These memories, which are my life - for we possess nothing certainly except the past - were always with me. Like the pigeons of St Mark’s, they were everywhere, under my feet, singly, in pairs, in little honey-voiced congregations, nodding, strutting2, winking3, rolling the tender feathers of their necks, perching sometimes, if I stood still, on my shoulder; until, suddenly, the noon gun boomed and in a moment, with a flutter and sweep of wings, the pavement was bare and the whole sky above dark with a tumult4 of fowl5. Thus it was that morning of war-time.
For nearly ten dead years after that evening with Cordelia I was borne along a road outwardly full of change and incident, but never during that time, except sometimes in my painting - and that at longer and longer intervals7 - did I come alive as I had been during the time of my friendship with Sebastian. I took it to be youth, not life, that I was losing. My work upheld me, for I had chosen to do what I could do well, did better daily, and liked doing; incidentally it was something which no one else at that time was attempting to do. I became an architectural painter.
More even than the work of the great architects, I loved buildings that grew silently with the centuries, catching8 and keeping the best of each generation, while time curbed9 the artist’s pride and the Philistine’s vulgarity, and repaired the clumsiness of the dull workman. In such buildings England abounded10, and, in the last decade of their grandeur11, Englishmen seemed for the first time to become conscious of what before was taken for granted, and to salute12 their achievement at the moment of extinction13. Hence my prosperity, far beyond my merits; my work had nothing to recommend it except my growing technical skill, enthusiasm for my subject, and independence of popular notions.
The financial slump14 of the period, which left many painters without employment, served to enhance my success, which was, indeed, itself a symptom of the decline. When the water-holes were dry people sought to drink at the mirage15. After my first exhibition I was called to all parts of the country to make portraits of houses that were soon to be deserted16 or debased; indeed, my arrival seemed often to be only a few paces ahead of the auctioneer’s, a presage17 of doom18.
I published three splendid folios - Ryder’s Country Seats, Ryder’s English Homes, and Ryder’s Village and Provincial19 Architecture, which each sold its thousand copies at five guineas apiece. I seldom failed to please, for there was no conflict between myself and my patrons, we both wanted the same thing. But, as the years passed, I began to mourn the loss of something I had known in the drawing-room of Marchmain House and once or twice since, the intensity20 and singleness and the belief that it was not all done by hand - in a word, the inspiration.
In quest of this fading light I went abroad, in the augustan manner, laden21 with the apparatus22 of my trade, for two years’ refreshment23 among alien styles. I did not go to Europe; her treasures were safe, too safe, swaddled in expert care, obscured by reverence24. Europe could wait. There would be a time for Europe, I thought; all too soon the days would come when I should need a man at my side to put up my easel and carry my paints; when I could not venture more than an hour’s journey from a good hotel; when I should need soft breezes and mellow25 sunshine all day long; then I would take my old eyes to Germany and Italy. Now while I had the strength I would go to the wild lands where man had deserted his post and the jungle was creeping back to its old strongholds.
Accordingly, by slow but not easy stages, I travelled through Mexico and Central America in a world which had all I needed, and the change from parkland and hall should have quickened me and set me right with myself. I sought inspiration among gutted26 palaces and cloisters27 embowered in weed, derelict churches where the vampire-bats hung in the dome28 like dry seed-pods and only the ants were ceaselessly astir tunnelling in the rich stalls; cities where no road led, and mausoleums where a single, agued family of Indians sheltered from the rains. There in great labour, sickness, and occasionally in some danger, I made the first drawings for Ryder’s Latin America.
Every few weeks I came to rest, finding myself once more in the zone of trade or tourism, recuperated29, set up my studio, transcribed30 my sketches31, anxiously packed the complete canvases, dispatched them to my New York agent, and then set out again, with my small retinue32, into the wastes.
I was in no great pains to keep in touch with England. I followed local advice for my itinerary33 and had no settled route, so that much of my mail never reached me, and the rest accumulated until there was more than could be read at a sitting. I used to stuff a bundle of letters into my bag and read them when I felt inclined, which was in circumstances so incongruous swinging in my hammock, under the net, by the light of a storm-lantern; drifting down river, amidships in the canoe, with the boys astern of me lazily keeping our nose out of the bank, with the dark water keeping pace with us, in the green shade, with the great trees towering above us and the monkeys screeching34 in the sunlight, high overhead among the flowers on the roof of the forest; on the veranda35 of a hospitable36 ranch37, where the ice and the dice38 clicked, and a tiger cat played with its chain on the mown grass - that they seemed voices so distant as to be meaningless; their matter passed clean through the mind, and out leaving no mark, like the facts about themselves which fellow travellers distribute so freely in American railway trains. But despite this isolation39 and this long sojourn40 in a strange world, I remained unchanged, still a small part of myself pretending to be whole. I discarded the experiences of those two years with my tropical kit41 and returned to New York as I had set out. I had a fine haul - eleven paintings and fifty odd drawings and when eventually I exhibited them in London, the art critics many of whom hitherto had been patronizing in tone, as my success invited, acclaimed42 a new and richer note in my work. Mr Ryder, the most respected of them wrote, rises like a fresh young trout43 to the hypodermic injection of a new culture and discloses a powerful facet44 in the vista45 of his potentialities....By focusing the frankly46 traditional battery of his elegance47 and erudition on the maelstrom48 of barbarism, Mr Ryder has at last found himself. Grateful words, but, alas49, not true by a long chalk. My wife, who crossed to New York to meet me and saw the fruits of our separation displayed in my agent’s office, summed the thing up better by saying: ‘Of course, I can see they’re perfectly50 brilliant and really rather beautiful in a sinister51 way, but somehow I don’t feel they are quite you.’
