Elinor drove; Eugene sat beside her; Ann and Starwick were in the rear seat. The car was a good one — a Panhard — and Elinor drove swiftly, beautifully, with magnificent competence1, as she did all things, getting ahead of everybody else, besting even the swerve2 of the taxi-drivers in their wasp-like flight, and doing it all with such smooth ease that no one noticed it.
They seemed to get through the great dense3 web, the monumental complication of central Paris by a kind of magic. As always, Elinor communicated to everyone and everything the superb confidence of her authority. In her presence, and under her governance, the strange and alien world about them became instantly familiar as the Main Street of one’s native town, making even the bewildering and intricate confusion of its swarming4 mass wonderfully natural and easy to be grasped. Paris, in fact, under the transforming magic of this woman’s touch, became curiously5 American, the enchantment6 beautifully like Eugene’s own far-off visions as a child.
It was astounding7. The whole city had suddenly taken on the clear and unperplexing proportions of a map — of one of those beautifully simple and comforting maps which are sold to tourists, in which everything is charming, colourful, and cosy8 as a toy, and where everything that need be known — all the celebrated9 “points of interest”— the Eiffel Tower, the Madeleine, and Notre Dame10, the Trocadéro, and the Arc de Triomphe, are pictured charmingly, in vivid colours.
Paris, in fact, had this morning become a brilliant, lovely, flashing toy. It was a toy which had been miraculously11 created for the enjoyment12 of brilliant, knowing and sophisticated Americans like Elinor and himself. It was a toy which could be instantly understood, preserved and enjoyed, a toy that they could play with to their hearts’ content, a toy which need confuse and puzzle none of them for a moment, particularly since Elinor was there to explain the toy and make it go.
It was incredible. Gone was all the blind confusion, the sick despair, the empty desolation of his first month in Paris. Gone was the old blind and baffled struggle against the staggering mass and number of a world too infinitely14 complex to be comprehended, too strange and alien to be understood. Gone were all the old sensations of the drowning horror, the feeling of atomic desolation as he blindly prowled the streets among alien and uncountable hordes15 of strange dark faces, the sensation of being an eyeless grope-thing that crawled and scuttled16 blindly on the sea-depths of some terrible oceanic world of whose dimensions, structure, quality and purpose it could know nothing. Gone were all those feelings of strife17, profitless, strange and impotent futility18 — those struggles that wracked the living sinews of man’s life and soul with quivering exhaustion19 and with sick despair, the hideous20 feeling of being emptied out in planetary vacancy21, of losing all the high hope of the spirit’s purpose, the heart’s integrity — of being exploded, emptied out and dissipated into hideous, hopeless nothingness where all the spirit of man’s courage turned dead and rotten as a last year’s apple, and all his sounding plans of work and greatness seemed feebler than the scratchings of a dog upon a wall — a horror that can seize a man in the great jungle of an unknown city and a swarming street and that is far more terrible than the unknown mystery of any Amazonian jungle of the earth could be.
It was all gone now — the devouring22 hunger, and the drowning horror, and the blind confusion of the old, swarm-haunted mind of man — the fruitless struggle of the Faustian life — and in its place he had the glittering toy, the toy of legend and enchantment and of quick possession.
The French, they were a charming race — so gay, so light, and so incorrigible23 — so childlike and so like a race of charming toys.
Elinor made their relation to all these good people swarming in the streets around them wonderfully easy, dear, and agreeable. There was nothing strange about them, their ways were unpredictable, since they were French, but they were perfectly24 understandable. Her attitude, expressed in a rapid, gay and half-abstracted chatter25 — a kind of running commentary on the life around her as she drove — made the whole thing plain. They were a quaint26 lot, a droll27 lot, an incomparable lot — they were charming, amazing, irresponsible, a race of toys and children — they were “French.”
