NICK Lansing arrived in Paris two days after his lawyer hadannounced his coming to Mr. Spearman.
He had left Rome with the definite purpose of freeing himselfand Susy; and though he was not pledged to Coral Hicks he hadnot concealed1 from her the object of his journey. In vain hadhe tried to rouse in himself any sense of interest in his ownfuture. Beyond the need of reaching a definite point in hisrelation to Susy his imagination could not travel. But he hadbeen moved by Coral's confession2, and his reason told him thathe and she would probably be happy together, with the temperatehappiness based on a community of tastes and an enlargement ofopportunities. He meant, on his return to Rome, to ask her tomarry him; and he knew that she knew it. Indeed, if he had notspoken before leaving it was with no idea of evading3 his fate,or keeping her longer in suspense4, but simply because of thestrange apathy5 that had fallen on him since he had receivedSusy's letter. In his incessant6 self-communings he dressed upthis apathy as a discretion7 which forbade his engaging Coral'sfuture till his own was assured. But in truth he knew thatCoral's future was already engaged, and his with it: in Romethe fact had seemed natural and even inevitable8.
In Paris, it instantly became the thinnest of unrealities. Notbecause Paris was not Rome, nor because it was Paris; butbecause hidden away somewhere in that vast unheeding labyrinthwas the half-forgotten part of himself that was Susy .... Forweeks, for months past, his mind had been saturated9 with Susy:
she had never seemed more insistently10 near him than as theirseparation lengthened11, and the chance of reunion became lessprobable. It was as if a sickness long smouldering in him hadbroken out and become acute, enveloping12 him in the Nessus-shirtof his memories. There were moments when, to his memory, theiractual embraces seemed perfunctory, accidental, compared withthis deep deliberate imprint13 of her soul on his.
Yet now it had become suddenly different. Now that he was inthe same place with her, and might at any moment run across her,meet her eyes, hear her voice, avoid her hand--now thatpenetrating ghost of her with which he had been living wassucked back into the shadows, and he seemed, for the first timesince their parting, to be again in her actual presence. Hewoke to the fact on the morning of his arrival, staring downfrom his hotel window on a street she would perhaps walk throughthat very day, and over a limitless huddle14 of roofs, one ofwhich covered her at that hour. The abruptness15 of thetransition startled him; he had not known that her meregeographical nearness would take him by the throat in that way.
What would it be, then, if she were to walk into the room?
Thank heaven that need never happen! He was sufficientlyinformed as to French divorce proceedings16 to know that theywould not necessitate17 a confrontation18 with his wife; and withordinary luck, and some precautions, he might escape even adistant glimpse of her. He did not mean to remain in Paris morethan a few days; and during that time it would be easy--knowing,as he did, her tastes and Altringham's--to avoid the placeswhere she was likely to be met. He did not know where she wasliving, but imagined her to be staying with Mrs. Melrose, orsome other rich friend, or else lodged19, in prospectiveaffluence, at the Nouveau Luxe, or in a pretty flat of her own.
Trust Susy--ah, the pang20 of it--to "manage"!
His first visit was to his lawyer's; and as he walked throughthe familiar streets each approaching face, each distant figureseemed hers. The obsession21 was intolerable. It would not last,of course; but meanwhile he had the exposed sense of a fugitivein a nightmare, who feels himself the only creature visible in aghostly and besetting22 multitude. The eye of the metropolisseemed fixed23 on him in an immense unblinking stare.
At the lawyer's he was told that, as a first step to freedom, hemust secure a domicile in Paris. He had of course known of thisnecessity: he had seen too many friends through the DivorceCourt, in one country or another, not to be fairly familiar withthe procedure. But the fact presented a different aspect assoon as he tried to relate it to himself and Susy: it was asthough Susy's personality were a medium through which eventsstill took on a transfiguring colour. He found the "domicile"that very day: a tawdrily furnished rez-de-chaussee, obviouslydestined to far different uses. And as he sat there, after theconcierge had discreetly24 withdrawn25 with the first quarter'spayment in her pocket, and stared about him at the vulgar plushyplace, he burst out laughing at what it was about to figure inthe eyes of the law: a Home, and a Home desecrated27 by his ownact! The Home in which he and Susy had reared their precariousbliss, and seen it crumble28 at the brutal29 touch of hisunfaithfulness and his cruelty--for he had been told that hemust be cruel to her as well as unfaithful! He looked at thewalls hung with sentimental30 photogravures, at the shiny bronze"nudes," the moth-eaten animal-skins and the bedizened bed-andonce more the unreality, the impossibility, of all that washappening to him entered like a drug into his veins31.
