"This my own fault," said Ford. "I should have labelled it 'Practically Private.' How could he know he was not meant to look inside?"
I spoke2 out severely3, as an employé should. "My dear boy, none of that. The label came unstuck. That was why Mr. Worters opened the book. He never suspected it was private. See—the label's off."
"Scratched off," Ford retorted grimly, and glanced at his ankle.
I affect not to understand. "The point is this. Mr. Worters is thinking the matter over for four-and-twenty hours. If you take my advice you will apologize before that time elapses."
"And if I don't?"
"You know your own affairs of course. But don't forget that you are young and practically ignorant of life, and that you have scarcely any money of your own. As far as I can see, your career practically depends on the favour of Mr. Worters. You have laughed at him. He does not like being laughed at. It seems to me that your course is obvious."
"Apology?"
"Complete."
"And if I don't?"
"Departure."
He sat down on the stone steps and rested his head on his knees. On the lawn below us was Miss Beaumont, draggling about with some croquet balls. Her lover was out in the meadow, superintending the course of the asphalt path. For the path is to be made, and so is the bridge, and the fence is to be built round Other Kingdom after all. In time Miss Beaumont saw how unreasonable4 were her objections. Of her own accord, one evening in the drawing-room, she gave her Harcourt permission to do what he liked. "That wood looks nearer," said Ford.
"The inside fences have gone: that brings it nearer. But my dear boy—you must settle what you're going to do."
"How much has he read?"
"Naturally he only opened the book. From what you showed me of it, one glance would be enough."
"Did he open at the poems?"
"Poems?"
"Did he speak of the poems?"
"No. Were they about him?"
"They were not about him."
"Then it wouldn't matter if he saw them."
"It is sometimes a compliment to be mentioned," said Ford, looking up at me. The remark had a stinging fragrance5 about it—such a fragrance as clings to the mouth after admirable wine. It did not taste like the remark of a boy. I was sorry that my pupil was likely to wreck6 his career; and I told him again that he had better apologize.
"I won't speak of Mr. Worters' claim for an apology. That's an aspect on which I prefer not to touch. The point is, if you don't apologize, you go—where?"
"To an aunt at Peckham."
I pointed7 to the pleasant, comfortable land-scape, full of cows and carriage-horses out at grass, and civil retainers. In the midst of it stood Mr. Worters, radiating energy and wealth, like a terrestrial sun. "My dear Ford—don't be heroic! Apologize."
Unfortunately I raised my voice a little, and Miss Beaumont heard me, down on the lawn.
"Apologize?" she cried. "What about?" And as she was not interested in the game, she came up the steps towards us, trailing her croquet mallet8 behind her. Her walk was rather listless. She was toning down at last.
"Come indoors!" I whispered. "We must get out of this."
"Not a bit of it!" said Ford.
He swallowed something as he looked up at her. Suddenly I understood. I knew the nature and the subject of his poems. I was not so sure now that he had better apologize. The sooner he was kicked out of the place the better.
In spite of my remonstrances10, he told her about the book, and her first remark was: "Oh, do let me see it!" She had no "proper feeling" of any kind. Then she said: "But why do you both look so sad?"
"We are awaiting Mr. Worters' decision," said I.
"Mr. Inskip! What nonsense! Do you suppose Harcourt'll be angry?"
"Of course he is angry, and rightly so."
"But why?"
"Ford has laughed at him."
"But what's that!" And for the first time there was anger in her voice. "Do you mean to say he'll punish some one who laughs at him? Why, for what else—for whatever reason are we all here? Not to laugh at each other! I laugh at people all day. At Mr. Ford. At you. And so does Harcourt. Oh, you've misjudged him! He won't—he couldn't be angry with people who laughed."
"Mine is not nice laughter," said Ford. "He could not well forgive me."
"You're a silly boy." She sneered11 at him. "You don't know Harcourt. So generous in every way. Why, he'd be as furious as I should be if you apologized. Mr. Inskip, isn't that so?"
"He has every right to an apology, I think."
"Right? What's a right? You use too many new words. 'Rights'—'apologies'—'society'—'position'—I don't follow it. What are we all here for, anyhow?"
Her discourse12 was full of trembling lights and shadows—frivolous one moment, the next moment asking why Humanity is here. I did not take the Moral Science Tripos, so I could not tell her.
