Canterton had some of Darwin’s thoroughness and patience. He had spent hours watching centipedes or the spore8 changes of myxomycetes on a piece of dead fir bough9. He experimented with various compounds for the extinction11 of slugs, and studied the ways of wood-lice and earth worms. All very ridiculous, no doubt, in a man whose income ran into thousands a year. Sometimes he had been able to watch a shrew at work, or perhaps a queer snuffling sound warned him of the nearness of a hedgehog. This was the utilitarian12 side of his vigils. He was greatly interested, æsthetically and scientifically, in the sleep of plants and flowers, and in the ways of those particular plants whose loves are consummated13 at night, shy white virgins14 with perfumed bodies who leave the day to their bolder and gaudier15 fellows. Some moth played Eros. He studied plants in their sleep, the change of posture16 some of them adopted, the drooping17 of the leaves, the closing of the petals18. All sorts of things happened of which the ordinary gardener had not the slightest knowledge. There were atmospheric20 changes to be recorded, frosts, dew falls and the like. Very often Canterton would be up before sunrise, watching which birds were stirring first, and who was the first singer to send a twitter of song through the grey gate of the dawn.
But as he walked through the fir woods towards Orchards21 Corner, his eyes were not upon the ground or turned to the things that were near him. Wisps of a red sunset still drifted about the west, and the trunks of the trees were barred in black against a yellow afterglow. Soon a full moon would be coming up. Heavy dew was distilling22 out of the quiet air and drawing moist perfumes out of the thirsty summer earth.
Blue dusk covered the heathlands beyond Orchards Corner, and the little tree-smothered house was invisible. A light shone out from a window as Canterton walked up the lane. Something white was moving in the dusk, drifting to and fro across the garden like a moth from flower to flower.
Canterton’s hand was on the gate. Never before had night fallen for him with such a hush23 of listening enchantment24. The scents25 seemed more subtle, the freshness of the falling dew indescribably delicious. He passed an empty chair standing26 on the lawn, and found a white figure waiting.
“I wondered whether you would come.”
“I did not wonder. What a wash of dew, and what scents.”
“And the stillness. I wanted to see the moon hanging in the fir woods.”
“You know the time by all the timepieces in Arcady.”
“I suppose I was born to see and to remember.”
They went into the little drawing-room that was Eve’s despair when she felt depressed27. This room was Mrs. Carfax’s lararium, containing all the ugly trifles that she treasured, and some of the ugliest furniture that ever was manufactured. John Carfax had been something of an amateur artist, and a very crude one at that. He had specialised in genre28 work, and on the walls were studies of a butcher’s shop, a fruit stall, a fish stall, a collection of brass29 instruments on a table covered with a red cloth, and a row of lean, stucco-fronted houses, each with a euonymus hedge and an iron gate in front of it. The carpet was a Kidderminster, red and yellow flowers on a black ground, and the chairs were upholstered in green plush. Every available shelf and ledge19 seemed to be crowded with knick-knacks, and a stuffed pug reclined under a glass case in the centre of a walnut30 chiffonier.
Eve understood her mother’s affection for all this bric-à-brac, but to-night, when she came in out of the dew-washed dusk, the room made her shudder31. She wondered what effect it would have on Canterton, though she knew he was far too big a man to sneer32.
Mrs. Carfax, in black dress and white lace cap, sat in one of the green plush arm-chairs. She was always pleased to see people, and to chatter33 with amiable34 facility. And Canterton could be at his best on such occasions. The little old lady thought him “so very nice.”
“It is so good of you to come down and see Eve’s paintings. Eve, dear, fetch your portfolio35. I am so sorry I could not come to Mrs. Canterton’s garden party, but I have to be so very careful, because of my heart. I get all out of breath and in a flutter so easily. Do sit down. I think that is a comfortable chair.”
Canterton sat down, and Eve went for her portfolio.
“My husband was quite an artist, Mr. Canterton, though an amateur. These are some of his pictures.”
