Rodney listened, and murmured, "Brute3." He hated them more than Peter did. He was less wide-minded and less sweet-tempered. Peter had a gentle and not intolerant æsthetic aversion, Rodney a fervid4 moral indignation.
It came storming over the rims5 of twilight6 out of an unborn dawn, and the soft dust surged behind. Its eyes flamed, and lit the pale world. It was running to the city in the dim west; it was in a hurry; it would be there for breakfast. As it ran it played the opening bars of something of Tchaichowsky's.
Rodney and Peter leant over the low white wall and gazed into grey shivering gardens. So could they show aloof7 contempt; so could they elude8 the rioting dust.
The storming took a diminuendo note; it slackened to a throbbing9 murmur2. The brute had stopped, and close to them. The brute was investigating itself.
"Perhaps," Rodney hoped, but not sanguinely10, "they'll have to push it all the way to Florence." Still contempt withheld11 a glance.
Then a pleasant, soft voice broke the hushed dusk with half a laugh, and Peter wheeled sharply about. The man who had laughed was climbing again into his seat, saying, "It's quite all right." That remark was extremely characteristic; it would have been a suitable motto for his whole career.
The next thing he said, in his gentle, unsurprised voice, was to the bare-headed figure that smiled up at him from the road.
"You, Margery?... What a game. But what have you done with the Hebrew? Oh, that's Stephen, isn't it. That accounts for it: but how did he get you? I say, you can't have slept anywhere; there's been nowhere, for miles. And have you left Leslie to roam alone among the Objects of Beauty with his own unsophisticated taste for guide? I suppose he's chucked you at last; very decent-spirited of him, I think, don't you, Stephen?"
"I chucked him," Peter explained, "because he bought a sham12 Carlo Dolci. I drew the line at that. Though if one must have a Carlo Dolci, I suppose it had better be a sham one, on the whole. Anyhow, I came away and took to the road. We sleep in ditches, and we like it very much, and I make tea every morning in my little kettle. I'm going to Florence to help Leslie to buy bronze things for his grates—dogs, you know, and shovels13 and things. Leslie will have been there for three days now; I do wonder what he's bought."
"You'd better come on in the car," Urquhart said. "Both of you. Why is Stephen looking so proud? I shall be at Florence for breakfast. You won't, though. Bad luck. Come along; there's loads of room."
Rodney stood by the wall. He was unlike Peter in this, that his resentment14 towards a person who motored across Tuscany between dusk and dawn was in no way lessened16 by the discovery of who it was.
Peter stood, his feet deep in dust, and smiled at Urquhart. Rodney watched the two a little cynically17 from the wall. Peter looked what he was—a limping vagabond tramp, dust-smeared, bare-headed, very much part of the twilight road. In spite of his knapsack, he had the air of possessing nothing and smiling over the thought.
Peter said, "How funny," meaning the combination of Urquhart and the motor-car and Tuscany and the grey dawn and Rodney and himself; Urquhart was smiling down at them, his face pale in the strange dawn-twilight. The scene was symbolical19 of their whole relations; it seemed as if Urquhart, lifted triumphantly20 above the road's dust, had always so smiled down on Peter, in his vagabond weakness.
"I don't think," Urquhart was saying, "that you ought to walk so far in the night. It's weakening." To Urquhart Peter had always been a brittle22 incompetent23, who could not do things, who kept breaking into bits if roughly handled.
"Rodney and I don't think," Peter returned, in the hushed voice that belonged to the still hour, "that you ought to motor so loud in the night. It's common. Rodney specially24 thinks so. Rodney is sulking; he won't come and speak to you."
Urquhart called to his cousin: "Come with me to Florence, you and Margery. Or do you hate them too much?"
"Much too much," Rodney admitted, coming forwards perforce. "Thank you," he added, "but I'm on a walking tour, and it wouldn't do to spoil it. Margery isn't, though. You go, Margery, if you like."
Urquhart said, "Do, Margery," and Peter looked wistful, but declined. He wanted horribly badly to go with Urquhart; but loyalty25 hindered.
Urquhart said he was going to Venice afterwards, to stay with his uncle Evelyn.
