“Where are the others?” she said presently. “Have they gone out?”
“Yes,” he said. “They went for a walk. They said they’d be gone about an hour.”
“Yes,” she said cynically3, “and they thought it would be good for me if you and I were left alone for a while. I’m such a grand person that something just HAS to be done for me. God!” she concluded bitterly, “I’m getting tired of having people do me good! I’m fed up with it!”
He made no reply to this and she said nothing more. Her big body supported by her elbows, she continued to lean forward and stare sullenly into the flames.
He had taken a seat in another chair, and at length the silence, and his position in the chair, and the girl’s sullen2 expression became painfully awkward, unhappy and embarrassing. He got up abruptly4, took a pillow from the bed, threw it upon the floor, and lay down flat beside her chair, stretched out comfortably with his head to the dancing flames. The feel of the fire, its snap and crackle, the soft flare5 and fall of burned wood ash, and the resinous6 piny smell, together with the broad old wooden planking of the floor, the silence of the house and the feel of numb7 silent night outside, something homelike in the look of the room — these things, together with Ann’s big New England body leaned forward towards the fire, the sullen speechless integrity of her grand and lovely face, and the smell of her, which was the smell of a big healthy woman warmed by fire — all of these things filled his senses with something immensely strong, pleasant, and familiar, something latent in man’s blood, which he had not felt in many years, and that now was quiet but powerfully reawakened. It filled his heart, his blood, his senses with peace and certitude, with drowsy8 sensual joy, and with the powerful awakening9 of an old perception, like the rediscovery of an ancient faith, that the sensuous10 integument11 of life was everywhere the same, that the lives of people in this little town in France were the same as the lives of people in the town he came from, the same as the lives of people everywhere on earth. And after all the dark and alien world of night, of Paris, and another continent, which he had known now for several months, this rediscovery of the buried life, the fundamental structure of the great family of earth to which all men belong, filled him with a quiet certitude and joy.
Ann did not move; bent12 forward, leaning on her knees, she continued to stare into the fire, and looking up at her warm, dark, sullen face, he fell asleep — into a sleep which, after all the frenzy13 and exhaustion14 of the last weeks, was as deep and soundless as if he were drugged.
How long he lay asleep there on the floor he did not know. But he was wakened by the sound of her voice — a sullen monotone that spoke15 his name — that spoke his name quietly with a toneless, brooding insistence16 and that at first he thought he must have dreamed. It was repeated, again and again, quietly, insistently17, without change or variation until he knew there was no doubt of it, that he no longer was asleep. And with something slow and strange and numb beating through him like a mighty18 pulse, he opened his eyes and looked up into her face. She had bent forward still more and was looking down at him with a kind of slow, brooding intensity19, her face smouldering and drowsy as a flower. And even as he looked at her, she returned his look with that drowsy, brooding stare, and again, without inflection, spoke his name.
He sat up like a flash and put his arms around her. He was beside her on his knees and he hugged her to him in a grip of speechless, impossible desire: he kissed her on the face and neck, again and again; her face was warm with the fire, her skin as soft and smooth as velvet20; he kissed her again and again on the face, clumsily, thickly, with that wild, impossible desire, and with a horrible feeling of guilt21 and shame. He wanted to kiss her on the mouth, and he did not dare to do it: all the time that he kept kissing her and hugging her to him with a clumsy, crushing grip, he wanted her more than he had ever wanted any woman in his life, and at the same time he felt a horrible profanity in his touch, as if he were violating a Vestal virgin22, trying to rape23 a nun24.
And he did not know why he felt this way, the reason for these senseless feelings of guilt and shame and profanation25. He had been with so many prostitutes and casual loose promiscuous26 women that he would have thought it easy to make love to this big, clumsy, sullen-looking girl, but now all he could do was to hug her to him in an awkward grip, to mutter foolishly at her, and to kiss her warm sullen face again and again.