“So the gift is inherited!”
“I don’t think Eve draws so well as her father did. You can see——”
Canterton got up and went round looking at John Carfax’s pictures. They were rather extraordinary productions, and the red meat in the butcher’s shop was the colour of red sealing wax.
“Mr. Carfax liked ‘still life.’”
“Yes, he was a very quiet man. So fond of a littlelararium fishing—when he could get it. That is why he painted fish so wonderfully. Don’t you think so, Mr. Canterton?”
“Very probably.”
Eve returned and found Canterton studying the row of stucco houses with their iron gates and euonymus hedges. She coloured.
“Will the lamp be right, Eve, dear?”
“Yes, mother.”
She opened her portfolio on a chair, and after arranging the lamp-shade, proceeded to turn over sketch36 after sketch. Canterton had drawn37 his chair to a spot where he could see the work at its best. He said nothing, but nodded his head from time to time, while Eve acted as show-woman.
Mrs. Carfax excelled herself.
“My dear, how queerly you must see things. I am sure I have never seen anything like that.”
“Which, mother?”
“That queer, splodgy picture. I don’t understand the drawing. Now, if you look at one of your father’s pictures, the butcher’s shop, for instance——”
Eve smiled, almost tenderly.
“My dear, how can you paint a whim?”
Eve glanced at Canterton and saw that he was absorbed in studying the last picture she had turned up from the portfolio. His eyes looked more deeply set and more intent, and he sat absolutely motionless, his head bowed slightly.
“That is the best classic thing I managed to do.”
He looked at her, nodded, and turned his eyes again to the picture.
“But even there——”
“There is a film of mystery?”
“Yes.”
“It was provoking. I’m afraid I have failed.”
“No. That is Latimer. It was just what I saw and felt myself, though I could not have put it into colour. Show me the others again.”
Mrs. Carfax knitted, and Eve put up sketch after sketch, watching Canterton’s face.
“Now, I like that one, dear.”
“Do you, mother?”
“Yes, but why have you made all the poplar trees black?”
“Oh, I see, cypresses, the trees they grow in cemeteries40.”
Canterton began to talk to Eve.
“It is very strange that you should have seen just what I saw.”
“Is it? But you are not disappointed?”
His eyes met hers.
“I don’t know anybody else who could have brought back Latimer like that. Quite wonderful.”
“You mean it?”
“Of course.”
Mrs. Carfax was never long out of a conversation.
“Are they clever pictures, Mr. Canterton?”
“Very clever.”
“I don’t think I understand clever pictures. My husband could paint a row of houses, and there they were.”
“Yes, that is a distinct gift. Some of us see more, others less.”
“Do you think that if Eve perseveres42 she will paint as well as her father?”
“She sees things in a different way, and it is a very wonderful way.”
“I am so glad you think so. Eve, dear, is it not nice to hear Mr. Canterton say that?”
Mrs. Carfax chattered44 on till Eve grew restless, and Canterton, who felt her restlessness, rose to go. He had come to be personal, so far as Eve’s pictures were concerned, but he had been compelled to be impersonal45 for the sake of the old lady, whose happy vacuity46 emptied the room of all ideas.
“It was so good of you to come, Mr. Canterton.”
“I assure you I have enjoyed it.”
“I do wish we could persuade Mrs. Canterton to spend an evening with us. But then, of course, she is such a busy, clever woman, and we are such quiet, stay-at-home people. And I have to go to bed at ten. My doctor is such a tyrant47.”
“I hope I haven’t tired you.”
“Oh, dear, no! And please give my kind remembrance to Mrs. Canterton.”
“Thank you. Good night!”
Canterton found himself in the garden with his hand on the gate leading into the lane. The moon had swung clear of the fir woods, and a pale, silvery horizon glimmered48 above the black tops of the trees. Canterton wandered on down the lane, paused where it joined the high road, and stood for a while under the dense49 canopy50 of a yew51.