"Good," said Peter. "Leslie and I are going to do Venice directly we've cleared Florence of its Objects of Beauty. You can imagine the way Leslie will go about Florence, his purse in his hand, asking the price of the Bargello. 'Worth having, isn't it? A good thing, I think?' If we decide that it is he'll have it, whatever the price; he always does. He's a sportsman; I can't tell you how attached I am to him." Peter had not told even Urquhart that one was ever glad of a rest from Leslie.
Urquhart said, "Well, if you won't come," and hummed into the paling twilight, and before him fled the circle of golden light and after him swept the dust. Peter's eyes followed the golden light and the surging whiteness till a bend in the road took them, and the world was again dim and grey and very still. Only the little cool wind that soughed among the olive leaves was like the hushed murmuring of quiet waves. Eastwards26, among the still, mysterious hills and silver plains, a translucent27 dawn was coming.
Peter's sigh was very unobtrusive. "After all," he murmured, "motoring does make me feel sick."
Rodney gave half a cynical18 smile with the corner of his mouth not occupied with his short and ugly pipe. Peter was pipeless; smoking, perhaps, had the same disastrous28 effect.
"But all the same," said Peter, suddenly aggrieved29, "you might be pleasant to your own cousin, even if he is in a motor. Why be proud?"
He was really a little vexed30 that Rodney should look with aloofness31 on Urquhart. For him Urquhart embodied32 the brilliance33 of life, its splendidness and beauty and joy. Rodney, with his fanatical tilting34 at prosperity, would, Peter half consciously knew, have to see Urquhart unhorsed and stripped bare before he would take much notice of him.
"Too many things," said Rodney, indistinctly over his thick pipe. "That's all."
Peter, irritated, said, "The old story. The more things the better; why not? You'd be happy on a desert island full of horrid35 naked savages36. You think you're civilised, but you're really the most primitive37 person I know."
Rodney said he was glad; he liked to be primitive, and added, "But you're wrong, of course. The naked savages would like anything they could get—beads or feathers or top hats; they're not natural ascetics38; the simple life is enforced.... St. Francis took off all his clothes in the Piazza39 and began his new career without any."
"Disgusting," murmured Peter.
"That," said Rodney, "is what people like Denis should do. They need to unload, strip bare, to find themselves, to find life."
"Denis," said Peter, "is the most alive person I know, as it happens. He's found life without needing to take his clothes off—so he scores over St. Francis."
Denis had rushed through the twilight vivid like a flame—he had lit it for a moment and left it grey. Peter knew that.
"But he hasn't," Rodney maintained, "got the key of the thing. If he did take his clothes off, it would be a toss-up whether he found more life or lost what he's got. That's all wrong, don't you see. That's what ails40 all these delightful41, prosperous people. They're swimming with life-belts."
"You'll be saying next," said Peter, disgusted, "that you admire Savonarola and his bonfire."
"I do, of course. But he'd only got hold of half of it—half the gospel of the empty-handed. The point is to lose and laugh." For a moment Rodney had a vision of Peter standing42 bare-headed in the dust and smiling. "To drop all the trappings and still find life jolly—just because it is life, not because of what it brings. That's what St. Francis did. That's where Italy scores over England. I remember at Lerici the beggars laughing on the shore, with a little maccaroni to last them the day. There was a man all done up in bandages, hopping43 about on crutches44 and grinning. Smashed to bits, and his bones sticking out of his skin for hunger, but there was the sun and the sea and the game he was playing with dice45, and he looked as if he was saying, 'Nihil habentes, omnia possidentes; isn't it a jolly day?' When Denis says that, I shall begin to have hopes for him. At present he thinks it's a jolly day because he's got money to throw about and a hundred and one games to play at and friends to play them with, and everything his own way, and a new motor.... Well, but look at that now. Isn't it bare and splendid—all clean lines—no messing and softness; it might be cut out of rock. Oh, I like Tuscany."
They had rounded a bend, and a spacious47 country lay there stretched to the morning, and over it the marvel48 of the dawn opened and blossomed like a flower. From the basin of the shining river the hills stood back, and up their steep sides the vine-hung mulberries and close-trimmed olives climbed (olives south of the Serchio are diligently49 pruned50, and lack the generous luxuriance of the north), and against the silver background the sentinel cypresses51 stood black, like sharp music notes striking abruptly53 into a vague symphony; and among the mulberry gardens and the olives and the cypresses white roads climbed and spiralled up to little cresting54 cities that took the rosy55 dawn. Tuscany emerging out of the dim mystery of night had a splendid clarity, an unblurred cleanness of line, an austere56 fineness, as of a land hewn sharply out of rock.
Peter would not have that fine bareness used as illustration; it was too good a thing in itself. Rodney the symbolist saw the vision of life in it, Peter the joy of self-sufficient beauty.
The quiet road bore them through the hushed translucence57 of the dawn-clear land. Everything was silent in this limpid58 hour; the little wind that had whitened the olives and set the sea-waves whispering there had dropped now and lay very still.
The road ran level through the river basin. Far ahead they could see it now, a white ribbon laid beside a long golden gleam that wound and wound.
Peter sighed, seeing so much of it all at once, and stopped to rest on the low white wall, but instead of sitting on it he swayed suddenly forward, and the hill cities circled close about him, and darkened and shut out the dawn.
The smell of the dust, when one was close to it, was bitter and odd. Somewhere in the further darkness a voice was muttering mild and perplexed59 imprecations. Peter moved on the strong arm that was supporting him and opened his eyes and looked on the world again. Between him and the rosy morning, Rodney loomed60 large, pouring whisky into a flask61.
It all seemed a very old and often-repeated tale. One could not do anything; one could not even go a walking-tour: one could not (of this one was quite sure) take whisky at this juncture62 without feeling horribly sick. The only thing that occurred to Peter, in the face of the dominant63 Rodney, was to say, "I'm a teetotaller." Rodney nodded and held the flask to his lips. Rodney was looking rather worried.
Peter said presently, still at length in the dust, "I'm frightfully sorry. I suppose I'm tired. Didn't we get up rather early and walk rather fast?"
"I suppose," said Rodney, "you oughtn't to have come. What's wrong, you rotter?"
Peter sat up, and there lay the road again, stretching and stretching into the pink morning.
"Thirty kilometres to breakfast," murmured Peter. "And I don't know that I want any, even then. Wrong?... Oh ... well, I suppose it's heart. I have one, you know, of a sort. A nuisance, it's always been. Not dangerous, but just in the way. I'm sorry, Rodney—I really am."
Rodney said again, "You absolute rotter. Why didn't you tell me? What in the name of anything induced you to walk at all? You needn't have."
Peter looked down the long road that wound and wound into the morning land. "I wanted to," he said. "I wanted to most awfully64.... I wanted to try it.... I thought perhaps it was the one thing.... Football's off for me, you know—and most other things.... Only diabolo left ... and ping-pong ... and jig-saw. I'm quite good at those ... but oh, I did want to be able to walk. Horribly I wanted it."
"Well," said Rodney practically, "it's extremely obvious that you aren't. You ought to have got into that thing, of course. Only then, as you remarked, you would have felt sick. Really, Margery...."
"Oh, I know," Peter stopped him hastily. "Don't say the usual things; I really feel too unwell to bear them. I know I'm made in Germany and all that—I've been hearing so all my life. And now I should like you to go on to Florence, and I'll follow, very slow. It's all very well, Rodney, but you were going at about seven miles an hour. Talk of motors—I couldn't see the scenery as we rushed by. That's such a Vandal-like way of crossing Tuscany."
"Well, you can cross the rest of Tuscany by train. There's a station at Montelupo; we shall be there directly."
Peter, abruptly renouncing65 his intention of getting up, lay back giddily. The marvellous morning was splendid on the mountains.
"How extremely lucky," remarked Peter weakly, "that I wasn't in this position when Denis came by. Denis usually does come by at these crucial moments you know—always has. He probably thinks by now that I am an escaped inhabitant of the Permanent Casualty Ward15. Bother. I wish he didn't."
"Since it's obvious," said Rodney, "that you can't stand, let alone walk, I had better go on to Montelupo and fetch a carriage of sorts. I wonder if you can lie there quietly till I come back, or if you'll be having seizures66 and things? Well, I can't help it. I must go, anyhow. There's the whisky on your left."