He tried to put his clumsy hand upon her breast, but the feeling of shame and profanation swept over him and he could not keep it there. He put his hand upon her knee, and thrust it under the skirt: the warm flesh of her leg stung him like an electric shock and he jerked his hand away. And all the time the girl did nothing, made no attempt to resist or push him away, just yielded with a dumb sullen passiveness to his embraces, her face smouldering with a slow sullen passion that he could not fathom27 or define. He did not know why she had wakened him, why she had called his name, what meaning, what emotion lay behind her brooding look, her dumb and sullen passiveness, whether she yielded herself willingly to him or not.
He did not know why he should have this sense of shame and guilt and profanation when he touched her. It may have come from an intrinsic nobility and grandeur28 in her person and in her character that made physical familiarity almost unthinkable; it may even have come in part from a feeling of social and class inferiority — a feeling which may be base and shameful29, but to which young men are fiercely sensitive — the feeling which all Americans know and have felt cruelly, even those who scornfully deny that it exists and yet have themselves done most to foster it. Certainly he had at times been bitterly conscious of the girl’s “exclusiveness”— the fact that she was a member of “an old Boston family”— a wealthy, guarded, and powerfully entrenched30 group; he knew that a beautiful and desirable woman like Ann would have had many opportunities to pick and choose among wealthy men of her own class, and that he himself was just the son of a working-man.
But, most of all, he knew that, more than anything else, the thing that checked him now, that overpowered him with its loveliness, that filled his heart with longing31 and impossible desire, and at the same moment kept him from possession — was the passionate32 and bitter enigma33 of that strange and lovely thing which had shaped itself into his life and could never be lost, could never be forgotten, and was never to be known: the thing he knew by these two words —“New England.”
And as the knowledge came to him he felt the greatest love and hatred34 for this thing that he had ever known. A kind of wild cursing anger, a choking expletive of frustration35 and despair possessed36 him. He took her by the arms and jerked her to her feet, and cursed her bitterly. And she came dumbly, passively, sullenly as before, neither yielding nor resisting, as he shook her, hugged her, cursed her incoherently in that frenzy of desire and frustrate37 shame.
“Look here,” he panted thickly, shaking her. “Say something! . . . Do something! . . . Don’t stand there like a God-damned wooden Indian! . . . Who the hell do you think you are, anyway? . . . Why are you any better than anyone else? . . . Ann! Ann! Look at me! . . . Speak! What is it? . . . Oh, God-damn you!” he said with a savagely38 unconscious humour that neither of them noticed, “— but I love you! . . . Oh, you big, dumb, beautiful Boston bitch,” he panted amorously39, “— just turn your face to me — and look at me — and by God! I will! I will!” he muttered savagely, and for the first time, and with a kind of desperation, kissed her on the mouth, and glared around him like a madman and, without knowing what he was doing, began to haul and drag her along toward the bed, muttering —“By God, I’ll do it! — Oh, you sweet, dumb, lovely trollop of a Back Bay — Ann!” he cried exultantly40. “Oh, by God, I’ll thaw41 you out, I’ll melt your ice, my girl — by God, I’ll open you! — Is it her arm, now?” he began gloatingly, and lifted her long arm with a kind of slow, rending42 ecstasy43 and bit into her shoulder haunch, “or her neck, or her warm face and sullen mouth, or the good smell of her, or that lovely belly44, darling — that white, lovely, fruitful Boston belly,” he gloated, “good for about a dozen babies, isn’t it? — or the big hips45 and swelling46 thighs47, the long haunch from waist to knee — oh, you fertile, dumb, unploughed plantation48 of a woman — but I’LL plant you!” he yelled exultantly — “and the big, dumb eyes of her, and her long hands and slender fingers — how did you ever get such slender, graceful49 hands, you delicate, big — here! give me the hands now — and all the fine, long lady-fingers”— he said with gentle, murderous desire, and suddenly felt the girl’s long fingers trembling on his arm, took them in his hands and felt them there, and all her big, slow body trembling in his grasp, and was suddenly pierced with a wild and nameless feeling of pity and regret.
