For a moment, half-way down the grey stone steps, worn and hollowed as ancient European steps are worn and hollowed by the soft incessant5 eternity6 of feet, as the other people thronged7 past him, he paused, his pleasant ruddy face and cleft8 chin turned vaguely9 up towards those soft skies of time, already fading swiftly with the early wintry light.
As always, Frank looked magnificent, and with his Russian blouse, and the expression of inscrutable sorrow on his face, more mysterious and romantic than ever. Even in this foreign scene he seemed to take possession of his surroundings with a lordly air. So far from looking like an alien, a foreigner, or a common tourist, Frank seemed to belong to the scene more than anybody there. It was as if something very frail10 and rare and exquisite11 and weary of the world — Alfred de Musset or George Moore, or the young Oscar, or Verlaine — had just come out of the Louvre, and it all seemed to belong to him.
The enormous central court of the Louvre, the soaring wings of that tremendous and graceful12 monument, the planned vistas13 of the Tuileries before him, fading into the mist-hazed air and the soft greying light — the whole tremendous scene, with all its space and strength and hauntingly aerial grace — at once as strong as ancient battlemented time, and as delicate and haunting as music on a spinet14 — swept together in a harmonious15 movement of spaciousness16 and majesty17 and graceful loveliness to form a background for the glamorous18 personality of Francis Starwick.
Even as he stood there, the rare and solitary19 distinction of his person was evident as it had never been before. People were streaming out of the museum and down the steps past him — for already it was the closing hour — and as they went by they all looked common, shabby and drearily21 prosaic22 by comparison. A middle-aged23 Frenchman of the middle-class, a chubby24, ruddy figure of a man, dressed in cloth of the hard, ugly ill-cut black that this class of Frenchmen wear, came by quickly with his wife, his daughter and his son. The man was driven along by the incessant, hot sugar of that energy which drives the race and which, with its unvaried repetition of oaths, ejaculations, denials, affirmations, and exactitudes, lavished25 at every minute upon the most trivial episodes of life, can become more drearily tedious than the most banal26 monotone. Compared with Starwick, his figure was thick, blunt, common in its clumsy shapelessness, and his wife had the same common, swarthy, blunted look. An American came down the steps with his wife: he was neatly27 dressed in the ugly light-greyish clothes that so many Americans wear, his wife was also neatly turned out with the tedious and metallic28 stylishness29 of American apparel. They had the naked, inept30 and uneasy look of tourists; everything about them seemed troubled and alien to the scene, even to the breezy quality of the air and the soft thick skies about them. When they had descended31 the steps they paused a moment in a worried and undecided way, the man pulled at his watch and peered at it with his meagre prognathous face, and then said nasally:
“Well, we told them we’d be there at four-thirty. It’s about that now.”
All of these people, young and old, French, American, or of whatever nationality, looked dreary32, dull and common, and uneasily out of place when compared with Starwick.
After a moment’s shock of stunned33 surprise, a drunken surge of impossible joy, Eugene ran towards him shouting, “Frank!”
Starwick turned, with a startled look upon his face: in a moment the two young men were shaking hands frantically34, almost hugging each other in their excitement, both blurting35 out at once a torrent36 of words which neither heard. Finally, when they had grown quieter, Eugene found himself saying:
“But where the hell have you been, Frank? I wrote you twice: didn’t you get any of my letters? — what happened to you? — where were you? — did you go down to the South of France to stay with Egan, as you said you would?”
“Ace,” said Starwick — his voice had the same, strangely mannered, unearthly quality it had always had, only it was more mysterious and secretive than ever before —“Ace, I have been there.”
“But why? —” the other began, “why aren’t you? —” He paused, looking at Starwick with a startled glance. “What happened, Frank?”
For, by his few quiet and non-committal words Starwick had managed to convey perfectly37 the sense of sorrow and tragedy — of a grief so great it could not be spoken, a hurt so deep it could not be told. His whole personality was now pervaded39 mysteriously by this air of quiet, speechless and incommunicable sorrow; he looked at the other youth with the eyes of Lazarus returned from the tomb, and that glance said more eloquently40 than any words could ever do that he now knew and understood things which no other mortal man could ever know or understand.
“I should prefer not to talk about it,” he said very quietly, and by these words Eugene understood that some tragic41 and unutterable event had now irrevocably sundered42 Starwick from Egan — though what that event might be, he saw it was not given him to know.
Immediately, however, in his old, casual, and engaging fashion, speaking between lips that barely moved, Starwick said:
“Look! What are you doing now? Is there any place you have to go?”
