It was late in September that this particular quarrel occurred. Almost all the roseate tints1 seemed gone by this time, for the Lewishams had been married six months. Their financial affairs had changed from the catastrophic to the sordid2; Lewisham had found work. An army crammer named Captain Vigours wanted someone energetic for his mathematical duffers and to teach geometrical drawing and what he was pleased to call "Sandhurst Science." He paid no less than two shillings an hour for his uncertain demands on Lewisham's time. Moreover, there was a class in lower mathematics beginning at Walham Green where Lewisham was to show his quality. Fifty shillings a week or more seemed credible--more might be hoped for. It was now merely a case of tiding over the interval4 until Vigours paid. And meanwhile the freshness of Ethel's blouses departed, and Lewisham refrained from the repair of his boot which had cracked across the toe.
The beginning of the quarrel was trivial enough. But by the end they got to generalities. Lewisham had begun the day in a bad temper and under the cloud of an overnight passage of arms--and a little incident that had nothing to do with their ostensible5 difference lent it a warmth of emotion quite beyond its merits. As he emerged through the folding doors he saw a letter lying among the sketchily6 laid breakfast things, and Ethel's attitude suggested the recoil7 of a quick movement; the letter suddenly dropped. Her eyes met his and she flushed. He sat down and took the letter--a trifle awkwardly perhaps. It was from Miss Heydinger. He hesitated with it halfway8 to his pocket, then decided9 to open it. It displayed an ample amount of reading, and he read. On the whole he thought it rather a dull sort of letter, but he did not allow this to appear. When it was read he put it carefully in his pocket.
That formally had nothing to do with the quarrel. The breakfast was already over when the quarrel began. Lewisham's morning was vacant, and be proposed to occupy it in the revision of certain notes bearing upon "Sandhurst Science." Unhappily the search for his note-book brought him into collision with the accumulation of Ethel's novelettes.
"These things are everywhere," he said after a gust10 of vehement11 handling, "I _wish_ you'd tidy them up sometimes."
"They were tidy enough till you began to throw them about," Ethel pointed12 out.
"Confounded muck! it's only fit to be burnt," Lewisham remarked to the universe, and pitched one viciously into the corner.
"Well, you tried to write one, anyhow," said Ethel, recalling a certain "Mammoth13" packet of note-paper that had come on an evil end before Lewisham found his industrial level. This reminiscence always irritated him exceedingly.
"Eh?" he said sharply.
"You tried to write one," repeated Ethel--a little unwillingly14.
"You don't mean me to forget that."
"It's you reminded me."
He stared hostility15 for a space.
"Well, the things make a beastly litter anyhow; there isn't a tidy corner anywhere in the room. There never is."
"That's just the sort of thing you always say."
"Well--_is_ there?"
"Yes, there is."
"_Where_?"
Ethel professed16 not to hear. But a devil had possession of Lewisham for a time. "It isn't as though you had anything else to do," he remarked, wounding dishonourably.
Ethel turned. "If I _put_ those things away," she said with tremendous emphasis on the "_put_," "you'd only say I'd hidden them. What _is_ the good of trying to please you?"
The spirit of perversity17 suggested to Lewisham, "None apparently18."
Ethel's cheeks glowed and her eyes were bright with unshed tears. Abruptly20 she abandoned the defensive21 and blurted22 out the thing that had been latent so long between them. Her voice took a note of passion. "Nothing I can do ever does please you, since that Miss Heydinger began to write to you."
There was a pause, a gap. Something like astonishment23 took them both. Hitherto it had been a convention that she knew nothing of the existence of Miss Heydinger. He saw a light. "How did you know?" he began, and perceived that line was impossible. He took the way of the natural man; he ejaculated an "Ugh!" of vast disgust, he raised his voice. "You _are_ unreasonable24!" he cried in angry remonstrance25. "Fancy saying that! As though you ever tried to please me! Just as though it wasn't all the other way about!" He stopped--struck by a momentary26 perception of injustice27. He plunged28 at the point he had shirked, "How did you know it _was_ Miss Heydinger--?"
Ethel's voice took upon itself the quality of tears. "I wasn't _meant_ to know, was I?" she said.