“Oh, Ann, don’t,” he said, and seized her hand and held it prayerfully. “Don’t look like that — don’t be afraid — oh, look here!” he said desperately50 again, and put his arms round her trembling shoulders and began to pat her soothingly51. “— Please don’t act like that — don’t tremble so — don’t be afraid of me! — Oh, Ann, please don’t look at me that way — I didn’t mean it — I’m so God-damned sorry, Ann — Ah-h! it’s going to be all right! It’s going to be all right! I swear it’s going to be all right!” he stammered52 foolishly, and took her hand and pleaded with her, not knowing what he was saying, and sick with guilt and shame and horror at the profanation of his act.
Her breath was fluttering, coming uncertainly, panting short and quick and breathless like a frightened child; this and her slender hands, her long trembling fingers, the sight of her hands so strangely, beautifully delicate for such a big woman, filled him with an unspeakable anguish53 of remorse54. She began to speak, a breathless, panting, desperate kind of speech, and he found himself desperately agreeing with everything she said, even though he did not hear or understand half of it!
“ . . . Mustn’t stay here,” she panted. “Let’s get out of here . . . go somewhere . . . anywhere . . . I’ve got to talk to you. . . . Something I’ve got to tell you!” she panted desperately. “ . . . You don’t understand . . . awful, horrible mistake!” she muttered. “ . . . Got to tell you, now! . . . Come on! Let’s go.”
“Oh, yes — sure — anywhere, Ann. Wherever you say,” he agreed eagerly to everything she said: they put on their hats and coats with trembling haste, and were preparing to leave just as Starwick and Elinor returned.
Starwick asked them where they were going: they said they were going for a walk. He said, “Oh!” non-committally. Both he and Elinor observed their flushed, excited manner, and trembling haste, with a curious and rather perturbed55 look, but said nothing more, and they departed.
The pension was silent: everyone had already gone to bed, and when they got out into the street it was the same. It was a night of still, cold frost, and everywhere around them there were the strange, living presences of silence and of sleep. The houses had the closed, shuttered and attentive56 secrecy57 that houses in a small French town have at night, no one else seemed to be abroad: they strode rapidly along in the direction of the railway station, saying nothing for a time, their feet sounding sharply on the frozen ground as they walked.
At length, beneath one of the sparse58, infrequent street lamps, Ann paused, turned to him, and in a rapid, excited tone which was so different from her usual sullen curtness59, began to speak:
“Look here!” she said, “we’ve got to forget about all that tonight — about everything that happened! . . . It was my fault,” she muttered, with a kind of dumb, spinsterly agony of conscience which, in its evocation60 of the straight innocence61 and integrity of her kind and person, was somehow pitiably moving —“I didn’t mean to lead you on,” she said na?vely. “I shouldn’t have let you get started.”
“Oh, Ann,” he said, “you didn’t do anything! It wasn’t your fault! You couldn’t help it — I was the one who started it.”
“No, no,” she muttered, with a kind of sullen, miserable62 doggedness. “It was all my fault. . . . Could have stopped it.” She turned abruptly, miserably63, and began to stride on again.
“But, Ann,” he began, with a kind of desperate persuasiveness64, as he caught up with her, “don’t take it this way. . . . Don’t worry about it like this! . . . We didn’t do anything bad, honestly we didn’t!”
“Oh,” she muttered without turning her head, “it was an awful thing — an awful thing to do to you! . . . I’m SO ashamed,” she muttered. “It was a rotten thing to do!”
“But you did nothing!” he protested. “I’m the one!”
“No, no,” she muttered again —“I started it . . . I don’t know why. . . . But I had no right . . . there’s something you don’t understand.”
“But what? What is it, Ann?” He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry over this dumb, spinsterly integrity of New England conscience which, it seemed to him, was taking the episode so bitterly to heart.
She paused in her long stride below another street lamp, and turning, spoke sternly, desperately, to him.
“Listen!” she said. “You’ve got to forget everything that happened tonight. . . . I never knew you felt that way about me. . . . You’ve got to forget about me. . . . You must never think of me that way again!”