He felt himself in a different atmosphere, breathing a new air, and he let himself contemplate52 life as it might have appeared, had there been no obvious barriers and limitations. For the moment he had no desire to go back to Fernhill, to break the dream, and pick up the associations that Fernhill suggested. The house was overrun by his wife’s friends who had come to stay for the garden party. Lynette would be asleep, and she alone, at Fernhill, entered into the drama of his dreams.
Mrs. Carfax and the little maid had gone to bed, and Eve, left to herself, was turning over her Latimer pictures and staring at them with peculiar53 intensity54. They suggested much more to her than the Latimer gardens, being part of her own consciousness, and part of another’s consciousness. Her face had a glowing pallor as she sat there, musing55, wondering, staring into impossible distances with a mingling56 of exultation57 and unrest. Did he know what had happened to them both? Had he realised all that had overtaken them in the course of one short week?
The room felt close and hot, and turning down the lamp, Eve went into the narrow hall, opened the door noiselessly, and stepped out into the garden. Moonlight flooded it, and the dew glistened58 on the grass. She wandered down the path, looking at the moon and the mountainous black outlines of the fir woods. And suddenly she stopped.
A man was sitting in the chair that had been left out on the lawn. He started up, and stood bareheaded, looking at her half guiltily.
“Is it you?”
“I am sorry. I was just dreaming.”
He hesitated, one hand on the back of the chair.
“I wanted to think——”
“Yes.”
“Good night!”
“Good night!”
She watched him pass through the gate and down the lane. And everything seemed very strange and still.
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收听单词发音
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1
astronomer
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| n.天文学家 | |
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moth
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| n.蛾，蛀虫 | |
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pestilence
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| n.瘟疫 | |
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blights
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| 使凋萎( blight的第三人称单数 )； 使颓丧； 损害； 妨害 | |
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shrub
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| n.灌木，灌木丛 | |
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grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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spore
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| n.(无花植物借以繁殖的)孢子，芽胞 | |
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bough
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| n.大树枝，主枝 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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11
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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utilitarian
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| adj.实用的，功利的 | |
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consummated
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| v.使结束( consummate的过去式和过去分词 )；使完美；完婚；（婚礼后的）圆房 | |
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14
virgins
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| 处女，童男( virgin的名词复数 )； 童贞玛利亚（耶稣之母） | |
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15
gaudier
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| adj.花哨的，俗气的( gaudy的比较级 ) | |
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16
posture
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| n.姿势，姿态，心态，态度；v.作出某种姿势 | |
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17
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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18
petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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19
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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20
atmospheric
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| adj.大气的，空气的；大气层的；大气所引起的 | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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distilling
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| n.蒸馏（作用）v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )( distilled的过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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23
hush
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| int.嘘，别出声；n.沉默，静寂；v.使安静 | |
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24
enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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25
scents
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| n.香水( scent的名词复数 )；气味；（动物的）臭迹；（尤指狗的）嗅觉 | |
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26
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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27
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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28
genre
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| n.(文学、艺术等的)类型，体裁，风格 | |
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29
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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30
walnut
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| n.胡桃，胡桃木，胡桃色，茶色 | |
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31
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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32
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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34
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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35
portfolio
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| n.公事包；文件夹；大臣及部长职位 | |
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36
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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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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38
whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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cypresses
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| n.柏属植物，柏树( cypress的名词复数 ) | |
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cemeteries
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| n.（非教堂的）墓地，公墓( cemetery的名词复数 ) | |
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41
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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perseveres
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| v.坚忍，坚持( persevere的第三人称单数 ) | |
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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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44
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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45
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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vacuity
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| n.(想象力等)贫乏，无聊，空白 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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48
glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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50
canopy
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| n.天篷，遮篷 | |
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51
yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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52
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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53
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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54
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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55
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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56
mingling
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| adj.混合的 | |
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57
exultation
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| n.狂喜，得意 | |
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glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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