They were a ruined family. How that ruin had fallen on them, what it was, Eugene never knew, for no one ever spoke2 to him about them. But the sense of their disgrace, of a shameful3 inexpiable dishonour4, for which there was no pardon, from which there could never be redemption, was overwhelming. In the most astonishing way Eugene found out about it right away, and yet he did not know what they had done, and no one ever spoke a word against them.
Rather, the mention of their name brought silence, and in that silence there was something merciless and final, something that belonged to the temper of the country, and that was far more terrible than any open word of scorn, contempt, or bitter judgment5 could have been, more savage6 than a million strident, whispering, or abusive tongues could be, because the silence was unarguable, irrevocable, complete, as if a great door had been shut against their lives for ever.
Everywhere Eugene went in town the people knew about them, and said nothing — saying everything — when he spoke their names. He found this final, closed, relentless7 silence everywhere — in tobacco, wine, and tailor shops, in book stores, food stores, haberdashery stores — wherever he bought anything and gave the clerk the address to which it was to be delivered, they responded instantly with this shut finality of silence, writing the name down gravely, sometimes saying briefly8, “Oh! Coulson’s!” when he gave them the address, but more often saying nothing.
But whether they spoke or simply wrote the name down without a word, there was always this quality of instant recognition, this obdurate9, contemptuous finality of silence, as if a door had been shut — a door that could never again be opened. Somehow Eugene disliked them more for this silence than if they had spoken evilly: there was in it something ugly, knowing, and triumphant10 that was far more evil than any slyly whispering confidence of slander11, or any open vituperation of abuse, could be. It seemed somehow to come from all the vile12 and uncountable small maggotry of the earth, the cautious little hatreds13 of a million nameless ciphers15, each puny16, pallid17, trivial in himself, but formidable because he added his tiny beetle’s ball of dung to the mountainous accumulation of ten million others of his breed.
It was uncanny how these clerk-like faces, grave and quiet, that never spoke a word, or gave a sign, or altered their expression by a jot18, when Eugene gave them the address, could suddenly be alive with something secret, foul19, and sly, could be more closed and secret than a door, and yet instantly reveal the naked, shameful, and iniquitous20 filth21 that welled up from some depthless source. He could not phrase it, give a name to it, or even see a certain sign that it was there, any more than he could put his hand upon a wisp of fading smoke, but he always knew when it was there, and somehow when he saw it his heart went hard and cold against the people who revealed it, and turned with warmth and strong affection towards the Coulson family.
There was, finally, among these grave clerk-like faces, one face that Eugene could never forget thereafter, a face that seemed to resume into its sly suave22 surfaces all of the nameless abomination of evil in the world, for which he had no name, for which there was no handle he could grasp, no familiar places or edges he could get his hands upon, which slid phantasmally, oilily, and smokily away whenever he tried to get his hands upon it. But it was to haunt his life for years in dreams of hatred14, madness, and despair that found no frontal wall for their attack, no word for their vituperation, no door for the shoulder of his hate — an evil world of phantoms23, shapes, and whispers that was yet as real as death, as ever-present as man’s treachery, but that slid away from him like smoke whenever he tried to meet, or curse, or strangle it.
This face was the face of a man in a tailor shop, a fitter there, and Eugene could have battered24 that foul face into a bloody25 pulp26, distilled27 the filthy28 refuse of that ugly life out of the fat swelling29 neck and through the murderous grip of his fingers if he could only have found a cause, a logic30, and a provocation31 for doing it. And yet he never saw the man but twice, and briefly, and there had been nothing in his suave, sly, careful speech to give offence.
Edith Coulson had sent Eugene to the tailor’s shop: he needed a suit and when he asked her where to go to have it made, she had sent him to this place because her brother had his suits made there and liked it. The fitter was a heavy shambling man in his late thirties: he had receding32 hair, which he brushed back flat in a thick pompadour; yellowish, somewhat bulging33 eyes; a coarse heavy face, loose-featured, red, and sensual; a sloping meaty jaw34, and large discoloured buck-teeth which showed unpleasantly in a mouth that was always half open. It was, in fact, the mouth that gave his face its sensual, sly, and ugly look, for a loose and vulgar smile seemed constantly to hover35 about its thick coarse edges, to be deliberately36, slyly restrained, but about to burst at any moment into an open, evil, foully37 sensual laugh. There was always about his mouth this ugly suggestion of a loose, corrupt38, and evilly jubilant mirth, and yet he never laughed or smiled.