"But how?"
"I suppose you think it doesn't concern me? I suppose you think I'm made of stone?"
"You mean--you think--?"
"Yes--I _do_."
For a brief interval Lewisham stared at the issue she had laid bare. He sought some crashing proposition, some line of convincing reasoning, with which to overwhelm and hide this new aspect of things. It would not come. He found himself fenced in on every side. A surging, irrational29 rage seized upon him.
"Jealousy30!" he cried. "Jealousy! Just as though--Can't I have letters about things you don't understand--that you _won't_ understand? If I asked you to read them you wouldn't--It's just because--"
"You never give me a _chance_ to understand."
"Don't I?"
"No!"
"Why!--At first I was always trying. Socialism, religion--all those things. But you don't care--you won't care. You won't have that I've thought over these things at all, that I care for these things! It wasn't any _good_ to argue. You just care for me in a way--and all the rest of me--doesn't matter! And because I've got a friend ..."
"Friend!"
"Yes--_friend!_"
"Why!--you hide her letters!"
"Because I tell you you wouldn't understand what they are about. But, pah! I won't argue. I _won't!_ You're jealous, and there's the end of the matter!"
"Well, who _wouldn't_ be jealous?"
He stared at her as if he found the question hard to see. The theme was difficult--invincibly difficult. He surveyed the room for a diversion. The note-book he had disinterred from her novelettes lay upon the table and reminded him of his grievance31 of rained hours. His rage exploded. He struck out abruptly towards fundamental things. He gesticulated forcibly. "This can't go on!" he cried, "this can't go on! How can I work? How can I do anything?"
He made three steps and stood in a clear space.
"I won't _stand_, it--I won't go on at this! Quarrels--bickerings--discomfort. Look there! I meant to work this morning. I meant to look up notes! Instead of which you start a quarrel--"
The gross injustice raised Ethel's voice to an outcry. "_I_ didn't start the quarrel--"
The only response to this was to shout, and Lewisham shouted. "You start a quarrel!" he repeated. "You make a shindy! You spring a dispute--jealousy!--on me! How can I do anything? How can one stop in a house like this? I shall go out. Look here!--I shall go out. I shall go to Kensington and work there!"
He perceived himself wordless, and Ethel was about to speak. He glared about him, seeking a prompt climax32. Instant action was necessary. He perceived Huxley's _Vertebrata_ upon the side-table. He clutched it, swayed it through a momentous33 arc, hurled34 it violently into the empty fireplace.
For a second he seemed to be seeking some other missile. He perceived his hat on the chest of drawers, seized it, and strode tragically35 from the room.
He hesitated with the door half closed, then opened it wide and slammed it vehemently36. Thereby37 the world was warned of the justice of his rage, and so he passed with credit into the street.
He went striding heedless of his direction through the streets dotted with intent people hurrying to work, and presently habit turned his feet towards the Brompton Road. The eastward38 trend of the morning traffic caught him. For a time, save for a rebellious39 ingredient of wonder at the back of his mind, he kept his anger white and pure. Why had he married her? was the text to which he clung. Why in the name of destiny had he married her? But anyhow he had said the decisive thing. He would not stand it! It must end. Things were intolerable and they must end. He meditated40 devastating41 things that he might presently say to her in pursuance of this resolution. He contemplated42 acts of cruelty. In such ways he would demonstrate clearly that he would not stand it. He was very careful to avoid inquiring what it was he would not stand.
How in the name of destiny had he come to marry her? The quality of his surroundings mingled43 in some way with the quality of his thoughts. The huge distended44 buildings of corrugated45 iron in which the Art Museum (of all places!) culminates46, the truncated47 Oratory48 all askew49 to the street, seemed to have a similar quarrel with fate. How in the name of destiny? After such high prolusions!
He found that his thoughts had carried him past the lodge50 of the museum. He turned back irritably51 and went through the turnstile. He entered the museum and passed beneath the gallery of Old Iron on his way to the Education Library. The vacant array of tables, the bays of attendant books had a quality of refuge....