“Why?” he said.
“Because,” she muttered, “it’s wrong . . . wrong.”
“Why is it wrong?”
She did not answer for a moment, and then, turning, looked him straight in the eye:
“Because,” she said, with quiet bluntness, “nothing can come of it. . . . I don’t feel that way about you.”
He could not answer for a moment, and it seemed to him that a thin film of ice had suddenly hardened round his heart.
“Oh,” he said presently; and, after a moment, added, “and don’t you think you ever could?”
She did not answer, but began to walk rapidly ahead. He caught up with her again, took her by the arm and pulled her round to face him. He said sharply:
“Answer me! Don’t you think you ever could?”
Her face was full of dumb, sullen misery65; she muttered:
“There’s something you don’t understand — something you don’t know about.”
“That’s not what I asked you. Answer me.”
“No,” she muttered sullenly. “I can’t feel that way about you. . . . I never will.” She turned with a miserable look in her face and began to walk again. The ring of ice kept hardening round his heart all the time; he caught up with her again, and again stopped her.
“Listen, Ann. You’ve got to tell me why. I’ve got to know.”— She shook her head miserably and turned away, but he caught her, and pulled her back, saying in a sharper, more peremptory66 tone:
“No, now — I’ve got to know. Is it because — you just never could feel that way about a fellow like me — because you could never think about me in that way —?”
She didn’t answer for a moment; she just stood looking at him dumbly and miserably; and finally she shook her head in a movement of denial:
“No,” she said. “It’s not that.”
The ring of ice kept getting thicker all the time, it seemed he would not be able to speak the words, but in a moment he said:
“Well, then, is it — is it someone else?”
She made a sudden tormented67 movement of anguish and despair, and turning, tried to walk away. He seized her, and jerked her back to him, and said:
“Answer me, God-damn it! Is that the reason why?”
He waited a long moment before the answer came, and then she muttered it out so low he could scarcely hear it.
“Yes,” she said, and wrenched68 her arm free. “Let me go.”
He caught her again, and pulled her back. The ring of ice seemed to have frozen solid, and in that cold block he could feel his heart throbbing69 like a trip-hammer.
“Who is it?” he said.
She did not answer, and he shook her roughly. “You answer me. . . . Is it someone you knew back home —?”
“Let me go,” she muttered. “I won’t tell you.”
“By God, you will,” he said thickly, and held her. “Who is it? Is it someone you met back home, or not?”
“No!” she shouted, and wrenched free with a kind of stifled70 sob71, and started ahead, almost running: “Leave me alone now! I won’t tell you!”
A sudden flash of intuition, an instant flash of recognition and horror went through him like a knife. His heart seemed to have frozen solid, his breath to have stopped: he jumped for her like a cat, and whisking her round towards him, said:
“Ann! Look at me a moment!” He put his fingers underneath72 her chin and jerked her face up roughly: “Are you in love with Starwick?”
A long wailing73 note of dumb anguish and despair was torn from her; she tried to break from his grasp, and as she wrenched to get free, cried pitiably, in a terror-stricken voice:
“Leave me alone! Leave me alone!”
“Answer, God-damn you!” he snarled74. “Is it Starwick or not?”
With a last frenzied75 effort, she wrenched free, and screamed like a wounded animal:
“YES! YES! . . . I’ve told you now! Are you satisfied? Will you leave me alone?” And with a sobbing76 breath, she began to run blindly.
He ran after her again, and caught up with her and took her in his arms, but not to embrace her, but just to hold her, stop her, somehow quiet, if he could, the wild, dumb, pitiable anguish of that big creature, which tore through the ventricles of his heart like a knife. He himself was sick with horror, and a kind of utter, paralyzing terror he had never felt before; he scarcely knew what he was doing, what he was saying, but the sight of that great, dumb creature’s anguish, that locked and inarticulate agony of grief, was more than he could bear. And cold with terror, he began to mumble77 with a thickened tongue: “Oh, but Ann, Ann! — Starwick, Starwick! — it’s no use! It’s no use! — Christ, what a shame! What a shame!” For suddenly he knew what Starwick was, what he had never allowed himself to admit that Starwick had become, and he kept mumbling78 thickly, “Christ! Christ! What a pity! What a shame!” not knowing what he was saying, conscious only, with a kind of sickening horror, of the evil mischance which had with such a cruel and deliberate perversity79 set their lives awry80, and of the horrible waste and loss which had warped81 for ever this grand and fertile creature’s life and which now would bring all her strength, her love, the noble integrity of her spirit, to barren sterile82 nothing.