“No. I was just going in here. But I suppose it’s too late now, anyway.”
At this moment, indeed, they could hear the bells ringing in the museum, and the voices of the guards, crying impatiently:
“On ferme! On ferme, messieurs!”— and the people began to pour out in streams.
“Ace,” said Starwick, “they’re closing now. Besides,” he added wearily, “I shouldn’t think it would matter to you, anyway. . . . God!” he cried suddenly, in a high, almost womanish accent of passionate43 conviction, “what junk! What mountains and oceans of junk! And so bad!” he cried passionately44, in his strange, unearthly tone. “So incredibly and impossibly bad. In that whole place there are just three things worth seeing — but THEY!”— his voice was high again with passionate excitement —“THEY are UNSPEAKABLY beautiful, Eugene! God!” he cried, high and passionate again, “how BEAUTIFUL they are! How utterly45, impossibly beautiful!” Then with a resumption of his quiet, matter-of-fact tone he said, “You must come here with me some time. I will show them to you. . . . Look!” he said, in his casual tone again, “will you come to the Régence with me and have a drink?”
The whole earth seemed to come to life at once. Now that Starwick was here, this unfamiliar46 world, in whose alien life he had struggled like a drowning swimmer, became in a moment wonderful and good. The feeling of numb47, nameless terror, rootless desolation, the intolerable sick anguish48 of homelessness, insecurity, and homesickness, against which he had fought since coming to Paris, and which he had been ashamed and afraid to admit, was now instantly banished49. Even the strange dark faces of the French as they streamed past no longer seemed strange, but friendly and familiar, and the moist and languorous air, the soft thick greyness of the skies which had seemed to press down on his naked sides, to permeate50 his houseless soul like a palpable and viscous51 substance of numb terror and despair, were now impregnated with all the vital energies of living, with the intoxication52 of an unspeakable, nameless, infinitely53 strange and various joy. As they walked across the vast court of the Louvre towards the great arched gateway54 and all the brilliant traffic of the streets, the enormous dynamic murmur55 of the mysterious city came to him and stirred his entrails with the sensual premonitions of unknown, glamorous and seductive pleasure. Even the little taxis, boring past with wasp-like speed across the great space of the Louvre and through the sounding arches, now contributed to this sense of excitement, luxury and joy. The shrill56 and irritating horns sounded constantly through the humid air, and filled his heart with thoughts of New Year: already the whole city seemed astir, alive now with the great carnival57 of New Year’s Eve.
At the Régence they found a table on the terrace of the old café where Napoleon had played dominoes, and among the gay clatter58 of the crowd of waning59 afternoon they drank brandy, talked passionately and with almost delirious60 happiness, drank brandy again, and watched the swarming61 and beautiful life upon the pavements and at the crowded tables all around them.
The streams of traffic up and down the whole Avenue de l’Opéra and the Place de la Comédie Fran?aise, the delicate, plain, and beautiful fa?ade of the Comédie across the Square from them, the statue of frail De Musset, half-fainting backwards62 in the arms of his restoring muse20 — all this seemed not only part of him, but now that Starwick was here, to gain an enormous enhancement and enchantment63, to be the total perfume of an incredibly good and lovely and seductive life, the whole of which, in all its infinite ramifications64, seemed to be distilled65 into his blood like a rare liquor and to belong to him. And so they drank and talked and drank until full dark had come, and tears stood in their eyes, and the brandy saucers were racked up eight deep upon their table.
Then, gloriously sad and happy and exultantly67 triumphant68, and full of nameless joys and evil, they stepped into one of the shrill, exciting little taxis and were charioted swiftly up that thronging69 noble street, until the great soaring masses of the Opéra stood before them and the Café de la Paix was at one side.
And they were young, all-conquering and exultant66, and all the magic life of strange million-footed Paris belonged to them, and all its strange and evil fragrance70 burned fierce and secret in their veins71, and they knew that they were young and that they would never die, that it was New Year’s Eve in Paris, and that that magic city had been created for them. By this time they had between them about 400 francs.
Then followed the huge kaleidoscope of night: at one o’clock, leaving a café, they got into a taxi, and vociferously72 demanded of the ruddy driver, in French made eloquently confident by alcohol and joy, that they be taken to the resorts most frequented by “nos frères-vous comprenez? — les honnêtes hommes — les ouvriers.”