The man’s speech had this same quality. It was suave and courteous39, but even in its most urbane40 assurances there was something non-committal, sly, and jeering41, something that slid away from you, and was never to be grasped, a quality that was faithless, tricky42 and unwholesome. When Eugene came for the final fitting it was obvious that he had done as cheap and shoddy a job as he could do; the suit was vilely43 botched and skimped44, sufficient cloth had not been put into it, and now it was too late to remedy the defect.
Yet the fitter gravely pulled the vest down till it met the trousers, tugged45 at the coat, and pulled the thing together where it stayed until Eugene took a breath or moved a muscle, when it would all come apart again, the collar bulging outward from the shoulder, the skimpy coat and vest crawling backward from the trousers, leaving a hiatus of shirt and belly46 that could not now be remedied by any means.
Then, gravely he would pull the thing together again, and in his suave, yet oily, sly, and non-committal phrases say:
“Um! Seems to fit you very well.”
Eugene was choking with exasperation47, and knew that he had been done, because he had foolishly paid them half the bill already, and now knew no way out of it except to lose what he had paid and get nothing for it or take the thing and pay the balance. He was caught in a trap, but even as he jerked at the coat and vest speechlessly, seized his shirt and thrust the gaping48 collar in the fitter’s face, the man said smoothly49:
“Um! Yes! The collar. Should think all that will be all right. Still needs a little alteration50.” He made some chalk-marks on Eugene. “Should think you’ll find it fits you very well when the tailor makes the alterations51.”
“When will the suit be ready?”
“Um. Should think you ought to have it by next Tuesday. Yes. I think you’ll find it ready by Tuesday.”
The sly words slid away from the boy like oil: there was nothing to pin him to or grasp him by, the yellowed eyes looked casually52 away and would not look at Eugene, the sensual face was suavely53 grave, the discoloured buck-teeth shone obscenely through the coarse loose mouth, and the suggestion of the foul loose smile was so pronounced now that it seemed that at any moment the man would have to turn away with heavy trembling shoulders and stifle54 the evil jeering laugh that was welling up in him. But he remained suavely grave and non-committal to the end, and when Eugene asked him if he should come again to try it on, he said, in the same oily tone, never looking at him:
“Um. Shouldn’t think that would be necessary. Could have it delivered to you when it’s ready. What is your address?”
“The Far End Farm — it’s on the Ventnor Road.”
“Oh! Coulson’s!” He never altered his expression, but the suggestion of the obscene smile was so pronounced that now it seemed he would have to come out with it. Instead, he only said:
“Um. Yes. Should think it could be delivered to you there on Tuesday. If you’ll just wait a moment I’ll ask the tailor.”
Gravely, suavely, he took the coat from Eugene and walked back towards the tailor’s room with the coat across his arm. In a moment, the boy heard sly voices whispering, laughing slyly, then the tailor saying:
“Where does he live?”
“Coulson’s!” said the fitter chokingly, and now the foul awaited laugh did come — high, wet, slimy, it came out of that loose mouth, and choked and whispered wordlessly, and choked again, and mingled55 then with the tailor’s voice in sly, choking, whispering intimacy56, and then gasped57 faintly and was silent. When the man came out again his coarse face was red and swollen58 with foul secret merriment, his heavy shoulders trembled slightly, he took out his handkerchief and wiped it once across his loose half-opened mouth, and with that gesture wiped the slime of laughter from his lips. Then he came toward Eugene, suave, grave, and courteous, evilly composed, as he said smoothly:
“Should think we’ll have that for you by next Tuesday, sir.”
“Can the tailor fix it so it’s going to fit?”
“Um. Should think you’ll find that everything’s all right. You ought to have it Tuesday afternoon.”