To rouse himself he stood up, turned the key on the hideousplace, and returned to his lawyer's. He knew that in the harddry atmosphere of the office the act of giving the address ofthe flat would restore some kind of reality to the phantasmaltransaction. And with wonder he watched the lawyer, as a matterof course, pencil the street and the number on one of the papersenclosed in a folder32 on which his own name was elaboratelyengrossed.
As he took leave it occurred to him to ask where Susy wasliving. At least he imagined that it had just occurred to him,and that he was making the enquiry merely as a measure ofprecaution, in order to know what quarter of Paris to avoid; butin reality the question had been on his lips since he had firstentered the office, and lurking33 in his mind since he had emergedfrom the railway station that morning. The fact of not knowingwhere she lived made the whole of Paris a meaninglessunintelligible place, as useless to him as the face of a hugeclock that has lost its hour hand.
The address in Passy surprised him: he had imagined that shewould be somewhere in the neighborhood of the Champs Elysees orthe Place de l'Etoile. But probably either Mrs. Melrose orEllie Vanderlyn had taken a house at Passy. Well--it wassomething of a relief to know that she was so far off. Nobusiness called him to that almost suburban34 region beyond theTrocadero, and there was much less chance of meeting her than ifshe had been in the centre of Paris.
All day he wandered, avoiding the fashionable quarters, thestreets in which private motors glittered five deep, and furredand feathered silhouettes35 glided36 from them into tea-rooms,picture-galleries and jewellers' shops. In some such scenesSusy was no doubt figuring: slenderer, finer, vivider, than theother images of clay, but imitating their gestures, chatteringtheir jargon37, winding38 her hand among the same pearls and sables39.
He struck away across the Seine, along the quays40 to the Cite,the net-work of old Paris, the great grey vaults41 of St.
Eustache, the swarming42 streets of the Marais. He gazed atmonuments dawdled43 before shop-windows, sat in squares and onquays, watching people bargain, argue, philander44, quarrel, work-girls stroll past in linked bands, beggars whine45 on the bridges,derelicts doze46 in the pale winter sun, mothers in mourninghasten by taking children to school, and street-walkers beattheir weary rounds before the cafes.
The day drifted on. Toward evening he began to grow afraid ofhis solitude47, and to think of dining at the Nouveau Luxe, orsome other fashionable restaurant where he would be fairly sureto meet acquaintances, and be carried off to a theatre, a boiteor a dancing-hall. Anything, anything now, to get away from themaddening round of his thoughts. He felt the same blank fear ofsolitude as months ago in Genoa .... Even if he were to runacross Susy and Altringham, what of it? Better get the jobover. People had long since ceased to take on tragedy airsabout divorce: dividing couples dined together to the last, andmet afterward48 in each other's houses, happy in the consciousnessthat their respective remarriages had provided two new centresof entertainment. Yet most of the couples who took their re-matings so philosophically49 had doubtless had their hour ofenchantment, of belief in the immortality50 of loving; whereas heand Susy had simply and frankly51 entered into a business contractfor their mutual52 advantage. The fact gave the last touch ofincongruity to his agonies and exaltations, and made him appearto himself as grotesque53 and superannuated54 as the hero of aromantic novel.
He stood up from a bench on which he had been lounging in theLuxembourg gardens, and hailed a taxi. Dusk had fallen, and hemeant to go back to his hotel, take a rest, and then go out todine. But instead, he threw Susy's address to the driver, andsettled down in the cab, resting both hands on the knob of hisumbrella and staring straight ahead of him as if he wereaccomplishing some tiresome55 duty that had to be got through withbefore he could turn his mind to more important things.
"It's the easiest way," he heard himself say.