He smilingly assented73, and from that time on until dawn they made a madman’s round of little vile74 cafés, so mazed75, so numerous, so inextricably confused in the vast web-like slum and jungle of nocturnal Paris, that later they could never thread their way back through that labyrinth76 of crooked77 alley-ways, and drunkenness and confusion. Their driver took them to a region which they later thought was somewhere in that ancient, foul78 and tangled79 quarter between the Boulevard de Sébastopol and Les Halles. And all that night, from one o’clock to dawn, they threaded noxious80 alleys81, beside the shuttered fa?ades of ancient, evil, crone-like houses, and stopped at every blaze of garish82 light to enter dirty little dives, where sullen83 evil-visaged men surveyed them sullenly84 over bistro bars, and gave them with a slimy hand cheap vile cognac in greasy85 little glasses. In these places there was always the evil, swelling86, fatly unctuous87 and seductive music of accordions88, the hoarse89 bravos of applause. Here one bought metal slugs, a dozen for five francs, and gave them to sluttish sirens with no upper teeth for the favour of a dance; and here also there were many soldiers: Colonial negroes, black as ebony, were most in favour; and here were men with caps and scarves and evil, furtive90 eyes, who watched them steadily91.
From place to place, from dive to dive, all through that huge and noxious labyrinth of night, their wild debauch92 wore on. And presently they noticed that, wherever they went, two gendarmes93 followed them, stood quietly at the bar, and courteously94 and genially95 took the drinks they always bought for them, and were always there when they entered the next place. And the ruddy and good-natured taxi-man was always there as well, and he too always drank with them, and always said, with robust96 satisfaction: “Mais oui! Parbleu! A votre santé, messieurs!”
The grey haggard light of daybreak showed the cold grey waters of the Seine, ancient, narrowed, flowing on between huge stone walls, the haggard steep fa?ades of the old shuttered houses in the Latin Quarter, the narrow angularity of the silent streets. In Montparnasse they got out at the corner of the Boulevard Edgar Quinet and demanded the reckoning. All that remained to them was less than fifty francs; they took it all, the soiled and nibbled97 little five-franc notes, the coppery one and two-franc pieces, the ten — and twenty-five — and fifty-centime pieces, and poured it into his hands, and stood there, guilty, silent and ashamed, before his astonished and reproachful face, because he had stood by them well and loyally all through that blind kaleidoscope of night, and it was New Year’s Eve, and they were drunk and gay, and, he had thought, rich Americans, and he had hired for, earned, expected, more.
“It’s all we have,” they said.
That ruddy robust man then did something that is perhaps rare in the annals of French taxidom, and which they never forgot.
After an astonished moment, while he looked at the little wad of bills and coins in his broad palm, he suddenly laughed loud and cheerfully, tossed the little wad of money in the air and caught it as it fell, stripped off a five-franc note and pocketed the rest, handed the five-franc note to Starwick, and said cheerfully —
“It’s all right! You two boys take this and buy yourselves some breakfast to sober up on. Happy New Year!”— and with a friendly farewell wave of the hand, drove off.
They had delicious morning crescent rolls, fresh-baked and crusty, and thick rich chocolate, at a little bakery in the Boulevard Edgar Quinet, next to Starwick’s quarters. He was living in a studio, loaned to him, he said, by “two friends,” whom he did not name, and who were “out of town for the holidays.”
The studio was one of a row of similar buildings all fronting on a little enclosed alley-way. One entered from a street through a gate set in the wall: one rang a bell, and presently la concierge98 pressed a button which released the door. Inside, it was very quiet and still and grey with the grey morning light of New Year’s Day. And all the city was shut out. Then they entered Starwick’s studio: in the grey light a big room with a slanting99 roof of grey glazed100 glass emerged: around the walls were paintings, the limbs and fragments of unfinished sculptures, a few chairs and tables, and a couch bed. At the back there was a balcony, and steps ascending101 to it: here too there was a cot, and Starwick told Eugene he could sleep up there.
Both young men were groggy102 with weariness and the night’s debauch: in the cold grey light, life looked black and ugly; they were exhausted103 and ashamed. Starwick lay down upon the couch and went to sleep; Eugene ascended104 to the balcony, pulled off his clothes and tossed them in a heap, and fell into the deep drugged sleep of drunkenness and exhaustion105.
He slept till noon; and was awakened106 by the sound of steps below, the opening and closing of the door, and suddenly a woman’s voice, light, gay, authoritative107, and incisive108:
“Darling, we’re back again!” the gay, light voice cried out. “Welcome to our city! Happy New Year,” she went on more quietly, and with a note of tender intimacy109. “How have you been?”
