All day, since the late reluctant dawn, the rain had comedown in torrents1. It streamed against Darrow's high-perchedwindows, reduced their vast prospect2 of roofs and chimneysto a black oily huddle3, and filled the room with the drabtwilight of an underground aquarium4.
The streams descended5 with the regularity6 of a third day'srain, when trimming and shuffling7 are over, and the weatherhas settled down to do its worst. There were no variationsof rhythm, no lyrical ups and downs: the grey linesstreaking the panes8 were as dense9 and uniform as a page ofunparagraphed narrative10.
George Darrow had drawn11 his armchair to the fire. The time-table he had been studying lay on the floor, and he satstaring with dull acquiescence12 into the boundless13 blur14 ofrain, which affected15 him like a vast projection16 of his ownstate of mind. Then his eyes travelled slowly about theroom.
It was exactly ten days since his hurried unpacking17 hadstrewn it with the contents of his portmanteaux. Hisbrushes and razors were spread out on the blotched marble ofthe chest of drawers. A stack of newspapers had accumulatedon the centre table under the "electrolier", and half adozen paper novels lay on the mantelpiece among cigar-casesand toilet bottles; but these traces of his passage had madeno mark on the featureless dulness of the room, its look ofbeing the makeshift setting of innumerable transientcollocations. There was something sardonic19, almostsinister, in its appearance of having deliberately20 "made up"for its anonymous21 part, all in noncommittal drabs andbrowns, with a carpet and paper that nobody would remember,and chairs and tables as impersonal22 as railway porters.
Darrow picked up the time-table and tossed it on to thetable. Then he rose to his feet, lit a cigar and went tothe window. Through the rain he could just discover theface of a clock in a tall building beyond the railway roofs.
He pulled out his watch, compared the two time-pieces, andstarted the hands of his with such a rush that they flewpast the hour and he had to make them repeat the circuitmore deliberately. He felt a quite disproportionateirritation at the trifling23 blunder. When he had correctedit he went back to his chair and threw himself down, leaningback his head against his hands. Presently his cigar wentout, and he got up, hunted for the matches, lit it again andreturned to his seat.
The room was getting on his nerves. During the first fewdays, while the skies were clear, he had not noticed it, orhad felt for it only the contemptuous indifference24 of thetraveller toward a provisional shelter. But now that he wasleaving it, was looking at it for the last time, it seemedto have taken complete possession of his mind, to be soakingitself into him like an ugly indelible blot18. Every detailpressed itself on his notice with the familiarity of anaccidental confidant: whichever way he turned, he felt thenudge of a transient intimacy25...
The one fixed26 point in his immediate27 future was that hisleave was over and that he must be back at his post inLondon the next morning. Within twenty-four hours he wouldagain be in a daylight world of recognized activities,himself a busy, responsible, relatively28 necessary factor inthe big whirring social and official machine. That fixedobligation was the fact he could think of with the leastdiscomfort, yet for some unaccountable reason it was the oneon which he found it most difficult to fix his thoughts.
Whenever he did so, the room jerked him back into the circleof its insistent29 associations. It was extraordinary withwhat a microscopic30 minuteness of loathing31 he hated it all:
the grimy carpet and wallpaper, the black marble mantel-piece, the clock with a gilt32 allegory under a dusty bell,the high-bolstered brown-counterpaned bed, the framed cardof printed rules under the electric light switch, and thedoor of communication with the next room. He hated the doormost of all...
At the outset, he had felt no special sense ofresponsibility. He was satisfied that he had struck theright note, and convinced of his power of sustaining it.
The whole incident had somehow seemed, in spite of itsvulgar setting and its inevitable33 prosaic34 propinquities, tobe enacting35 itself in some unmapped region outside the paleof the usual. It was not like anything that had everhappened to him before, or in which he had ever picturedhimself as likely to be involved; but that, at first, hadseemed no argument against his fitness to deal with it.
Perhaps but for the three days' rain he might have got awaywithout a doubt as to his adequacy. The rain had made allthe difference. It had thrown the whole picture out ofperspective, blotted36 out the mystery of the remoter planesand the enchantment37 of the middle distance, and thrust intoprominence every commonplace fact of the foreground. It wasthe kind of situation that was not helped by being thoughtover; and by the perversity38 of circumstance he had beenforced into the unwilling39 contemplation of its everyaspect...
