Mr. Worters accepted the suggestion tumultuously. It only became evident gradually that he was not going to adopt it.
"What fun! what fun! We will paddle to your kingdom. If only—if only it wasn't for the tea-things."
"But you can carry the tea-things on your back."
"Why, yes! so I can. Or the servants could,"
"Harcourt—no servants. This is my picnic, and my wood. I'm going to settle everything. I didn't tell you: I've got all the food. I've been in the village with Mr. Ford3."
"In the village——?"
"Yes, We got biscuits and oranges and half a pound of tea. That's all you'll have. He carried them up. And he'll carry them over the stream. I want you just to lend me some tea-things—not the best ones. I'll take care of them. That's all."
"Dear creature...."
"For the half-pound, tenpence."
Mrs. Worters received the announcement in gloomy silence.
"Mother!" cried Mr. Worters. "Why, I forgot! How could we go paddling with mother?"
"Oh, but, Mrs. Worters, we could carry you over."
"Thank you, dearest child. I am sure you could."
"Alas5! alas! Evelyn. Mother is laughing at us. She would sooner die than be carried. And alas! there are my sisters, and Mrs. Osgood: she has a cold, tiresome6 woman. No: we shall have to go round by the bridge."
So we went round—a procession of eight. Miss Beaumont led us. She was full of fun—at least so I thought at the time, but when I reviewed her speeches afterwards I could not find in them anything amusing. It was all this kind of thing: "Single file! Pretend you're in church and don't talk. Mr. Ford, turn out your toes. Harcourt—at the bridge throw to the Naiad a pinch of tea. She has a headache. She has had a headache for nineteen hundred years." All that she said was quite stupid. I cannot think why I liked it at the time.
As we approached the copse she said, "Mr. Inskip, sing, and we'll sing after you: Ah yoù silly àss góds lìve in woóds." I cleared my throat and gave out the abominable8 phrase, and we all chanted it as if it were a litany. There was something attractive about Miss Beaumont. I was not surprised that Harcourt had picked her out of "Ireland" and had brought her home, without money, without connections, almost without antecedents, to be his bride. It was daring of him, but he knew himself to be a daring fellow. She brought him nothing; but that he could afford, he had so vast a surplus of spiritual and commercial goods. "In time," I heard him tell his mother, "in time Evelyn will repay me a thousandfold." Meanwhile there was something attractive about her. If it were my place to like people, I could have liked her very much.
"Stop singing!" she cried. We had entered the wood. "Welcome, all of you." We bowed. Ford, who had not been laughing, bowed down to the ground. "And now be seated. Mrs. Worters—will you sit there—against that tree with a green trunk? It will show up your beautiful dress."
"Very well, dear, I will," said Mrs. Worters.
"Anna—there. Mr. Inskip next to her. Then Ruth and Mrs. Osgood. Oh, Harcourt—do sit a little forward, so that you'll hide the house. I don't want to see the house at all."
"I won't!" laughed her lover, "I want my back against a tree, too."
"Oh, look at all these Worters!" she cried, "and one little Ford in the middle of them!" For she was at that state of civilization which appreciates a pun.
"Shall I stand. Miss Beaumont? Shall I hide the house from you if I stand?"
"He may just as well stand if he will," said she. "Just pull back your soft hat, Mr. Ford. Like a halo. Now you hide even the smoke from the chimneys. And it makes you look beautiful."
"Evelyn! Evelyn! You are too hard on the boy. You'll tire him. He's one of those bookworms. He's not strong. Let him sit down."
"Aren't you strong?" she asked.
"I am strong!" he cried. It is quite true. Ford has no right to be strong, but he is. He never did his dumb-bells or played in his school fifteen. But the muscles came. He thinks they came while he was reading Pindar.
"Then you may just as well stand, if you will."
"Evelyn! Evelyn! childish, selfish maiden11! If poor Jack gets tired I will take his place. Why don't you want to see the house? Eh?"
Mrs. Worters and the Miss Worters moved uneasily. They saw that their Harcourt was not quite pleased. Theirs not to question why. It was for Evelyn to remove his displeasure, and they glanced at her.
"Well, why don't you want to see your future home? I must say—though I practically planned the house myself—that it looks very well from here. I like the gables. Miss! Answer me!"
I felt for Miss Beaumont. A home-made gable is an awful thing, and Harcourt's mansion12 looked like a cottage with the dropsy. But what would she say?
She said nothing.
"Well?"
It was as if he had never spoken. She was as merry, as smiling, as pretty as ever, and she said nothing. She had not realized that a question requires an answer.
For us the situation was intolerable. I had to save it by making a tactful reference to the view, which, I said, reminded me a little of the country near Veii. It did not—indeed it could not, for I have never been near Veii. But it is part of my system to make classical allusions13. And at all events I saved the situation.
Miss Beaumont was serious and rational at once. She asked me the date of Veii. I made a suitable answer.
"I do like the classics," she informed us. "They are so natural. Just writing down things."