He heard Starwick’s quiet voice as it answered her, and presently the low, brief, and almost sullen tones of another woman. Starwick called sleepily up to Eugene, telling him to dress at once and come down: when he got downstairs, Starwick and the two women were waiting for him.
The one with the light, gay, incisive voice greeted him warmly and cordially, and made him feel instantly at home. She seemed to be the older of the two, and yet there was not much difference in their age. The other woman shook hands with him almost curtly110, and muttered a few words of greeting. She was a big dark-haired New England sort of girl; she wore dark, drab, rusty-looking clothes, and her face had a sullen, almost heavy cast to it. While Starwick, and the other woman, whose name was Elinor, rattled112 gaily113 on together, the dark girl sat sullenly and awkwardly in her chair and said nothing. Once or twice they spoke38 to her: she had a way of answering with a few curt111 sullen words and a short angry laugh, which went as quickly as it came, and left her face heavy and sullen again. But the moment she laughed, Eugene noticed that her mouth was very red and sweet, her teeth beautifully white, and for a moment the girl’s sullen face was illuminated114 by a radiant tender loveliness. He heard Frank call her Ann: Starwick seemed to want to tease her, and when he spoke to her there was a little burble of malicious115 laughter in his voice. Turning to Eugene, his pleasant face reddening and the burble of malicious laughter playing in his throat, Frank said:
“She is VERY beautiful. You’d never think it, but she really IS, you know.”
Ann muttered something short and angry, and her face flushing, she laughed her short sudden laugh of anger and exasperation116. And as she did so, her face came alive at once with its radiant loveliness, and he saw that what Starwick said of her was true.
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1
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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languorous
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| adj.怠惰的，没精打采的 | |
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voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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vistas
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| 长条形景色( vista的名词复数 )； 回顾； 展望； （未来可能发生的）一系列情景 | |
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spinet
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| n.小型立式钢琴 | |
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harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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spaciousness
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| n.宽敞 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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glamorous
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| adj.富有魅力的；美丽动人的；令人向往的 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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drearily
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| 沉寂地，厌倦地，可怕地 | |
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prosaic
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| adj.单调的，无趣的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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chubby
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| adj.丰满的，圆胖的 | |
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lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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banal
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| adj.陈腐的，平庸的 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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metallic
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| adj.金属的；金属制的；含金属的；产金属的；像金属的 | |
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stylishness
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inept
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| adj.不恰当的，荒谬的，拙劣的 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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blurting
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| v.突然说出，脱口而出( blurt的现在分词 ) | |
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torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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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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pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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42
sundered
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| v.隔开，分开( sunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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47
numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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48
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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49
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
permeate
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| v.弥漫，遍布，散布；渗入，渗透 | |
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51
viscous
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| adj.粘滞的，粘性的 | |
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52
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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53
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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54
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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55
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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56
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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57
carnival
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| n.嘉年华会，狂欢，狂欢节，巡回表演 | |
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58
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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59
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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60
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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61
swarming
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| 密集( swarm的现在分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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62
backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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ramifications
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| n.结果，后果( ramification的名词复数 ) | |
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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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exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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exultantly
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| adv.狂欢地，欢欣鼓舞地 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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thronging
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的现在分词 ) | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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71
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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vociferously
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| adv.喊叫地，吵闹地 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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mazed
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| 迷惘的，困惑的 | |
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labyrinth
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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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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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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noxious
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| adj.有害的，有毒的；使道德败坏的，讨厌的 | |
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alleys
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| 胡同，小巷( alley的名词复数 )； 小径 | |
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garish
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| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
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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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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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unctuous
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| adj.油腔滑调的，大胆的 | |
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accordions
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| n.手风琴( accordion的名词复数 ) | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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furtive
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| adj.鬼鬼崇崇的，偷偷摸摸的 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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debauch
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| v.使堕落，放纵 | |
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gendarmes
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| n.宪兵，警官( gendarme的名词复数 ) | |
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courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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nibbled
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的过去式和过去分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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concierge
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| n.管理员；门房 | |
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slanting
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| 倾斜的，歪斜的 | |
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glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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groggy
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| adj.体弱的；不稳的 | |
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103
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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104
ascended
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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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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authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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108
incisive
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| adj.敏锐的，机敏的，锋利的，切入的 | |
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109
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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110
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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111
curt
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| adj.简短的，草率的 | |
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112
rattled
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| 慌乱的，恼火的 | |
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113
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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114
illuminated
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| adj.被照明的；受启迪的 | |
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115
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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116
exasperation
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| n.愤慨 | |
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