He was not looking at Eugene: the yellowish bulging eyes were staring casually, indefinitely, away, and his words again had slid away from the boy like oil. He could not be touched, approached, or handled: there was nothing to hold him by, he had the impregnability of smoke or a ball of mercury.
As Eugene went out of the door the tailor began to speak to someone in the shop, Eugene heard low words and whispered voices, then, gasping59, the word “Coulson’s!” and the slimy, choking, smothered60 laughter as the street-door closed behind him. He never saw the man again. He never forget his face.
That was a fine house: the people in it were exiled, lost, and ruined people, and Eugene liked them all. Later, he never knew why he felt so close to them or remembered them with such warmth and strong affection.
He did not see the Coulsons often and rarely talked to them. Yet he felt as familiar and friendly with them all as if he had known them all his life. The house was wonderful as no other house he had ever known, because they all seemed to be living in it together with this strange speechless knowledge, warmth, and familiarity, and yet each was as private, secret, and secure in his own room as if he occupied the house alone.
Coulson himself Eugene saw least of all: they sometimes passed each other going in or out the door, or in the hall; Coulson would grunt61 “Morning,” or “Good Day,” in a curt62 blunt manner, and go on, and yet he always left Eugene with a curious sense of warmth and friendliness63. He was a stocky well-set man with iron-grey hair, bushy eyebrows64, and a red weathered face which wore the open colour of the country on it, but also had the hard dull flush of the steady heavy drinker.
Eugene never saw him drunk, and yet he was never sober: he was one of those men who have drunk themselves past any hope of drunkenness, who are soaked through to the bone with alcohol, saturated65, tanned, weathered in it so completely that it could never be distilled out of their blood again. Yet, even in this terrible excess one felt a kind of grim control — the control of a man who is enslaved by the very thing that he controls, the control of the opium-eater who cannot leave his drug but measures out his dose with a cold calculation, and finds the limit of his capacity, and stops there, day by day.
But somehow this very sense of control, this blunt ruddy style of the country gentleman which distinguished66 his speech, his manner, and his dress, made the ruin of his life, the desperate intemperance67 of drink that smouldered in him like a slow fire, steadily68, nakedly apparent. It was as if, having lost everything, he still held grimly to the outer forms of a lost standard, a ruined state, when the inner substance was destroyed.
And it was this way with all of them — with Mrs. Coulson and the girl as well: their crisp, clipped friendly speech never deviated69 into intimacy, and never hinted at any melting into confidence and admission. Upon the woman’s weathered face there hovered70, when she talked, the same faint set grin that Captain Nicholl had, and her eyes were bright and hard, a little mad, impenetrable, as were his. And the girl, although young and very lovely, sometimes had this same look when she greeted anyone or paused to talk. In that look there was nothing truculent71, bitter, or defiant72: it was just the look of three people who had gone down together, and who felt for one another neither bitterness nor hate, but that strange companionship of a common disgrace, from which love has vanished, but which is more secret, silent, and impassively resigned to its fatal unity73 than love itself could be.
And that hard bright look also said this plainly to the world: “We ask for nothing from you now, we want nothing that you offer us. What is ours is ours, what we are we are, you’ll not intrude74 nor come closer than we let you see!”
Coulson might have been a man who had been dishonoured75 and destroyed by his women, and who took it stolidly76, saying nothing, and drank steadily from morning until night, and had nothing for it now but drink and silence and acceptance. Yet Eugene never knew for certain that this was so; it just seemed inescapable, and was somehow legible not only in the slow smouldering fire that burned out through his rugged77 weathered face, but also in the hard bright armour78 of the women’s eyes, the fixed79 set grin around their lips when they were talking — a grin that was like armour, too. And Morison, who had referred to Coulson, chuckling80, as a real “bottle-a-day-man,” had added quietly, casually, in his brief, indefinite but blurted-out suggestiveness of speech:
“I think the old girl’s been a bit of a bitch in her day. . . . Don’t know, of course, but has the look, hasn’t she?” In a moment he said quietly, “Have you talked to the daughter yet?”
“Once or twice. Not for long.”
“Ran into a chap at Magdalen the other day who knows her,” he said casually. “He used to come out here to see her.” He glanced swiftly, slyly at Eugene, his face reddening a little with laughter. “Pretty hot, I gather,” he said quietly, smiling, and looked away. It was night: the fire burned cheerfully in the grate, the hot coals spurting81 in small gaseous82 flares83 from time to time. The house was very quiet all around them. Outside they could hear the stormy wind in the trees along the road. Morison flicked84 his cigarette into the fire, poured out a drink of whisky into a glass, saying as he did so: “I say, old chap, you don’t mind if I take a spot of this before I go to bed, do you?” Then he shot some seltzer in the glass and drank. And Eugene sat there, without a word, staring sullenly85 into the fire, dumbly conscious of the flood of sick pain and horror which the casual foulness86 of the man’s suggestion had aroused, stubbornly trying to deny now that he was thinking of the girl all the time.
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1
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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3
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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dishonour
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| n./vt.拒付（支票、汇票、票据等）；vt.凌辱，使丢脸；n.不名誉，耻辱，不光彩 | |
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5
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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7
relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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8
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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9
obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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10
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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slander
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| n./v.诽谤，污蔑 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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13
hatreds
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| n.仇恨，憎恶( hatred的名词复数 )；厌恶的事 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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15
ciphers
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| n.密码( cipher的名词复数 )；零；不重要的人；无价值的东西 | |
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puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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18
jot
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| n.少量；vi.草草记下；vt.匆匆写下 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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20
iniquitous
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| adj.不公正的；邪恶的；高得出奇的 | |
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filth
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| n.肮脏，污物，污秽；淫猥 | |
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suave
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| adj.温和的；柔和的；文雅的 | |
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23
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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battered
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| adj.磨损的；v.连续猛击；磨损 | |
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bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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pulp
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| n.果肉，纸浆；v.化成纸浆，除去...果肉，制成纸浆 | |
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27
distilled
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| adj.由蒸馏得来的v.蒸馏( distil的过去式和过去分词 )；从…提取精华 | |
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filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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29
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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30
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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31
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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32
receding
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| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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33
bulging
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| 膨胀； 凸出（部）； 打气； 折皱 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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hover
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| vi.翱翔，盘旋；徘徊；彷徨，犹豫 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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foully
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| ad.卑鄙地 | |
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38
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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41
jeering
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| adj.嘲弄的，揶揄的v.嘲笑( jeer的现在分词 ) | |
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42
tricky
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| adj.狡猾的，奸诈的；(工作等)棘手的，微妙的 | |
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43
vilely
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| adv.讨厌地，卑劣地 | |
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44
skimped
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| v.少用( skimp的过去式和过去分词 )；少给；克扣；节省 | |
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45
tugged
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| v.用力拉，使劲拉，猛扯( tug的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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46
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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48
gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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49
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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50
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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51
alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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52
casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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suavely
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54
stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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55
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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56
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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57
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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58
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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61
grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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62
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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63
friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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64
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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66
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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67
intemperance
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| n.放纵 | |
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68
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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deviated
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| v.偏离，越轨( deviate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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71
truculent
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| adj.野蛮的，粗野的 | |
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72
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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74
intrude
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| vi.闯入；侵入；打扰，侵扰 | |
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75
dishonoured
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| a.不光彩的，不名誉的 | |
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76
stolidly
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| adv.迟钝地，神经麻木地 | |
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rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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78
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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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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80
chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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81
spurting
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| （液体，火焰等）喷出，（使）涌出( spurt的现在分词 )； （短暂地）加速前进，冲刺； 溅射 | |
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82
gaseous
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| adj.气体的，气态的 | |
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83
flares
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| n.喇叭裤v.（使）闪耀( flare的第三人称单数 )；（使）（船舷）外倾；（使）鼻孔张大；（使）（衣裙、酒杯等）呈喇叭形展开 | |
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84
flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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85
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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foulness
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| n. 纠缠, 卑鄙 | |
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