So much for Lewisham in the morning. Long before midday all the vigour3 of his wrath52 was gone, all his passionate53 conviction of Ethel's unworthiness. Over a pile of neglected geological works he presented a face of gloom. His memory presented a picture of himself as noisy, overbearing, and unfair. What on earth had it all been about?
By two o'clock he was on his way to Vigours', and his mood was acute remorse54. Of the transition there can be no telling in words, for thoughts are more subtle than words and emotions infinitely55 vaguer. But one thing at least is definite, that a memory returned.
It drifted in to him, through the glass roof of the Library far above. He did not perceive it as a memory at first, but as an irritating obstacle to attention. He struck the open pages of the book before him with his flat hand. "Damn that infernal hurdy-gurdy!" he whispered.
Presently he made a fretful movement and put his hands over his ears.
Then he thrust his books from him, got up, and wandered about the Library. The organ came to an abrupt19 end in the middle of a bar, and vanished in the circumambient silence of space.
Lewisham standing56 in a bay closed a book with a snap and returned to his seat.
Presently he found himself humming a languid tune57, and thinking again of the quarrel that he had imagined banished58 from his mind. What in the name of destiny had it all been about? He had a curious sense that something had got loose, was sliding about in his mind. And as if by way of answer emerged a vision of Whortley--a singularly vivid vision. It was moonlight and a hillside, the little town lay lit and warm below, and the scene was set to music, a lugubriously59 sentimental60 air. For some reason this music had the quality of a barrel organ--though he knew that properly it came from a band--and it associated with itself a mystical formula of words, drawing words:--
"Sweet dreamland fa--ces, passing to and fro,
Bring back to mem'ry days of long ago--oh!"
This air not only reproduced the picture with graphic61 vividness, but it trailed after it an enormous cloud of irrational emotion, emotion that had but a moment before seemed gone for ever from his being.
He recalled it all! He had come down that hillside and Ethel had been with him....
Had he really felt like that about her?
"Pah!" he said suddenly, and reverted62 to his books.
But the tune and the memory had won their footing, they were with him through his meagre lunch of milk and scones--he had resolved at the outset he would not go back to her for the midday meal--and on his way to Vigours' they insisted on attention. It may be that lunching on scone63 and milk does in itself make for milder ways of thinking. A sense of extraordinary contradiction, of infinite perplexity, came to him.
"But then," he asked, "how the devil did we get to _this_?"
Which is indeed one of the fundamental questions of matrimony.
The morning tumults64 had given place to an almost scientific calm. Very soon he was grappling manfully with the question. There was no disputing it, they had quarrelled. Not once but several times lately they had quarrelled. It was real quarrelling;--they had stood up against one another, striking, watching to strike, seeking to wound. He tried to recall just how things had gone--what he had said and what she had replied. He could not do it. He had forgotten phrases and connexions. It stood in his memory not as a sequence of events but as a collection of disconnected static sayings; each saying blunt, permanent, inconsecutive like a graven inscription65. And of the scene there came only one picture--Ethel with a burning face and her eyes shining with tears.
The traffic of a cross street engaged him for a space. He emerged on the further side full of the vivid contrast of their changed relations. He made a last effort to indict66 her, to show that for the transition she was entirely67 to blame. She had quarrelled with him, she had quarrelled deliberately68 because she was jealous. She was jealous of Miss Heydinger because she was stupid. But now these accusations69 faded like smoke as he put them forth70. But the picture of two little figures back there in the moonlit past did not fade. It was in the narrows of Kensington High Street that he abandoned her arraignment71. It was beyond the Town Hall that he made the new step. Was it, after all, just possible that in some degree he himself rather was the chief person to blame?
It was instantly as if he had been aware of that all the time.
Once he had made that step, he moved swiftly. Not a hundred paces before the struggle was over, and he had plunged headlong into the blue abyss of remorse. And all these things that had been so dramatic and forcible, all the vivid brutal72 things he had said, stood no longer graven inscriptions73 but in letters of accusing flame. He tried to imagine he had not said them, that his memory played him a trick; tried to suppose he had said something similar perhaps, but much less forcible. He attempted with almost equal futility74 to minimise his own wounds. His endeavour served only to measure the magnitude of his fall.