In Europe my wife was sometimes taken for an American because of her dapper and jaunty52 way of dressing53, and the curiously54 hygienic quality of her prettiness; in America she assumed an English softness and reticence55. She arrived a day or two before me, and was on the pier56 when my ship docked.
‘It has been a long time,’ she said fondly when we met. She had not joined the expedition; she explained to our friends that the country was unsuitable and she had her son at home. There was also a daughter now, she remarked, and it came back to me that there had been talk of this before I started, as an additional reason for her staying behind. There had been some mention of it, too, in her letters. ‘I don’t believe you read my letters,’ she said that night, when at last, late, after a dinner party and some hours at a cabaret, we found ourselves alone in our hotel bedroom.
‘Some went astray. I remember distinctly your telling me that the daffodils in the orchard57 were a dream, that the nursery-maid was a jewel, that the Regency four-poster was a find, but frankly I do not remember hearing that your new baby was called Caroline’. Why did you call it that?’
‘After Charles, of course.’
‘I made Bertha Van Halt godmother. I thought she was safe for a good present. What do you think she gave?’
‘Bertha Van Halt is a well-known trap. What?’
‘A fifteen shilling book-token. Now that Johnjohn has a companion - ‘ ‘Who?’
‘Your son, darling. You haven’t forgotten him, too?’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ I said, ‘why do you call him that?’
‘It’s the name he invented for himself. Don’t you think it sweet? Now that Johnjohn has a companion I think we’d better not have any more for some time, don’t you?’ ‘Just as you please.’
‘Johnjohn talks of you such a lot. He prays every night for your safe return.’ She talked in this way while she undressed with an effort to appear at ease; then she sat at the dressing table, ran a comb through her hair, and with her bare back towards me, looking at herself in the glass, said: ‘Shall I put my face to bed?’ It was a familiar phrase, one that I did not like; she meant should she remove her make-up, cover herself with grease and put her hair in a net. ‘No,’ I said, ‘not at once.’
Then she knew what was wanted. She had neat, hygienic ways for that too, but there were both relief and triumph in her smile of welcome; later we parted and lay in our twin beds a yard or two distant, smoking. I looked at my watch; it was four o’clock, but neither of us was ready to sleep, for in that city there is neurosis in the air which the inhabitants mistake for energy.
‘I don’t believe you’ve changed at all, Charles.’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘D’you want to change?’
‘It’s the only evidence of life.’
‘But you might change so that you didn’t love me any more.’
‘There is that risk.’
‘Charles, you haven’t stopped loving me.’
‘You said yourself I hadn’t changed.’
‘Well, I’m beginning to think you have. I haven’t.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘no; I can see that.’
‘Were you at all frightened at meeting me today?’
‘Not the least.’
‘You didn’t wonder if I should have fallen in love with someone else in the meantime?’
‘No. Have you?’
‘You know I haven’t. Have you?’
‘No. I’m not in love.’
My wife seemed content with this answer. She had married me six years ago at the time of my first exhibition, and had done much since then to push our interests. People said she had ‘made’ me, but she herself took credit only for supplying me with a congenial background; she had firm faith in my genius and in the ‘artistic temperament’, and in the principle that things done on the sly are not really done at all. Presently she said: ‘Looking forward to getting home?’ (My father gave me as a wedding present the price of a house, and I bought an. old rectory in my wife’s part of the country.) ‘I’ve got a surprise for you.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve turned the old barn into a studio for you, so that you needn’t be disturbed by the children or when we have people to stay. I got Emden to do it. Everyone thinks it a great success.
There was an article on it in Country Life; I bought it for you to see.’
She showed me the article: ‘...happy example of architectural good manners...Sir Joseph Emden’s tactful adaptation of traditional material to modern needs...’; there were some photographs; wide oak boards now covered the earthen floor; a high, stone-mullioned bay-window had been built in the north wall, and the great timbered roof, which before had been lost in shadow, now stood out stark59, well lit, with clean white plaster between the beams; it looked like a village hall. I remembered the smell of the place, which would now be lost.
‘I rather liked that barn.’ I said.
‘But you’ll be able to work there, won’t you?’
‘After squatting60 in a cloud of sting-fly,’ I said, ‘under a sun which scorched61 the paper off the block as I drew, I could work on the top of an omnibus. I expect the vicar would like to borrow the place for whist drives.’
‘There’s a lot of work waiting for you. I promised Lady Anchorage you would do Anchorage House as soon as you got back. That’s coming down, too, you know - shops underneath62 and two-roomed flats above. You don’t think, do you, Charles, that all this exotic work you’ve been doing, is going to spoil you for that sort of thing?’ ