To any one not chained by association to the old low-fronted London there was magic in looking down from Lady Pevensey’s sky-terrace over the lawns of the Green Park and the distant architectural masses discerned through shadowy foliage1. In the transparent2 summer night Vance leaned there, lost in the unreal beauty, and recalling another night-piece, under a white moon-washed sky, when the Mediterranean3 lay at his feet, and Floss Delaney’s bare arm burned into his.
The momentary4 disappointment over, he had been glad that Floss was not among Lady Pevensey’s guests. At first, among those white shoulders and small luminous5 heads, he had imagined he felt her presence; but he was mistaken. Tonight he was in another of Lady Pevensey’s many sets, and apparently6 it had not occurred to his hostess that she might have given him pleasure by inviting7 Floss. Did she even remember that the two had met at Cannes? Vance was beginning to learn that in this rushing oblivious8 world one must jump onto the train in motion, and look about at the passengers afterward9. As soon as he entered Lady Pevensey’s drawing-room he found himself surrounded, as in old days at the Tarrants’, by charming people who made much of him. Then he had imagined that they were throwing open the door of their lives to him; now he knew they were simply adding a new name to their lists. They marked him down as the entomologist does a rare butterfly, and he found the process not unpleasant, for he was experienced enough to enjoy watching them while they were observing him, and he liked the atmosphere of soft-voiced cordiality and disarming11 simplicity12 in which the chase went on. He recalled with a smile the days when he had supposed that people in society wanted to hear the answer to their questions, or to listen to the end of a sentence. He had learned that they were really indifferent to every one and everything outside of their own circle; but he did not care. They were a part of the new picture he was studying, and he wanted them to be as characteristic and self-sufficing as his conception of them, just as they wanted him to be the young genius with rumpled13 hair who says unexpected things and forgets to note down his engagements.
“But of course you know Octavius, don’t you, Vance?” It was Lady Pevensey’s voice, rousing him from his nocturnal vision to introduce a small quiet man with a bulging14 brow, who looked at him, through the bow-windows of immense horn-rimmed spectacles, with the expression of an anxious child.
Vance, lost in the tangle15 of Christian16 names which were the only sign-posts of Lady Pevensey’s London, tried to make his smile speak for him. “By name at least — ” Lady Pevensey added, throwing him a lifebelt as she drifted off to other rescues.
“It’s the only way of knowing each other that we have time for nowadays — knowing each other’s Christian names,” said the little man rather sadly, aligning17 his elbows next to Vance’s on the parapet. “I know you write books, though,” he added benevolently18. “Novels, are they — or popular expositions of the Atom? It’s no use telling me, for I shouldn’t remember. There’s no time for that either — for remembering what other people write. Much less for reading their books. And if one does, it isn’t always easy to tell if they’re novels or biochemistry. So I stick to my own — my own writing. I’m buried in that up to the chin; buried alive, I trust. But even that one can’t be sure of. It may be that already I’m just a rosy19 corpse20 preserved in a glacier21.” He glanced tentatively at Vance, as if hoping for a protest, but Vance was silenced by the impossibility of recalling any one named Octavius who had written a book. He hedged.
“Why should you call your books a glacier?” he said politely.
The other winced22. “Not my BOOKS; my Book. One’s enough, in all conscience. Even with the irreproachable23 life I lead, and only one slice of grilled24 meat three times a week — all the rest vegetarian25 — one is always at the mercy of accidents, culinary or other; and I need a clear stretch of twenty years ahead of me.” Again he fixed26 Vance solemnly. “The day I’m assured of that I’ll sit down and finish my book. Meanwhile I hope we shall meet again. Tell Imp10 to bring you to Charlie’s — I’m nearly always there after midnight.” He nodded and was lost in the throng27.
A young lady with a small enamelled face and restless eyes came up to Vance. “Was Octavius WONDERFUL? We’re longing28 to know,” she said breathlessly, indicating a group of young men and damsels in her wake. One of the latter interrupted: “He’s never as good anywhere as he is at Charlie’s,” but the young lady said curtly29: “Not to YOU perhaps, darling; but he’s sure to have been wonderful to Mr. Weston — ” at which her young followers30 looked properly awed31.
Vance turned on them with a burst of candour. “How can I tell if he was wonderful, when I don’t know who he is? It all depends on that, doesn’t it?” The others looked their astonishment32 and incredulity, and the leading lady exclaimed indignantly: “But didn’t that idiot tell you you were talking to Octavius?”
To confess that this meant nothing to him, Vance perceived, would lower him irretrievably in the estimation of these ardent33 young people; and he was struggling for a subterfuge34 when the group was joined by a tall bronzed young man whose face was disturbingly familiar.
“Remember me, Mr. Weston? Spartivento. Yes: with Rosenzweig and Blemp. We met, I think, at Mrs. Glaisher’s.” The Duke turned his Theocritan eyes on the young lady who had challenged Vance. “See here, I guess you folks don’t know that in the U.S. people call each other by all the names they’ve got. I presume Mr. Weston’s heard of Octavius Alistair Brant — isn’t it?” He shone softly on his interlocutor, and then turned back to Vance. “Mrs. Glaisher is demanding to see you; she asked me to remind you that she is one of your most admirative readers. She has taken Lanchester House for the season. You will call up, and give her the pleasure to dine? So long, — happy to meet you; I am going-gon with Lady Cynthia,” said the Duke with his perfect smile, eclipsing himself before Vance could detain him.
The encounter woke such echoes that for the moment the identity of Octavius Alistair Brant became a minor35 matter, and it was not till the next day that Vance, reporting on the party to Tolby, found himself obliged to confess that he still failed to associate Mr. Brant’s name with any achievement known to fame.
Tolby seemed amused. “Yes. How village-pump we all are, after all! Brant’s a little god; but his reign37 is circumscribed38. It extends from Bloomsbury to Chelsea. He’s writing a big book about some thing or other — I can’t remember what. But everybody agrees it’s going to be cataclysmic — there’ll be nothing left standing39 but Octavius. You know his Prime Minister, Charlie Tarlton? Oh, well, he’s worth while — they both are. Get Lady Pevensey to take you to one of Charlie’s evenings.”
Vance was only half listening. Mrs. Glaisher had a house in London! She wanted him to call her up! If only he had had the courage to ask the Duke if Floss Delaney were with her. But he had not been able to bring himself to put the question. And even now, as he sat looking at Tolby’s telephone, he could not make the decisive gesture. “If she’s here we’re sure to meet,” he thought; and he got up and went back to his work. But it was one thing to seat himself at his desk, and another to battle against the stream of associations pouring in on him. Write? What did he care about writing? The sound of any name connected with Floss Delaney’s set all his wires humming. He got up again uneasily and strolled back into the studio, where Tolby sat at his canvas, in happy unconsciousness of all else. Vance stood and watched him.
“How do you manage to shut out life when you want to work?” he questioned.
Tolby glanced up at him, “Life — work? Where’s the antithesis40?” He touched his canvas with the brush. “This IS Life; the rest’s simply hygienics,” he said carelessly. Vance returned to his desk and continued to stare at the blank page. What a cursed tangle of impulses he was! Would he ever achieve the true artist’s faculty41 of self-isolation? “Not until I learn to care less about everything,” he thought despondently42.
The next night, at the Honourable43 Charles Tarlton’s little dove~gray house in Westminster, where everybody sat on the floor, and people came and went in a casual yet intimate way, without giving their large rosy host any particular attention, or receiving any from him, Vance had to acknowledge how good Octavius was.
His predominance over the rest of the company made itself felt in the quietest yet most unmistakeable way. He was the only person who did not sit on the floor. His legs were too short, he explained; when he got up it was mortifying44 to see that people expected him to go ever so much farther. He was provided with a horrible sculptured armchair, which had been known to his host’s grandparents as “the Abbotsford”, and from this throne Octavius poured out his wisdom on the disciples45 at his feet. Vance thought with a pang47 of Chris Churley. His talk, as it matured, would probably have been almost as good. And so, perhaps, would his unwritten book. The chief difference was that Octavius had known how to come to an agreement with life; also that he philosophized on barley-water, and had the minimum of material needs. Thus he had been able to adjust himself comfortably to failure, and make himself a warm nest in it, like a mouse in a cupboard.
But it was not as a failure that his disciples thought of him; nor even, in the first instance, as a brilliant talker. As Tolby had said, talk was not a career in England, and Octavius Brant had to be something besides, and preferably an author. The big book was his pretext48 and his justification49, and the excuse of his audience for hanging on his words. Nobody seemed quite clear as to what it was to be, and Vance discovered that while there were those who resented being asked if it were a novel, others, perhaps the more sophisticated, retorted to his question: “Why, yes, a novel, of course! It’s the only formula that’s still malleable50 — ” in which he recognized a dictum of Octavius’s. In fact, according to Charlie Tarlton, if the book didn’t at first seem like a novel, that would simply mean that Octavius had renewed the formula; that in future what HE chose to call a novel would BE a novel, whether you liked it or not. Charlie Tarlton did not speak often; in Octavius’s presence he was just rosily51 silent, dispensing52 cocktails53 and cigarettes; but when the great man was late in arriving — and his hours were incalculable — Charlie, to keep the disciples in a good humour, would sometimes drop an oracle54 on the subject of his work.
“You’ve read it, then?” Vance one evening blundered into asking; and the elect looked grieved, and Mr. Tarlton slightly irritated. “Read it? Read it? What exactly does reading a book consist in? Reading the original manuscript — Octavius writes out every word with his own hand — or the typescript copy, or the proofs, or the published book? Every one of these versions is a different thing, has its own impact, produces its specific set of reactions. But what I’ve read is better than any of them — the author’s brain. There’s where you get the quintessential stuff. As Octavius says, it’s the butterfly before the colours are brushed off.” Mr. Tarlton leaned back satisfied, resting comfortable elbows on his cushiony knees.
“Well — exactly!” murmured a devout55 disciple46, with a glance of reproof56 at Vance.
“Exactly what?” questioned Octavius, entering in his hat and overcoat, and removing his scarf with a leisurely57 hand. Charlie’s rosy face became tomato-coloured and he scrambled58 uneasily to his feet.
“He was saying that the quintessence of your book is in your brain,” exclaimed another imprudent devotee. Octavius’s small face withered59, and he looked more than ever like an anxious child. His glance swept over Charlie, searing him like flame. “Is that by way of apology for the book’s not being finished?” he exclaimed, his voice rising to a high falsetto. “If so, I can only say that I prefer to do my own apologizing — when I find it necessary.”
A pall60 of silence fell on the fervent61 group; Charlie stammered62: “I didn’t mean anything of the sort,” and Vance, squatting63 on a cushion at the great man’s feet, ventured boldly: “You know you haven’t yet told me exactly what it’s about.”
Octavius’s countenance64 softened65. There was nothing he liked better than toying with his theme before a newcomer. “Ah, rash youth,” he murmured, dropping into his armchair, and leaning his little head back among the knobby heraldic ornaments66. “Rash — rash!” His eyes glittered behind their sheltering panes67, and his short-fingered hands caressed68 each other softly, as if his hearer’s hand lay between them. But suddenly he shook his head. “No — no; I won’t yield to the temptation. The lovely creature is there, swimming to and fro in the deepest deeps of my consciousness, shimmering69 like a chamaeleon, unfolding like a flower. How can you expect me to drag it up brutally70 into the air, to throw it at your feet, limp and discoloured, and say: ‘This is my book!’ when it wouldn’t be, when I should be the first to disown it? My dear fellow — ” he leaned forward, and laid his little hand on Vance’s shoulder. “My dear fellow, WAIT. It’s worth it.”
Vance looked up at him with renewed interest. “In a way,” he thought, “he’s right. His book is written and I daresay it’s as good as he thinks. It’s the agony of exteriorizing that he dodges71 away from. And meanwhile his creation lives on inside of him, and is nourished by him and grows more and more beautiful.” At the thought he felt the stealing temptation to dream his own books instead of writing them. What a row of masterpieces they would be! They die in the process of being written, he mused36. And he thought what his life might have been if he could have drifted from one fancy to another, letting each scatter72 its dolphin-colours unseen as another replaced it. “If I’d called up Mrs. Glaisher the other day, for instance — ” and suddenly he was seized with a terrible fear. Supposing Floss Delaney had already left England? Supposing she had been there, within reach of him, the night he had seen the Duke of Spartivento at Lady Pevensey’s, and had now vanished again, heaven knew whither? But surely if she had been in London she would have heard of his being there, would have telephoned him, or written. His world turned ashen73 at the thought. What was he doing in this atmosphere of literary humbug74, among the satellites of a poor fatuous75 dreamer? Life, real life, was a million miles away from these ephemeral word-spinners . . . The scene crumbled76 as if a sorcerer’s wand had touched it. And then, just as he was getting to his feet, there was a stir on the landing outside, and the sound of a small high voice saying ingratiatingly to a parlour-maid who seemed doubtful of the speaker’s credentials77: “Mr. Alders78 — if you’ll please simply say it’s MR. ALDERS— ”
“Oh, Alders,” murmured Charlie Tarlton, with an explanatory hand~wave to his guests. “Who was it he’d promised to bring, Octavius?” The question was answered by the parlour-maid’s throwing open the door. On the threshold stood Alders, more dust-coloured and negative than ever, and behind him, like a beacon79 in the night, Floss Delaney. She moved forward with her light unhurried step and looked about her composedly, as if never doubting that it was she whom Mr. Tarlton’s guests had assembled to behold80.
“This is Floss Delaney,” some one said, leading her up to Octavius. For a moment the little man’s face took on the drowned look of the superseded81; then pleasure lit it up, and holding out his hand he murmured: “Flos florum — I don’t know how to say it in this week’s American slang.”
Miss Delaney scrutinized82 him with the cautious friendliness83 of a visitor at the Zoo caressing84 an unknown animal. She laid her hand on his arm, as if he and she were facing an expectant camera, and looked about at the assembled company. “Isn’t he GOR-geous?” she said in her deep drawl.
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1
foliage
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| n.叶子，树叶，簇叶 | |
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transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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imp
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| n.顽童 | |
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disarming
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| adj.消除敌意的，使人消气的v.裁军( disarm的现在分词 )；使息怒 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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rumpled
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| v.弄皱，使凌乱( rumple的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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aligning
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| n. (直线)对准 动词align的现在分词形式 | |
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benevolently
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| adv.仁慈地，行善地 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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glacier
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| n.冰川，冰河 | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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grilled
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| adj. 烤的, 炙过的, 有格子的 动词grill的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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vegetarian
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| n.素食者；adj.素食的 | |
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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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throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe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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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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subterfuge
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| n.诡计；藉口 | |
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minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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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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circumscribed
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| adj.[医]局限的：受限制或限于有限空间的v.在…周围划线( circumscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；划定…范围；限制；限定 | |
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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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antithesis
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| n.对立；相对 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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despondently
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| adv.沮丧地，意志消沉地 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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mortifying
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| adj.抑制的，苦修的v.使受辱( mortify的现在分词 )；伤害（人的感情）；克制；抑制（肉体、情感等） | |
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disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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50
malleable
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| adj.(金属)可锻的;有延展性的；(性格)可训练的 | |
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rosily
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| adv.带玫瑰色地，乐观地 | |
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dispensing
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| v.分配( dispense的现在分词 )；施与；配（药） | |
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cocktails
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| n.鸡尾酒( cocktail的名词复数 )；餐前开胃菜；混合物 | |
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oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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reproof
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| n.斥责，责备 | |
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leisurely
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| adj.悠闲的；从容的，慢慢的 | |
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58
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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59
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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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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squatting
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的现在分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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64
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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65
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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66
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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67
panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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68
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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70
brutally
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| adv.残忍地，野蛮地，冷酷无情地 | |
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71
dodges
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| n.闪躲( dodge的名词复数 )；躲避；伎俩；妙计v.闪躲( dodge的第三人称单数 )；回避 | |
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72
scatter
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| vt.撒，驱散，散开；散布/播；vi.分散，消散 | |
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73
ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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credentials
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| n.证明，资格，证明书，证件 | |
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alders
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| n.桤木( alder的名词复数 ) | |
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beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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80
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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81
superseded
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| [医]被代替的，废弃的 | |
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82
scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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84
caressing
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| 爱抚的，表现爱情的，亲切的 | |
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