He had recovered everything now, he saw it all. He recalled Ethel, sunlit in the avenue, Ethel, white in the moonlight before they parted outside the Frobisher house, Ethel as she would come out of Lagune's house greeting him for their nightly walk, Ethel new wedded75, as she came to him through the folding doors radiant in the splendour his emotions threw about her. And at last, Ethel angry, dishevelled and tear-stained in that ill-lit, untidy little room. All to the cadence76 of a hurdy-gurdy tune! From that to this! How had it been possible to get from such an opalescent77 dawning to such a dismal78 day? What was it had gone? He and she were the same two persons who walked so brightly in his awakened79 memory; he and she who had lived so bitterly through the last few weeks of misery80!
His mood sank for a space to the quality of groaning81. He implicated82 her now at most as his partner in their failure--"What a mess we have made of things!" was his new motif83. "What a mess!"
He knew love now for what it was, knew it for something more ancient and more imperative84 than reason. He knew now that he loved her, and his recent rage, his hostility, his condemnation85 of her seemed to him the reign86 of some exterior87 influence in his mind. He thought incredulously of the long decline in tenderness that had followed the first days of their delight in each other, the diminution88 of endearment89, the first yielding to irritability90, the evenings he had spent doggedly91 working, resisting all his sense of her presence. "One cannot always be love-making," he had said, and so they were slipping apart. Then in countless92 little things he had not been patient, he had not been fair. He had wounded her by harshness, by unsympathetic criticism, above all by his absurd secrecy93 about Miss Heydinger's letters. Why on earth had he kept those letters from her? as though there was something to hide! What was there to hide? What possible antagonism94 could there be? Yet it was by such little things that their love was now like some once valued possession that had been in brutal hands, it was scratched and chipped and tarnished95, it was on its way to being altogether destroyed. Her manner had changed towards him, a gulf96 was opening that he might never be able to close again.
"No, it _shall_ not be!" he said, "it shall not be!"
But how to get back to the old footing? how to efface97 the things he had said, the things that had been done?
Could they get back?
For a moment he faced a new possibility. Suppose they could not get back! Suppose the mischief98 was done! Suppose that when he slammed the door behind him it locked, and was locked against him for ever!
"But we _must_!" said Lewisham, "we must!"
He perceived clearly that this was no business of reasoned apologies. He must begin again, he must get back to emotion, he must thrust back the overwhelming pressure of everyday stresses and necessities that was crushing all the warmth and colour from their lives. But how? How?
He must make love to her again. But how to begin--how to mark the change? There had been making-up before, sullen99 concessions100 and treaties. But this was different. He tried to imagine something he might say, some appeal that he might make. Everything he thought of was cold and hard, or pitiful and undignified, or theatrical101 and foolish. Suppose the door _was_ closed! If already it was too late! In every direction he was confronted by the bristling102 memories of harsh things. He had a glimpse of how he must have changed in her eyes, and things became intolerable for him. For now he was assured he loved her still with all his heart.
And suddenly came a florist's window, and in the centre of it a glorious heap of roses.
They caught his eye before they caught his mind. He saw white roses, virginal white, roses of cream and pink and crimson103, the tints of flesh and pearl, rich, a mass of scented104 colour, visible odours, and in the midst of them a note of sullen red. It was as it were the very colour of his emotion. He stopped abruptly. He turned back to the window and stared frankly105. It was gorgeous, he saw, but why so particularly did it appeal to him?
Then he perceived as though it was altogether self-evident what he had to do. This was what he wanted. This was the note he had to strike. Among other things because it would repudiate106 the accursed worship of pinching self-restraint that was one of the incessant107 stresses between them. They would come to her with a pure unexpectedness, they would flame upon her.
Then, after the roses, he would return.
Suddenly the grey trouble passed from his mind; he saw the world full of colour again. He saw the scene he desired bright and clear, saw Ethel no longer bitter and weeping, but glad as once she had always seemed glad. His heart-beats quickened. It was giving had been needed, and he would give.
Some weak voice of indiscreet discretion108 squeaked109 and vanished. He had, he knew, a sovereign in his pocket. He went in.