Peter sat very still leaning back against the rough white wall, and thought what a pity it all was. What a pity, and what a bore, that one could not do things like other people. Short of being an Urquhart, who could do everything and had everything, whose passing car flamed triumphant21 and lit the world into a splendid joy, and was approved under investigation68 with "quite all right"—short of that glorious competence69 and pride of life, one might surely be an average man, who could walk from San Pietro to Florence without tumbling on the road at dawn. Peter sighed over it, rather crossly. The marvellous morning was insulted by his collapse70; it became a remote thing, in which he might have no share. As always, the inexorable "Not for you" rose like a barred gate between him and the lucid71 country the white road threaded.
Peter in the dust began to whistle softly, to cheer himself, and because he was really feeling better, and because anyhow, for him or not for him, the land at dawn was a golden and glorious thing, and he loved it. What did it matter whether he could walk through it or not? There it lay, magical, clear-hewn, bathed in golden sunrise.
Round the turn of the road a bent46 figure came, stepping slowly and with age, a woodstack on his back. Heavier even than a knapsack containing a spirit kettle and a Decameron and biscuit remainders in a paper bag, it must be. Peter watched the slow figure sympathetically. Would he sway and topple over; and if he did would the woodstack break his fall? The whisky flask stood ready on Peter's left.
Peter stopped whistling to watch; then he became aware that once more the hidden distances were jarring and humming. He sat upright, and waited; a little space of listening, then once again the sungod's chariot stormed into the morning.
Peter watched it grow in size. How extremely fortunate.... Even though one was again, as usual, found collapsed72 and absurd.
The woodstack pursued its slow advance. The music from Tchaichowsky admonished73 it, as a matter of form, from far off, then sharply, summarily, from a lessening74 distance. The woodstack was puzzled, vaguely75 worried. It stopped, dubiously76 moved to one side, and pursued its cautious way a little uncertainly.
Urquhart, without his chauffeur77 this time, was driving over the speed-limit, Peter perceived. He usually did. But he ought to slacken his pace now, or he would miss Peter by the wall. He was nearing the woodstack, just going to pass it, with a clear two yards between. It was not his doing: it was the woodstack that suddenly lessened the distance, lurching over it, taking the middle of the road.
The car swung sharply about like a tugged79 horse; sprang to the other side of the road, hung poised80 on a wheel, as near as possible capsized. A less violent jerk and it would have gone clean over the woodstack that lay in the road on the top of its bearer.
By the time Peter got there, Urquhart had lifted the burden from the old bent figure that lay face downwards81. Gently he turned it over, and they looked on a thin old face gone grey with more than age.
"He can't be," said Urquhart. "He can't be. I didn't touch him."
Peter said nothing. His eyes rested on the broken end of a chestnut-stick protruding82 from the faggot, dangling83 loose by its bark. Urquhart's glance followed his.
"I see," said Urquhart quietly. "That did it. The lamp or something must have struck it and knocked him over. Poor old chap." Urquhart's hand shook over the still heart. Peter gave him the whisky flask. Two minutes passed. It was no good.
"His heart must have been bad," said Urquhart, and the soft tones of his pleasant voice were harsh and unsteady. "Shock, I suppose. How—how absolutely awful."
How absolutely incongruous, Peter was dully thinking. Urquhart and tragedy; Urquhart and death. It was that which blackened the radiant morning, not the mercifully abrupt52 cessation of a worn-out life. For Peter death had two sharply differentiated84 aspects—one of release to the tired and old, for whom the grasshopper85 was a burden; the other of an unthinkable blackness of tragedy—sheer sharp loss that knew no compensation. It was not with this bitter face that death had stepped into their lives on this clear morning. One could imagine that weary figure glad to end his wayfaring86 so; one could even imagine those steps to death deliberately87 taken; and one did imagine those he left behind him accepting his peace as theirs.
Peter said, "It wasn't your fault. It was his doing—poor chap."
The uncertain quaver in his voice brought Urquhart's eyes for a moment upon his face, that was always pale and was now the colour of putty.