“All right, my dear,” she would murmur28 to herself as a fat taxi-driver snaked recklessly in ahead of her and came to a triumphant29 stop —“have it your own way, my darling — have it your own way — I shan’t argue with you — God!” she would cry, throwing her head back with a sudden rich burst of laughter —“look at the old boy with the whiskers over there at the table — did you see him twirl his gay moustachios and roll his roguish eyes at that girl as she went by? SIMPLY incredible!” she cried with another laugh, and bit her lips, and shook her head in fine astonishment30. “Thank you!” she murmured politely, as the gendarme31 shrilled32 upon his whistle and beckoned33 with his small white club. “Monsieur l’Agent, vous êtes bien gentil”— as she smoothly34 shifted gears and shot past him.
In this wonderful and intoxicating35 way all of Paris defiled36 past them like a great glittering toy, a splendid map of rich, luxurious37 shops and great cafés, an animated38 and beautiful design of a million gay and fascinating people, all bent39 on pleasure, all filled with joy, all with something so vivid, bright, particular and incomparable about them that the whole vast pattern resolved itself into a thousand charming and brilliant pictures, each wonderful and unforgettable, and all fitting instantly into the single structure, the simple and magnificent clarity of the whole design.
They swept through the huge central web of Paris, and were passing through the great shabby complication of the Eastern Quarters, the ragged40, ugly sprawl41 of the suburbs.
And now, swift as dreams, it seemed, they were out in open country, speeding along roads shaded by tall rows of poplars, under a sky of humid grey, whitened with a milky42 and soul-troubling light.
Elinor was very gay, mercurial43, full of sudden spontaneous laughter, snatches of song, deep gravity, swift inexplicable44 delight. Ann maintained a sullen45 silence. As for Starwick, he seemed on the verge46 of collapse47 all the time. At Chateau-Thierry he announced that he could go no farther: they stopped, got him into a little café, and fortified48 him with some brandy. He sank into a stupor49 of exhaustion, from which they could not rouse him. To all their persuasions51 and entreaties52 he just shook his head and mumbled53 wearily:
“I can’t! — Leave me here! — I can’t go on!”
Three hours passed in this way before they succeeded in reviving him, getting him out of the café— or estaminet — and into the car again. Ann’s face was flushed with resentful anger. She burst out furiously:
“You had no right to make him come along on this trip! You knew he couldn’t make it; he’s dead on his feet. I think we ought to take him back to Paris now.”
“Sorry, my dear,” said Elinor crisply, with a fine bright smile, “but there’ll be no turning back! We’re going on!”
“Frank can’t go on!” Ann cried angrily. “You know he can’t! I think it’s a rotten shame for you to insist on this when you see what shape he’s in.”
“Nevertheless, we’re going on,” said Elinor with grim cheerfulness. “And Mr. Starwick is going with us. He’ll see it through now to the bitter end. And if he dies upon the way, we’ll give him a soldier’s burial here upon the field of honour. . . . Allons, mes enfants! Avancez!” And humming gaily54 and lightly the tune55 of Malbrouck, she shifted gears and sent the car smoothly, swiftly forward again.
It was a horrible journey: one of those experiences which, by the grim and hopeless protraction of their suffering, leave their nightmare image indelibly upon the memories of everyone who has experienced them. The grey light of the short winter’s day was already waning56 rapidly when they drove out of Chateau-Thierry. As they approached Rheims dark had almost come, the lights of the town had begun to twinkle, sparsely57, with provincial58 dismalness59, in the distance. No one knew the purpose of their visit; no one knew what the trip was for, what they were coming to see — no one had enquired60.
It was almost dark when they entered the town. Elinor drove immediately to the cathedral, halted the car, and got out.
“Voilà, mes amis!” she said ironically. “We are here!”
And she made a magnificent flourishing gesture towards the great ruined mass, which, in the last faint grey light of day, was dimly visible as a gigantic soaring monument of shattering arches and demolished61 buttresses62, a lacework of terrific stone looped ruggedly63 with splinters of faint light, the demolished fa?ades of old saints and kings and shell-torn towers — the twilight64 ruins of a twilight world.
