side of the cheese and from which he filled, in his own manner, the little cup he carried in his pocket.
But at the sight of this the cockney’s eyes lit at once with terror and desire.
“But yer cawnt do it,” he whispered hoarsely71, “its the pleece. It’s gile for that, with no doctor’s letter nor sign-board nor nothink.”
Mr. Humphrey Pump made yet another march back into the road. When he got there he hesitated for the first time, but it was quite clear from the attitude of the two insane aristocrats who were arguing and posturing72 in the road that they would notice nothing except each other. He picked the loose post off the road and brought it to the car, humorously propping73 it erect74 in the aperture75 between keg and cheese.
The little glass of rum was wavering in the poor chauffeur’s hand exactly as the big knife had done, but when he looked up and actually saw the wooden sign above him, he seemed not so much to pluck up his courage, but rather to drag up some forgotten courage from the foundations of some unfathomable sea. It was indeed the forgotten courage of the people.
He looked once at the bleak76, black pinewoods around him and took the mouthful of golden liquid at a gulp77, as if it were a fairy potion. He sat silent; and then, very slowly, a sort of stony78 glitter began to come into his eyes. The brown and vigilant79 eyes of Humphrey Pump were studying him with some anxiety or even fear. He did look rather like a man enchanted80 or turned to stone. But he spoke very suddenly.
“The blighter!” he said. “I’ll give ’im ’ell. I’ll give ’im bleeding ’ell. I’ll give ’im somethink wot ’e don’t expect.”
“What do you mean?” asked the inn-keeper.
Mr. Pump looked troubled. “Do you think,” he observed, affecting to speak lightly, “that he’s fit to be trusted even with a little donkey?”
“Ow, yes,” said the man. “He’s very amiable82 with donkeys, and donkeys we is to be amiable with ’im.”
Pump still looked at him doubtfully, appearing or affecting not to follow his meaning. Then he looked equally anxiously across at the other two men; but they were still talking. Different as they were in every other way, they were of the sort who forget everything, class, quarrel, time, place and physical facts in front of them, in the lust83 of lucid84 explanation and equal argument.
Thus, when the Captain began by lightly alluding85 to the fact that after all it was his donkey, since he had bought it from a tinker for a just price, the police station practically vanished from Wimpole’s mind—and I fear the donkey-cart also. Nothing remained but the necessity of dissipating the superstition86 of personal property.
“I own nothing,” said the poet, waving his hands outward, “I own nothing save in the sense that I own everything. All depends whether wealth or power be used for or against the higher purposes of the cosmos.”
“Indeed,” replied Dalroy, “and how does your motor car serve the higher purposes of the cosmos?”
“And if it could be used for some higher purpose (if such a thing could be), if some new purpose had come into the cosmos’s head by accident,” inquired the other, “I suppose it would cease to be your property.”
“Certainly,” replied the dignified89 Dorian. “I should not complain. Nor have you any title to complain when the donkey ceases to be yours when you depress it in the cosmic scale.”
“What makes you think,” asked Dalroy, “that I wanted to depress it?”
“It is my firm belief,” replied Dorian Wimpole, sternly, “that you wanted to ride on it” (for indeed the Captain had once repeated his playful gesture of putting his large leg across). “Is not that so?”
“No,” answered the Captain, innocently, “I never ride on a donkey. I’m afraid of it.”
“Afraid of a donkey!” cried Wimpole, incredulously.
“Afraid of an historical comparison,” said Dalroy.
There was a short pause, and Wimpole said coolly enough, “Oh, well, we’ve outlived those comparisons.”
“Easily,” answered the Irish Captain. “It is wonderful how easily one outlives someone else’s crucifixion.”
“In this case,” said the other grimly, “I think it is the donkey’s crucifixion.”
“Why, you must have drawn90 that old Roman caricature of the crucified donkey,” said Patrick Dalroy, with an air of some wonder. “How well you have worn; why, you look quite young! Well, of course, if this donkey is crucified, he must be uncrucified. But are you quite sure,” he added, very gravely, “that you know how to uncrucify a donkey? I assure you it’s one of the rarest of human arts. All a matter of knack91. It’s like the doctors with the rare diseases, you know; the necessity so seldom arises. Granted that, by the higher purposes of the cosmos, I am unfit to look after this donkey, I must still feel a faint shiver of responsibility in passing him on to you. Will you understand this donkey? He is a delicate-minded donkey. He is a complex donkey. How can I be certain that, on so short an acquaintance, you will understand every shade of his little likes and dislikes?”
The dog Quoodle, who had been sitting as still as the sphinx under the shadow of the pine trees, waddled92 out for an instant into the middle of the road and then returned. He ran out when a slight noise as of rotatory grinding was heard; and ran back when it had ceased. But Dorian Wimpole was much too keen on his philosophical93 discovery to notice either dog or wheel.