"You're ill, aren't you?... I met Stephen.... I was coming back anyhow; I knew you weren't fit to walk."
He muttered it absently, frowning down on the other greyer face in the grey dust. Again his hand unsteadily groped over the still heart, and lay there for a moment.
Abruptly then he looked up, and met Peter's shadow-circled eyes.
"I was over-driving," he said. "I ought to have slowed down to pass him." He stood up, frowning down on the two in the road.
"We've got to think now," he said, "what to do about it."
To that thinking Peter offered no help and no hindrance88. He sat in the road by the dead man and the bundle of wood, and looked vaguely on the remote morning that death had dimmed. Denis and death: Peter would have done a great deal to sever89 that incredible connection.
But it was, after all, for Denis to effect that severing90, to cut himself loose from that oppressing and impossible weight.
He did so.
"I don't see," said Denis, "that we need ... that we can ... do anything about it."
Above the clear mountains the sun swung up triumphant, and the wide river valley was bathed in radiant gold.
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1
crescendo
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| n.(音乐)渐强，高潮 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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fervid
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| adj.热情的；炽热的 | |
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rims
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| n.（圆形物体的）边( rim的名词复数 )；缘；轮辋；轮圈 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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elude
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| v.躲避，困惑 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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sanguinely
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| 乐观的，充满希望的； 面色红润的； 血红色的 | |
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withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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shovels
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| n.铲子( shovel的名词复数 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份v.铲子( shovel的第三人称单数 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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lessened
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| 减少的，减弱的 | |
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cynically
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| adv.爱嘲笑地，冷笑地 | |
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cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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symbolical
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| a.象征性的 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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incompetent
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| adj.无能力的，不能胜任的 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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eastwards
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| adj.向东方（的），朝东（的）；n.向东的方向 | |
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translucent
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| adj.半透明的；透明的 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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brilliance
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| n.光辉，辉煌，壮丽，（卓越的）才华，才智 | |
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tilting
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| 倾斜，倾卸 | |
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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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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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ascetics
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| n.苦行者，禁欲者，禁欲主义者( ascetic的名词复数 ) | |
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piazza
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| n.广场；走廊 | |
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ails
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| v.生病( ail的第三人称单数 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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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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hopping
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| n. 跳跃 动词hop的现在分词形式 | |
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crutches
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| n.拐杖, 支柱 v.支撑 | |
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dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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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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spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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49
diligently
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| ad.industriously;carefully | |
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50
pruned
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| v.修剪（树木等）( prune的过去式和过去分词 )；精简某事物，除去某事物多余的部分 | |
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51
cypresses
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| n.柏属植物，柏树( cypress的名词复数 ) | |
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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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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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54
cresting
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| n.顶饰v.到达山顶（或浪峰）( crest的现在分词 )；到达洪峰，达到顶点 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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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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translucence
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| n.半透明 | |
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limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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60
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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61
flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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juncture
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| n.时刻，关键时刻，紧要关头 | |
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dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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renouncing
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的现在分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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seizures
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| n.起获( seizure的名词复数 )；没收；充公；起获的赃物 | |
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ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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68
investigation
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| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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69
competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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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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collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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73
admonished
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| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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74
lessening
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| 减轻，减少，变小 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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dubiously
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| adv.可疑地，怀疑地 | |
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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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78
sprawling
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| adj.蔓生的，不规则地伸展的v.伸开四肢坐[躺]( sprawl的现在分词 )；蔓延；杂乱无序地拓展；四肢伸展坐着（或躺着） | |
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tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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81
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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82
protruding
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| v.（使某物）伸出，（使某物）突出( protrude的现在分词 )；凸 | |
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83
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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differentiated
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| 区分，区别，辨别( differentiate的过去式和过去分词 )； 区别对待； 表明…间的差别，构成…间差别的特征 | |
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85
grasshopper
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| n.蚱蜢，蝗虫，蚂蚱 | |
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86
wayfaring
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| adj.旅行的n.徒步旅行 | |
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87
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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88
hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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89
sever
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| v.切开，割开；断绝，中断 | |
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severing
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的现在分词 )；断，裂 | |
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