“Magnificent!” cried Elinor enthusiastically. “Superb! — Frank! Frank! You must get out and feast your eyes upon this noble monument! I have heard you speak so often of its beauty. . . . But, my dear, you MUST!” she said, answering with fine persuasion50 his feeble and dispirited groan65. “You’d never forgive yourself, or me either, if you knew you’d come the whole way to Rheims without a single look at its cathedral.”
And, despite his wearily mumbled protests, she took him by the arm and pulled him from the car. Then, for a moment, as he stared drunkenly, with blind, unseeing eyes, at the great grey twilit shape, she propped66 him up and held him between herself and Eugene.
Then they all got back into the car, and she drove them to the best café, the best hotel in town. Starwick almost collapsed67 getting out of the car. His knees buckled68 under him, and he would have fallen if Ann had not caught him, put her arm round him and held him up. His condition was pitiable. He could no longer hold his head up; it lolled and wobbled drunkenly on his neck like a flower too heavy for its heavy stalk. His eyes were glazed69 and leaden, and as they started into the café, he had to be held up. He lifted his feet and dragged them after him like leaden weights. The café was a large and splendid one. They found a table to one side. Starwick staggered towards the cushioned seat against the wall and immediately collapsed. From that time on, he was never wholly conscious. Ann sat down beside him, put her arm round him and supported him. He sank against her shoulder like a child. The girl’s face was flushed with anger, she stared at Elinor with resentful eyes, but by no word or gesture did Elinor show that she noticed anything amiss either in Ann’s or Starwick’s behaviour.
Rather, she chatted gaily to Eugene, she kept up a witty70 and high-spirited discourse71 with everyone around her, she had never been more mercurial, quick, gay and charming than she was that evening. And announcing gaily that she was the hostess that was “giving the party,” she ordered lavishly72 — a delicious meal, with champagne73 from the celebrated cellars of the establishment. And everyone, spurred to hunger by the cold air and their long journey, ate heartily74 — everyone save Ann, who ate little and sat in angry silence, with one arm round Starwick’s shoulders, and Starwick, who could not be roused from his deep stupor to eat anything.
It was after nine o’clock before they got up to go. Elinor paid the bill, and still chatting as gaily and as lightly as if the whole wretched expedition had brought nothing but unqualified joy to all her guests, started for the door. Starwick had to be half-carried, half-dragged out by Ann and Eugene, under the prayerful guidance of several deeply troubled waiters. They put him in the car and got in themselves. Elinor, looking round lightly and crying out cheerfully, “Are we ready, children?” started the motor for the long drive back to Paris.
That was a hideous and unforgettable journey. Before they were done with it, they thought that it would never end. Under the protraction of its ghastly horror, time lengthened75 out interminably, unbelievably, into centuries. It seemed to them at last that they would never arrive, that they were rolling through a spaceless vacancy without progression, that they were hung there in the horrible ethers of some planetary emptiness where their wheels spun76 futilely77 and for ever in moveless movement, unsilent silence, changeless change.
From the very beginning they did not know where they were going. By the time they got out of Rheims they were completely lost. It was a cold night, late in February; a thick fog-like mist that grew steadily78 more impenetrable as the night wore on, had come down and blanketed the earth in white invisibility. And through this mist there were diffused79 two elements: the weird80 radiance of a submerged moon which gave to the sea of fog through which they groped the appearance of an endless sea of milk, and the bitter clutch of a stealthy, raw, and cruelly penetrating82 cold which crept into man’s flesh and numbed83 him to the bone of misery84.
All through that ghastly and interminable night they groped their way across France in the milky ocean of antarctic fog. It seemed to them that they had travelled hundreds of miles, that Paris had long since been passed, lost, forgotten in the fog, that they were approaching the outer suburbs of Lyons or Bordeaux, that presently they would see the comforting lights of the English Channel or that they had turned northwards, had crossed Belgium, and soon would strike the Rhine.