At the street-corner--her street-corner--he stopped the cab, andstood motionless while it rattled56 away. It was a short vaguestreet, much farther off than he had expected, and fading awayat the farther end in a dusky blur57 of hoardings overhung bytrees. A thin rain was beginning to fall, and it was alreadynight in this inadequately58 lit suburban quarter. Lansing walkeddown the empty street. The houses stood a few yards apart, withbare-twigged shrubs59 between, and gates and railings dividingthem from the pavement. He could not, at first, distinguishtheir numbers; but presently, coming abreast60 of a street-lamp,he discovered that the small shabby facade61 it illuminated62 wasprecisely the one he sought. The discovery surprised him. Hehad imagined that, as frequently happened in the outlyingquarters of Passy and La Muette, the mean street would lead to astately private hotel, built upon some bowery fragment of an oldcountry-place. It was the latest whim63 of the wealthy toestablish themselves on these outskirts64 of Paris, where therewas still space for verdure; and he had pictured Susy behindsome pillared house-front, with lights pouring across glossyturf to sculptured gateposts. Instead, he saw a six-windowedhouse, huddled65 among neighbours of its kind, with the familywash fluttering between meagre bushes. The arc-light beatironically on its front, which had the worn look of a tiredwork-woman's face; and Lansing, as he leaned against theopposite railing, vainly tried to fit his vision of Susy into sohumble a setting.
The probable explanation was that his lawyer had given him thewrong address; not only the wrong number but the wrong street.
He pulled out the slip of paper, and was crossing over todecipher it under the lamp, when an errand-boy appeared out ofthe obscurity, and approached the house. Nick drew back, andthe boy, unlatching the gate, ran up the steps and gave the bella pull.
Almost immediately the door opened; and there stood Susy, thelight full upon her, and upon a red-checked child against hershoulder. The space behind them was dark, or so dimly lit thatit formed a black background to her vivid figure. She looked atthe errand-boy without surprise, took his parcel, and after hehad turned away, lingered a moment in the door, glancing downthe empty street.
That moment, to her watcher, seemed quicker than a flash yet aslong as a life-time. There she was, a stone's throw away, bututterly unconscious of his presence: his Susy, the old Susy,and yet a new Susy, curiously66 transformed, transfigured almost,by the new attitude in which he beheld67 her.
In the first shock of the vision he forgot his surprise at herbeing in such a place, forgot to wonder whose house she was in,or whose was the sleepy child in her arms. For an instant shestood out from the blackness behind her, and through the veil ofthe winter night, a thing apart, an unconditioned vision, theeternal image of the woman and the child; and in that instanteverything within him was changed and renewed. His eyes werestill absorbing her, finding again the familiar curves of herlight body, noting the thinness of the lifted arm that upheldthe little boy, the droop68 of the shoulder he weighed on, thebrooding way in which her cheek leaned to his even while shelooked away; then she drew back, the door closed, and thestreet-lamp again shone on blankness.
"But she's mine!" Nick cried, in a fierce triumph ofrecovery ...
His eyes were so full of her that he shut them to hold in thecrowding vision.
It remained with him, at first, as a complete picture; thengradually it broke up into its component69 parts, the childvanished, the strange house vanished, and Susy alone stoodbefore him, his own Susy, only his Susy, yet changed, worn,tempered--older, even--with sharper shadows under the cheek-bones, the brows drawn26, the joint70 of the slim wrist moreprominent. It was not thus that his memory had evoked71 her, andhe recalled, with a remorseful72 pang, the fact that something inher look, her dress, her tired and drooping73 attitude, suggestedpoverty, dependence74, seemed to make her after all a part of theshabby house in which, at first sight, her presence had seemedso incongruous.
"But she looks poor!" he thought, his heart tightening75. Andinstantly it occurred to him that these must be the Fulmerchildren whom she was living with while their parents travelledin Italy. Rumours76 of Nat Fulmer's sudden ascension had reachedhim, and he had heard that the couple had lately been seen inNaples and Palermo. No one had mentioned Susy's name inconnection with them, and he could hardly tell why he hadarrived at this conclusion, except perhaps because it seemednatural that, if Susy were in trouble, she should turn to herold friend Grace.
But why in trouble? What trouble? What could have happened tocheck her triumphant77 career?
"That's what I mean to find out!" he exclaimed.