"One thing I know—and that is that Harcourt isn't as stupid as you two. He soars above conventions. He doesn't care about 'rights' and 'apologies.' He knows that all laughter is nice, and that the other nice things are money and the soul and so on."
The soul and so on! I wonder that Harcourt out in the meadows did not have an apoplectic13 fit.
"Why, what a poor business your life would be," she continued, "if you all kept taking offence and apologizing! Forty million people in England and all of them touchy14! How one would laugh if it was true! Just imagine!" And she did laugh. "Look at Harcourt though. He knows better. He isn't petty like that. Mr. Ford! He isn't petty like that. Why, what 's wrong with your eyes?"
He rested his head on his knees again, and we could see his eyes no longer. In dispassionate tones she informed me that she thought he was crying. Then she tapped him on the hair with her mallet and said: "Cry-baby! Cry-cry-baby! Crying about nothing!" and ran laughing down the steps. "All right!" she shouted from the lawn. "Tell the cry-baby to stop. I'm going to speak to Harcourt!"
We watched her go in silence. Ford had scarcely been crying. His eyes had only become large and angry. He used such swear-words as he knew, and then got up abruptly15, and went into the house. I think he could not bear to see her disillusioned16. I had no such tenderness, and it was with considerable interest that I watched Miss Beaumont approach her lord.
She walked confidently across the meadow, bowing to the workmen as they raised their hats. Her languor17 had passed, and with it her suggestion of "tone." She was the same crude, unsophisticated person that Harcourt had picked out of Ireland—beautiful and ludicrous in the extreme, and:—if you go in for pathos—extremely pathetic.
I saw them meet, and soon she was hanging on his arm. The motion of his hand explained to her the construction of bridges. Twice she interrupted him: he had to explain everything again. Then she got in her word, and what followed was a good deal better than a play. Their two little figures parted and met and parted again, she gesticulating, he most pompous18 and calm. She pleaded, she argued and—if satire19 can carry half a mile—she tried to be satirical. To enforce one of her childish points she made two steps back. Splash! She was floundering in the little stream.
That was the dénouement of the comedy. Harcourt rescued her, while the workmen crowded round in an agitated20 chorus. She was wet quite as far as her knees, and muddy over her ankles. In this state she was conduced towards me, and in time I began to hear words; "Influenza—a slight immersion—clothes are of no consequence beside health—pray, dearest, don't worry—yes, it must have been a shock—bed! bed! I insist on bed! Promise? Good girl. Up the steps to bed then."
They parted on the lawn, and she came obediently up the steps. Her face was full of terror and bewilderment.
"So you've had a wetting, Miss Beaumont!"
"Wetting? Oh, yes. But, Mr. Inskip—I don't understand: I've failed."
I expressed surprise.
"Mr. Ford is to go—at once. I've failed."
"I'm sorry."
"I've failed with Harcourt. He's offended. He won't laugh. He won't let me do what I want. Latin and Greek began it: I wanted to know about gods and heroes and he wouldn't let me: then I wanted no fence round Other Kingdom and no bridge and no path—and look! Now I ask that Mr. Ford, who has done nothing, sha'n't be punished for it—and he is to go away for ever."
"Impertinence is not 'nothing,' Miss Beaumont." For I must keep in with Harcourt.
"Impertinence is nothing!" she cried. "It doesn't exist. It's a sham21, like 'claims' and 'position' and 'rights.' It's part of the great dream."
"What 'great dream'?" I asked, trying not to smile.
"Tell Mr. Ford—here comes Harcourt; I must go to bed. Give my love to Mr. Ford, and tell him 'to guess.' I shall never see him again, and I won't stand it. Tell him to guess. I am sorry I called him a cry-baby. He was not crying like a baby. He was crying like a grown-up person, and now I have grown up too."
I judged it right to repeat this conversation to my employer.
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收听单词发音
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1
Ford
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| n.浅滩，水浅可涉处；v.涉水，涉过 | |
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2
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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3
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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4
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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5
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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6
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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7
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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8
mallet
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| n.槌棒 | |
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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
remonstrances
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| n.抱怨，抗议( remonstrance的名词复数 ) | |
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11
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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12
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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13
apoplectic
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| adj.中风的；愤怒的；n.中风患者 | |
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14
touchy
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| adj.易怒的；棘手的 | |
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15
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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16
disillusioned
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| a.不再抱幻想的，大失所望的，幻想破灭的 | |
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17
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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18
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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19
satire
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| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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20
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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21
sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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