“I shall not sit on its back, anyhow,” he said proudly, “but if that were all it would be a small matter. It is enough for you that you have left it in the hands of the only person who could really understand it; one who searches the skies and seas so as not to neglect the smallest creature.”
“This is a very curious creature,” said the Captain, anxiously, “he has all sorts of odd antipathies94. He can’t stand a motor-car, for instance, especially one that throbs95 like that while it’s standing96 still. He doesn’t mind a fur coat so much, but if you wear a brown velvet jacket under it, he bites you. And you must keep him out of the way of a certain kind of people. I don’t suppose you’ve met them; but they always think that anybody with less than two hundred a year is drunk and very cruel, and that anybody with more than two thousand a year is conducting the Day of Judgment97. If you will keep our dear donkey from the society of such persons—Hullo! Hullo! Hullo!”
He turned in genuine disturbance98, and dashed after the dog, who had dashed after the motor-car and jumped inside. The Captain jumped in after the dog, to pull him out again. But before he could do so, he found the car was flying along too fast for any such leap. He looked up and saw the sign of “The Old Ship” erect in the front like a rigid99 banner; and Pump, with his cask and cheese, sitting solidly beside the driver.
The thing was more of an earthquake and transformation100 to him even than to any of the others; but he rose waveringly to his feet and shouted out to Wimpole.
“You’ve left it in the right hands. I’ve never been cruel to a motor.”
In the moonlight of the magic pine-wood far behind, Dorian and the donkey were left looking at each other.
To the mystical mind, when it is a mind at all (which is by no means always the case), there are no two things more impressive and symbolical101 than a poet and a donkey. And the donkey was a very genuine donkey, and the poet was a very genuine poet; however lawfully102 he might be mistaken for the other animal at times. The interest of the donkey in the poet will never be known. The interest of the poet in the donkey was perfectly103 genuine; and survived even that appalling104 private interview in the owlish secrecy105 of the woods.
But I think even the poet would have been enlightened if he had seen the white, set, frantic106 face of the man on the driver’s seat of his vanishing motor. If he had seen it he might have remembered the name, or, perhaps, even begun to understand the nature of a certain animal which is neither the donkey nor the oyster; but the creature whom man has always found it easiest to forget, since the hour he forgot God in a Garden.
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1
hubbub
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| n.嘈杂；骚乱 | |
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fugitives
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| n.亡命者，逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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vegetarianism
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| n.素食，素食主义 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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6
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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fable
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| n.寓言；童话；神话 | |
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8
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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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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10
amendment
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| n.改正，修正，改善，修正案 | |
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conjectural
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| adj.推测的 | |
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psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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aspiring
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| adj.有志气的；有抱负的；高耸的v.渴望；追求 | |
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solidarity
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| n.团结；休戚相关 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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festive
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| adj.欢宴的，节日的 | |
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walrus
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| n.海象 | |
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sonnet
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| n.十四行诗 | |
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scorpion
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| n.蝎子，心黑的人，蝎子鞭 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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oyster
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| n.牡蛎；沉默寡言的人 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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humanitarians
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| n.慈善家( humanitarian的名词复数 ) | |
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vegetarians
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| n.吃素的人( vegetarian的名词复数 )；素食者；素食主义者；食草动物 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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cosmos
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| n.宇宙；秩序，和谐 | |
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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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streaking
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| n.裸奔（指在公共场所裸体飞跑）v.快速移动( streak的现在分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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amphibian
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| n.两栖动物；水陆两用飞机和车辆 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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chauffeur
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| n.(受雇于私人或公司的)司机；v.为…开车 | |
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lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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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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racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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omniscience
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| n.全知，全知者，上帝 | |
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spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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cylindrical
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| adj.圆筒形的 | |
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swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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omnipotence
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| n.全能，万能，无限威力 | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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53
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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callousness
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stationary
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| adj.固定的，静止不动的 | |
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56
overloading
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| 过载，超载，过负载 | |
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forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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astounded
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| v.使震惊(astound的过去式和过去分词)；愕然；愕；惊讶 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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aristocrats
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| n.贵族( aristocrat的名词复数 ) | |
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syllable
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| n.音节；vt.分音节 | |
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rendering
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| n.表现，描写 | |
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brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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hack
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| n.劈，砍，出租马车；v.劈，砍，干咳 | |
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intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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stimulant
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| n.刺激物，兴奋剂 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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posturing
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| 做出某种姿势( posture的现在分词 ) | |
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propping
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| 支撑 | |
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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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aperture
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| n.孔，隙，窄的缺口 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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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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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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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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knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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waddled
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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antipathies
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| 反感( antipathy的名词复数 )； 引起反感的事物； 憎恶的对象； （在本性、倾向等方面的）不相容 | |
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throbs
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| 体内的跳动( throb的名词复数 ) | |
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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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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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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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transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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symbolical
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| a.象征性的 | |
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lawfully
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| adv.守法地，合法地；合理地 | |
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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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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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frantic
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| adj.狂乱的，错乱的，激昂的 | |
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