His heart was beating with a tumult78 of new hopes and oldmemories. The sight of his wife, so remote in mien79 and mannerfrom the world in which he had imagined her to be re-absorbed,changed in a flash his own relation to life, and flung a mist ofunreality over all that he had been trying to think most solidand tangible80. Nothing now was substantial to him but the stonesof the street in which he stood, the front of the house whichhid her, the bell-handle he already felt in his grasp. Hestarted forward, and was halfway81 to the threshold when a privatemotor turned the corner, the twin glitter of its lamps carpetingthe wet street with gold to Susy's door.
Lansing drew back into the shadow as the motor swept up to thehouse. A man jumped out, and the light fell on Strefford'sshambling figure, its lazy disjointed movements so unmistakablythe same under his fur coat, and in the new setting ofprosperity.
Lansing stood motionless, staring at the door. Strefford rang,and waited. Would Susy appear again? Perhaps she had done sobefore only because she had been on the watch ....
But no: after a slight delay a bonne appeared --the breathlessmaid-of-all-work of a busy household--and at once effacedherself, letting the visitor in. Lansing was sure that not aword passed between the two, of enquiry on Lord Altringham'spart, or of acquiescence82 on the servant's. There could be nodoubt that he was expected.
The door closed on him, and a light appeared behind the blind ofthe adjoining window. The maid had shown the visitor into thesitting-room and lit the lamp. Upstairs, meanwhile, Susy was nodoubt running skilful83 fingers through her tumbled hair anddaubing her pale lips with red. Ah, how Lansing knew everymovement of that familiar rite84, even to the pucker85 of the browand the pouting86 thrust-out of the lower lip! He was seized witha sense of physical sickness as the succession of rememberedgestures pressed upon his eyes .... And the other man? Theother man, inside the house, was perhaps at that very instantsmiling over the remembrance of the same scene!
At the thought, Lansing plunged87 away into the night.
收听单词发音 |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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evading
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| 逃避( evade的现在分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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insistently
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| ad.坚持地 | |
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lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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enveloping
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| v.包围，笼罩，包住( envelop的现在分词 ) | |
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imprint
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| n.印痕，痕迹；深刻的印象；vt.压印，牢记 | |
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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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abruptness
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| n. 突然，唐突 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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necessitate
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| v.使成为必要，需要 | |
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confrontation
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| n.对抗，对峙，冲突 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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obsession
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| n.困扰，无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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besetting
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| adj.不断攻击的v.困扰( beset的现在分词 )；不断围攻；镶；嵌 | |
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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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discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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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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desecrated
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| 毁坏或亵渎( desecrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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folder
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| n.纸夹，文件夹 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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suburban
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| adj.城郊的，在郊区的 | |
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silhouettes
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| 轮廓( silhouette的名词复数 )； （人的）体形； （事物的）形状； 剪影 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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sables
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| n.紫貂( sable的名词复数 )；紫貂皮；阴暗的；暗夜 | |
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quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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vaults
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| n.拱顶( vault的名词复数 )；地下室；撑物跳高；墓穴 | |
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swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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dawdled
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| v.混（时间）( dawdle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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philander
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| v.不真诚地恋爱，调戏 | |
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whine
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| v.哀号，号哭；n.哀鸣 | |
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doze
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| v.打瞌睡；n.打盹，假寐 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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philosophically
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| adv.哲学上；富有哲理性地；贤明地；冷静地 | |
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immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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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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superannuated
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| adj.老朽的，退休的；v.因落后于时代而废除，勒令退学 | |
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tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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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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inadequately
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| ad.不够地；不够好地 | |
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shrubs
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| 灌木( shrub的名词复数 ) | |
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abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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facade
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| n.(建筑物的)正面，临街正面；外表 | |
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illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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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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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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68
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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component
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| n.组成部分，成分，元件；adj.组成的，合成的 | |
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70
joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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71
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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72
remorseful
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| adj.悔恨的 | |
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73
drooping
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| adj. 下垂的，无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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74
dependence
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| n.依靠，依赖；信任，信赖；隶属 | |
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tightening
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| 上紧，固定，紧密 | |
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76
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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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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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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80
tangible
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| adj.有形的，可触摸的，确凿的，实际的 | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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83
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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84
rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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85
pucker
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| v.撅起，使起皱；n.（衣服上的）皱纹，褶子 | |
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86
pouting
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| v.撅（嘴）( pout的现在分词 ) | |
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87
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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