"Ye—es," said I. "But the classics have their poetry as well as their prose. They're more than a record of facts."
"Just writing down things," said Miss Beaumont, and smiled as if the silly definition pleased her.
Harcourt had recovered himself. "A very just criticism," said he. "It is what I always feel about the ancient world. It takes us but a very little way. It only writes things down."
"What do you mean?" asked Evelyn.
"I mean this—though it is presumptuous14 to speak in the presence of Mr. Inskip. This is what I mean. The classics are not everything. We owe them an enormous debt; I am the last to undervalue it; I, too, went through them at school. They are full of elegance15 and beauty. But they are not everything. They were written before men began to really feel." He coloured crimson16. "Hence, the chilliness17 of classical art—its lack of—of a something. Whereas later things—Dante—a Madonna of Raphael—some bars of Mendelssohn——" His voice tailed reverently18 away. We sat with our eyes on the ground, not liking19 to look at Miss Beaumont. It is a fairly open secret that she also lacks a something. She has not yet developed her soul.
The silence was broken by the still small voice of Mrs. Worters saying that she was faint with hunger.
The young hostess sprang up. She would let none of us help her: it was her party. She undid20 the basket and emptied out the biscuits and oranges from their bags, and boiled the kettle and poured out the tea, which was horrible. But we laughed and talked with the frivolity21 that suits the open air, and even Mrs. Worters expectorated her flies with a smile. Over us all there stood the silent, chivalrous22 figure of Ford, drinking tea carefully lest it should disturb his outline. His guardian, who is a wag, chaffed him and tickled23 his ankles and calves24.
"Well, this is nice!" said Miss Beaumont. "I am happy."
"Your wood, Evelyn!" said the ladies.
"Her wood for ever!" cried Mr. Worters. "It is an unsatisfactory arrangement, a ninety-nine years' lease. There is no feeling of permanency. I reopened negotiations25. I have bought her the wood for ever—all right, dear, all right: don't make a fuss."
"But I must!" she cried. "For everything's perfect! Every one so kind—and I didn't know most of you a year ago. Oh, it is so wonderful—and now a wood—a wood of my own—a wood for ever. All of you coming to tea with me here! Dear Harcourt—dear people—and just where the house would come and spoil things, there is Mr. Ford!"
"Ha! ha!" laughed Mr. Worters, and slipped his hand up round the boy's ankle. What happened I do not know, but Ford collapsed26 on to the ground with a sharp cry. To an outsider it might have sounded like a cry of anger or pain. We, who knew better, laughed uproariously.
"Down he goes! Down he goes!" And they struggled playfully, kicking up the mould and the dry leaves.
"Don't hurt my wood!" cried Miss Beaumont.
Ford gave another sharp cry. Mr. Worters withdrew his hand. "Victory!" he exclaimed. "Evelyn! behold27 the family seat!" But Miss Beaumont, in her butterfly fashion, had left us, and was strolling away into her wood.
We packed up the tea-things and then split into groups. Ford went with the ladies. Mr. Worters did me the honour to stop by me.
"Well!" he said, in accordance with his usual formula, "and how go the classics?"
"Fairly well."
"Does Miss Beaumont show any ability?"
"I should say that she does. At all events she has enthusiasm."
"You do not think it is the enthusiasm of a child? I will be frank with you, Mr. Inskip. In many ways Miss Beaumont's practically a child. She has everything to learn: she acknowledges as much herself. Her new life is so different—so strange. Our habits—our thoughts—she has to be initiated28 into them all."
I saw what he was driving at, but I am not a fool, and I replied: "And how can she be initiated better than through the classics?"
"Exactly, exactly," said Mr. Worters. In the distance we heard her voice. She was counting the beech-trees. "The only question is—this Latin and Greek—what will she do with it? Can she make anything of it? Can she—well, it's not as if she will ever have to teach it to others."
"That is true." And my features might have been observed to become undecided.
"Whether, since she knows so little—I grant you she has enthusiasm. But ought one not to divert her enthusiasm—say to English literature? She scarcely knows her Tennyson at all. Last night in the conservatory29 I read her that wonderful scene between Arthur and Guinevere. Greek and Latin are all very well, but I sometimes feel we ought to begin at the beginning."
"You feel," said I, "that for Miss Beaumont the classics are something of a luxury."
"A luxury. That is the exact word, Mr. Inskip. A luxury. A whim30. It is all very well for Jack Ford. And here we come to another point. Surely she keeps Jack back? Her knowledge must be elementary."
"Well, her knowledge is elementary: and I must say that it's difficult to teach them together. Jack has read a good deal, one way and another, whereas Miss Beaumont, though diligent31 and enthusiastic——"
"So I have been feeling. The arrangement is scarcely fair on Jack?"
"Well, I must admit——"
"Quite so. I ought never to have suggested it. It must come to an end. Of course, Mr. Inskip, it shall make no difference to you, this withdrawal32 of a pupil."
"The lessons shall cease at once, Mr. Worters."