He found himself in front of a formidable young lady in black, and unprepared with any formula. He had never bought flowers before. He looked about him for an inspiration. He pointed at the roses. "I want those roses," he said....
He emerged again with only a few small silver coins remaining out of the sovereign he had changed. The roses were to go to Ethel, properly packed; they were to be delivered according to his express direction at six o'clock.
"Six o'clock," Lewisham had reiterated110 very earnestly.
"We quite understand," the young lady in black had said, and had pretended to be unable to conceal111 a smile. "We're _quite_ accustomed to sending out flowers."
收听单词发音 |
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tints
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| 色彩( tint的名词复数 )； 带白的颜色； （淡色）染发剂； 痕迹 | |
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sordid
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| adj.肮脏的，不干净的，卑鄙的，暗淡的 | |
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vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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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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ostensible
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| adj.(指理由)表面的，假装的 | |
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sketchily
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| adv.写生风格地，大略地 | |
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recoil
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| vi.退却，退缩，畏缩 | |
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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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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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gust
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| n.阵风，突然一阵（雨、烟等），（感情的）迸发 | |
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vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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mammoth
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| n.长毛象；adj.长毛象似的，巨大的 | |
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unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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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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defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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blurted
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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momentary
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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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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irrational
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| adj.无理性的，失去理性的 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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grievance
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| n.怨愤，气恼，委屈 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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hurled
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| v.猛投，用力掷( hurl的过去式和过去分词 )；大声叫骂 | |
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tragically
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| adv. 悲剧地，悲惨地 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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eastward
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| adv.向东；adj.向东的；n.东方，东部 | |
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rebellious
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| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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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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devastating
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| adj.毁灭性的，令人震惊的，强有力的 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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distended
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| v.（使）膨胀，肿胀( distend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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corrugated
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| adj.波纹的；缩成皱纹的；波纹面的；波纹状的v.（使某物）起皱褶(corrugate的过去式和过去分词) | |
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culminates
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| v.达到极点( culminate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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truncated
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| adj.切去顶端的，缩短了的，被删节的v.截面的( truncate的过去式和过去分词 )；截头的；缩短了的；截去顶端或末端 | |
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oratory
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| n.演讲术；词藻华丽的言辞 | |
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askew
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| adv.斜地；adj.歪斜的 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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irritably
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| ad.易生气地 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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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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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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lugubriously
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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graphic
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| adj.生动的，形象的，绘画的，文字的，图表的 | |
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reverted
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| 恢复( revert的过去式和过去分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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scone
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| n.圆饼，甜饼，司康饼 | |
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tumults
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| 吵闹( tumult的名词复数 )； 喧哗； 激动的吵闹声； 心烦意乱 | |
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inscription
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| n.（尤指石块上的）刻印文字，铭文，碑文 | |
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indict
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| v.起诉，控告，指控 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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arraignment
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| n.提问，传讯，责难 | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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inscriptions
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| （作者）题词( inscription的名词复数 )； 献词； 碑文； 证劵持有人的登记 | |
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futility
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| n.无用 | |
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wedded
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| adj.正式结婚的；渴望…的，执著于…的v.嫁，娶，（与…）结婚( wed的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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opalescent
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| adj.乳色的，乳白的 | |
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dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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groaning
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| adj. 呜咽的, 呻吟的 动词groan的现在分词形式 | |
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implicated
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| adj.密切关联的；牵涉其中的 | |
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motif
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| n.(图案的)基本花纹，(衣服的)花边；主题 | |
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imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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diminution
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| n.减少；变小 | |
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endearment
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| n.表示亲爱的行为 | |
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irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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doggedly
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| adv.顽强地，固执地 | |
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countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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efface
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| v.擦掉，抹去 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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101
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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bristling
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| a.竖立的 | |
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103
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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104
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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105
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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106
repudiate
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| v.拒绝，拒付，拒绝履行 | |
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107
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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108
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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109
squeaked
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| v.短促地尖叫( squeak的过去式和过去分词 )；吱吱叫；告密；充当告密者 | |
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reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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111
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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