His cigar had gone out again, and he threw it into the fireand vaguely40 meditated41 getting up to find another. But themere act of leaving his chair seemed to call for a greaterexertion of the will than he was capable of, and he leanedhis head back with closed eyes and listened to the drummingof the rain.
A different noise aroused him. It was the opening andclosing of the door leading from the corridor into theadjoining room. He sat motionless, without opening hiseyes; but now another sight forced itself under his loweredlids. It was the precise photographic picture of that otherroom. Everything in it rose before him and pressed itselfupon his vision with the same acuity42 of distinctness as theobjects surrounding him. A step sounded on the floor, andhe knew which way the step was directed, what pieces offurniture it had to skirt, where it would probably pause,and what was likely to arrest it. He heard another sound,and recognized it as that of a wet umbrella placed in theblack marble jamb of the chimney-piece, against the hearth43.
He caught the creak of a hinge, and instantly differentiatedit as that of the wardrobe against the opposite wall. Thenhe heard the mouse-like squeal44 of a reluctant drawer, andknew it was the upper one in the chest of drawers beside thebed: the clatter45 which followed was caused by the mahoganytoilet-glass jumping on its loosened pivots46...
The step crossed the floor again. It was strange how muchbetter he knew it than the person to whom it belonged! Nowit was drawing near the door of communication between thetwo rooms. He opened his eyes and looked. The step hadceased and for a moment there was silence. Then he heard alow knock. He made no response, and after an interval47 hesaw that the door handle was being tentatively turned. Heclosed his eyes once more...
The door opened, and the step was in the room, comingcautiously toward him. He kept his eyes shut, relaxing hisbody to feign48 sleep. There was another pause, then awavering soft advance, the rustle49 of a dress behind hischair, the warmth of two hands pressed for a moment on hislids. The palms of the hands had the lingering scent50 of somestuff that he had bought on the Boulevard...He looked up andsaw a letter falling over his shoulder to his knee...
"Did I disturb you? I'm so sorry! They gave me this just nowwhen I came in."The letter, before he could catch it, had slipped betweenhis knees to the floor. It lay there, address upward, athis feet, and while he sat staring down at the strongslender characters on the blue-gray envelope an arm reachedout from behind to pick it up.
"Oh, don't--DON'T" broke from him, and he bent51 over andcaught the arm. The face above it was close to his.
"Don't what?"----"take the trouble," he stammered52.
He dropped the arm and stooped down. His grasp closed overthe letter, he fingered its thickness and weight andcalculated the number of sheets it must contain.
Suddenly he felt the pressure of the hand on his shoulder,and became aware that the face was still leaning over him,and that in a moment he would have to look up and kiss it...
He bent forward first and threw the unopened letter into themiddle of the fire.
收听单词发音 |
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torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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huddle
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| vi.挤作一团；蜷缩；vt.聚集；n.挤在一起的人 | |
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aquarium
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| n.水族馆，养鱼池，玻璃缸 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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regularity
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| n.规律性，规则性；匀称，整齐 | |
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shuffling
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| adj. 慢慢移动的, 滑移的 动词shuffle的现在分词形式 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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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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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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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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acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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projection
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| n.发射，计划，突出部分 | |
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unpacking
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| n.取出货物，拆包[箱]v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的现在分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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blot
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| vt.弄脏（用吸墨纸）吸干；n.污点，污渍 | |
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sardonic
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| adj.嘲笑的，冷笑的，讥讽的 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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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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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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relatively
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| adv.比较...地，相对地 | |
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insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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microscopic
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| adj.微小的，细微的，极小的，显微的 | |
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loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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enacting
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| 制定（法律），通过（法案）( enact的现在分词 ) | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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acuity
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| n.敏锐，（疾病的）剧烈 | |
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hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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squeal
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| v.发出长而尖的声音；n.长而尖的声音 | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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pivots
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| n.枢( pivot的名词复数 )；最重要的人（或事物）；中心；核心v.（似）在枢轴上转动( pivot的第三人称单数 )；把…放在枢轴上；以…为核心，围绕（主旨）展开 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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48
feign
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| vt.假装，佯作 | |
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rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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50
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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51
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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52
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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