Here she came up to us. "Harcourt, there are seventy-eight trees. I have had such a count."
He smiled down at her. Let me remember to say that he is tall and handsome, with a strong chin and liquid brown eyes, and a high forehead and hair not at all gray. Few things are more striking than a photograph of Mr. Harcourt Worters.
"Seventy-eight trees?"
"Seventy-eight."
"Are you pleased?"
"Oh, Harcourt——!"
I began to pack up the tea-things. They both saw and heard me. It was their own fault if they did not go further.
"I'm looking forward to the bridge," said he. "A rustic33 bridge at the bottom, and then, perhaps, an asphalt path from the house over the meadow, so that in all weathers we can walk here dry-shod. The boys come into the wood—look at all these initials—and I thought of putting a simple fence, to prevent any one but ourselves——"
"Harcourt!"
"A simple fence," he continued, "just like what I have put round my garden and the fields. Then at the other side of the copse, away from the house, I would put a gate, and have keys—two keys, I think—one for me and one for you—not more; and I would bring the asphalt path——"
"But Harcourt——-"
"But Evelyn!"
"I—I—I——"
"You—you—you——?"
"I—I don't want an asphalt path."
"But Harcourt—I don't want a path at all. I—I—can't afford a path."
He gave a roar of triumphant36 laughter. "Dearest! As if you were going to be bothered? The path's part of my present."
"The wood is your present," said Miss Beaumont. "Do you know—I don't care for the path. I'd rather always come as we came to-day. And I don't want a bridge. No—nor a fence either. I don't mind the boys and their initials. They and the girls have always come up to Other Kingdom and cut their names together in the bark. It's called the Fourth Time of Asking. I don't want it to stop."
"Ugh!" He pointed37 to a large heart transfixed by an arrow. "Ugh! Ugh!" I suspect that he was gaining time.
"They cut their names and go away, and when the first child is born they come again and deepen the cuts. So for each child. That's how you know: the initials that go right through to the wood are the fathers and mothers of large families, and the scratches in the bark that soon close up are boys and girls who were never married at all."
"You wonderful person! I've lived here all my life and never heard a word of this. Fancy folk-lore in Hertfordshire! I must tell the Archdeacon: he will be delighted——"
"And Harcourt, I don't want this to stop."
"My dear girl, the villagers will find other trees! There's nothing particular in Other Kingdom."
"But——"
"Other Kingdom shall be for us. You and I alone. Our initials only." His voice sank to a whisper.
"I don't want it fenced in." Her face was turned to me; I saw that it was puzzled and frightened. "I hate fences. And bridges. And all paths. It is my wood. Please: you gave me the wood."
"Why, yes!" he replied, soothing38 her. But I could see that he was angry. "Of course. But aha! Evelyn, the meadow's mine; I have a right to fence there—between my domain39 and yours!"
"Oh, fence me out if you like! Fence me out as much as you like! But never in. Oh Harcourt, never in. I must be on the outside, I must be where any one can reach me. Year by year—while the initials deepen—the only thing worth feeling—and at last they close up—but one has felt them."
"Our initials!" he murmured, seizing upon the one word which he had understood and which was useful to him. "Let us carve our initials now. You and I—a heart if you like it, and an arrow and everything. H.W.—E.B."
"H.W.," she repeated, "and E.B."
He took out his penknife and drew her away in search of an unsullied tree. "E.B., Eternal Blessing40. Mine! Mine! My haven41 from the world! My temple of purity. Oh the spiritual exaltation—you cannot understand it, but you will! Oh, the seclusion42 of Paradise. Year after year alone together, all in all to each other—year after year, soul to soul, E.B., Everlasting43 Bliss44!"
He stretched out his hand to cut the initials. As he did so she seemed to awake from a dream. "Harcourt!" she cried, "Harcourt! What's that? What's that red stuff on your finger and thumb?"
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收听单词发音
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1
beech
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| n.山毛榉；adj.山毛榉的 | |
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2
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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4
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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5
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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6
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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7
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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8
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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9
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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10
asperity
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| n.粗鲁，艰苦 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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12
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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13
allusions
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| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
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14
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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15
elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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16
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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chilliness
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| n.寒冷，寒意，严寒 | |
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reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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19
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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20
Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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frivolity
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| n.轻松的乐事，兴高采烈；轻浮的举止 | |
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22
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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23
tickled
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| （使）发痒( tickle的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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negotiations
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| 协商( negotiation的名词复数 )； 谈判； 完成（难事）； 通过 | |
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collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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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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conservatory
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| n.温室，音乐学院；adj.保存性的，有保存力的 | |
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whim
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| n.一时的兴致，突然的念头；奇想，幻想 | |
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31
diligent
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| adj.勤勉的，勤奋的 | |
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32
withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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35
gravel
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| n.砂跞；砂砾层；结石 | |
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36
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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39
domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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40
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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41
haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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42
seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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43
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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44
bliss
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| n.狂喜，福佑，天赐的福 | |
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