At the moment he had only one feeling, overwhelming and intolerable, somehow to quiet her, to stop, to heal this horrible wound of grief and love, to bring peace to her tormented spirit somehow, to do anything, use his life in any way that would give her a little peace and comfort.
And he kept holding her, patting her on the shoulders, saying foolishly over and over again, and not knowing what he said:
“Oh, it’s all right! . . . It’s all right, Ann! . . . You mustn’t look like this, you mustn’t act this way . . . it’s going to be all right!” And knowing miserably, horribly, that it was not all right, that the whole design and fabric83 of their lives were ruinously awry, that there was a hurt too deep ever to heal, a wrong too cruel, fatal, and perverse84 ever to be righted.
She stayed there in his arms, she turned her face into his shoulder, she put her slender, strong and lovely hands upon his arms and held on to him desperately, and there, in the frozen, sleeping stillness of that street in a little French town, she wept hoarsely85, bitterly, dreadfully, like some great creature horribly wounded; and all he could do was hold on to her until the last torn cry of pain had been racked and wrenched out of her.
When it was all over, and she had grown quiet, she dried her eyes, and looking at him with a dumb, pleading expression, she whispered miserably:
“You won’t tell them? You won’t say anything to Frank about this, will you? You’ll never let him know?”
And stabbed again by wild, rending pity, sick with horror at her devastating86 terror, he told her he would not.
They walked home in silence through the frozen, sleeping streets. It was after midnight when they got back to the pension: the whole house was long ago asleep. As they went up the stairs a clock began to strike.
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收听单词发音
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1
sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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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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cynically
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| adv.爱嘲笑地，冷笑地 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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flare
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| v.闪耀，闪烁；n.潮红；突发 | |
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resinous
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| adj.树脂的，树脂质的，树脂制的 | |
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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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drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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integument
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| n.皮肤 | |
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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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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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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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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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insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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insistently
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| ad.坚持地 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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rape
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| n.抢夺，掠夺，强奸；vt.掠夺，抢夺，强奸 | |
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nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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profanation
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| n.亵渎 | |
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promiscuous
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| adj.杂乱的，随便的 | |
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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entrenched
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| adj.确立的，不容易改的(风俗习惯) | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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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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enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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frustration
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| n.挫折，失败，失效，落空 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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frustrate
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| v.使失望；使沮丧；使厌烦 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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amorously
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| adv.好色地，妖艳地；脉；脉脉；眽眽 | |
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exultantly
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| adv.狂欢地，欢欣鼓舞地 | |
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thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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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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45
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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plantation
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| n.种植园，大农场 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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perturbed
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| adj.烦燥不安的v.使（某人）烦恼，不安( perturb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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sparse
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| adj.稀疏的，稀稀落落的，薄的 | |
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curtness
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| n.简短；草率；简略 | |
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evocation
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| n. 引起，唤起 n. <古> 召唤，招魂 | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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miserably
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| adv.痛苦地；悲惨地；糟糕地；极度地 | |
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persuasiveness
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| 说服力 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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wailing
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| v.哭叫，哀号( wail的现在分词 )；沱 | |
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snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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mumble
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| n./v.喃喃而语，咕哝 | |
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mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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awry
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| adj.扭曲的，错的 | |
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warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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sterile
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| adj.不毛的，不孕的，无菌的，枯燥的，贫瘠的 | |
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fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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devastating
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| adj.毁灭性的，令人震惊的，强有力的 | |
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