From time to time the road wound through the ghostly street of some old village; the white walls of village houses rose sheer and blank beside the road, sheeted in phantasmal mist like ghosts, and with no sound within. Then they would be groping their way out through the open countryside again — but where or in what country, no one knew, none dared to say — and suddenly, low and level, beside them to the left, they would see the moon. It would suddenly emerge in some blind hole that opened in that wall of fog, and it was such a moon as no man living ever saw before. It was an old, mad, ruined crater85 of a moon, an ancient, worn, and demented thing that smouldered red like an expiring coal, and that was like the old ruined moon of a fantastic dream. It hung there on their left, just at the edge of a low ridge86 of hills, and it was so low, so level, and so ghostly-near, it seemed to them that they could touch it.
Towards midnight they groped their way into a whited ghostly phantom87 of a town which Elinor at length, with the sudden recognition of a person who revisits some old scene of childhood, discovered to be Soissons. She had known the town well during the War: the ambulance unit, in which she had been for eighteen months a driver, had been stationed here. Starwick was half conscious, huddled88 into Ann’s shoulder on the dark rear seat. He groaned89 pitiably and said that he could go no farther, that they must stop. They found a hotel café that was still open and half-carried, half-dragged him in. They got brandy for him, they tried to revive him; he looked like a dead man and said that he could go no farther, that they must leave him there. And for the first time Elinor’s grave tone showed concern and sharp anxiety, for the first time her hard eye softened90 into care. She remained firm; gently, obdurately91, she refused him. He collapsed again into unconsciousness; she turned her worried eyes upon the others and said quietly:
“We can’t leave him here. We’ve got to get him back to Paris somehow.”
After two ghastly hours in which they tried to revive him, persuade him to gird up his fainting limbs for final effort, they got him back into the car. Ann covered him with blankets and held him to her for the remainder of the night, as a mother might hold a child. In the faint ghost-gleam of light her face shone dark and sombre, her eyes were dark, moveless, looking straight ahead.
Armed with instructions from an anxious waiter, they set out again on the presumptive road to Paris. The interminable night wore on; the white blanket of the fog grew thicker, they passed through more ghost-villages, sheer and sudden as a dream, sheeted in the strange numb13 silence of that ghostly nightmare of a fog. The old red crater of the moon vanished in a ruined helve at length behind a rise of earth. They could no longer see anything, the road before was utterly92 blotted93 out, the car-lights burned against an impenetrable white wall, they groped their way in utter blindness, they crawled at a snail’s pace.
Finally, they felt their way along, inch by inch and foot by foot. Eugene stood on the running-board of the car, peering blindly into that blank wall of fog, trying only to define the edges of the road. The bitter penetration94 of raw cold struck through the fog and pierced them like a nail. From time to time Elinor stopped the car, while he stepped down and stamped numb feet upon the road, swung frozen arms and lustily blew warmth back into numb fingers. Then that infinite groping patience of snail’s progress would begin again.
Somewhere, somehow, through that blind sea of fog, there was a sense of morning in the air. The ghosts of towns and villages grew more frequent — the towns were larger now, occasionally Elinor bumped over phantom curbs95 before the warning shouts of her look-out could prevent her. Twice they banged into trees along unknown pavements. There was a car-track now, the bump of cobbles, the sense of greater complications in the world about them.
Suddenly they heard the most thrilling and evocative of all earth’s sounds at morning — the lonely clopping of shod hooves upon the cobbles. In the dim and ghostly sheeting of that light they saw the horse, the market cart balanced between its two high creaking wheels, laden96 with sweet clean green-and-gold of carrot bunches, each neatly97 trimmed as a bouquet98.
They could discern the faint ghost-glimmer of the driver’s face, the big slow-footed animal, dappled grey, and clopping steadily towards the central markets.
They were entering Paris and the fog was lifting. In its huge shroud99 of mist dispersing100, the old buildings of the city emerged ghostly haggard, pallidly101 nascent102 in the dim grey light. A man was walking rapidly along a terraced pavement, with bent head, hands thrust in pockets — the figure of the worker since the world began. They saw at morning, in grey waking light, a waiter, his apron-ends tucked up, lifting racked chairs from the tables of a café, and on light mapled fronts of bars and shops, the signs Bière-Patisserie — Tabac. Suddenly, the huge winged masses of the Louvre swept upon them, and it was grey light now, and Eugene heard Elinor’s low, fervent103 “Thank God!”
And now the bridge, the Seine again, the frontal blank of the old buildings on the quays104, faced haggardly towards light, the narrow lane of the Rue81 Bonaparte, and in the silent empty street at length, his own hotel.
They said good-bye quickly, hurriedly, abstractedly, as he got out; and drove away. The women were thinking of nothing, no one now, but Starwick, life’s fortunate darling, the rare, the precious, the all-favoured one. In the grey light, unconscious, completely swaddled in the heavy rugs, Starwick still lay pillowed on Ann’s shoulder.
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1
competence
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| n.能力，胜任，称职 | |
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swerve
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| v.突然转向，背离；n．转向，弯曲，背离 | |
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3
dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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4
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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5
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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enchantment
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| n.迷惑，妖术，魅力 | |
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astounding
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| adj.使人震惊的vt.使震惊，使大吃一惊astound的现在分词) | |
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8
cosy
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| adj.温暖而舒适的，安逸的 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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miraculously
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| ad.奇迹般地 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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numb
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| adj.麻木的，失去感觉的；v.使麻木 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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hordes
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| n.移动着的一大群( horde的名词复数 )；部落 | |
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scuttled
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| v.使船沉没( scuttle的过去式和过去分词 )；快跑，急走 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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futility
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| n.无用 | |
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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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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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incorrigible
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| adj.难以纠正的，屡教不改的 | |
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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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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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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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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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gendarme
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| n.宪兵 | |
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shrilled
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| （声音）尖锐的，刺耳的，高频率的( shrill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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beckoned
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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intoxicating
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| a. 醉人的,使人兴奋的 | |
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defiled
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| v.玷污( defile的过去式和过去分词 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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sprawl
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| vi.躺卧，扩张，蔓延；vt.使蔓延；n.躺卧，蔓延 | |
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milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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mercurial
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| adj.善变的，活泼的 | |
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inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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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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verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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49
stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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50
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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persuasions
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| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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53
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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54
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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55
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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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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sparsely
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| adv.稀疏地；稀少地；不足地；贫乏地 | |
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58
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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59
dismalness
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| 阴沉的 | |
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60
enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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62
buttresses
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| n.扶壁，扶垛( buttress的名词复数 )v.用扶壁支撑，加固( buttress的第三人称单数 ) | |
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ruggedly
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| 险峻地； 粗暴地； （面容）多皱纹地； 粗线条地 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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65
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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66
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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68
buckled
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| a. 有带扣的 | |
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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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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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71
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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lavishly
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| adv.慷慨地，大方地 | |
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73
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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74
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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77
futilely
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| futile（无用的）的变形； 干 | |
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78
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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82
penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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83
numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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85
crater
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| n.火山口，弹坑 | |
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ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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87
phantom
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| n.幻影，虚位，幽灵；adj.错觉的，幻影的，幽灵的 | |
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huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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89
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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90
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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obdurately
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| adv.顽固地，执拗地 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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95
curbs
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| v.限制，克制，抑制( curb的第三人称单数 ) | |
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laden
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| adj.装满了的；充满了的；负了重担的；苦恼的 | |
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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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98
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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99
shroud
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| n.裹尸布，寿衣；罩，幕；vt.覆盖，隐藏 | |
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100
dispersing
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| adj. 分散的 动词disperse的现在分词形式 | |
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101
pallidly
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| adv.无光泽地，苍白无血色地 | |
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102
nascent
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| adj.初生的，发生中的 | |
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103
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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104
quays
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| 码头( quay的名词复数 ) | |
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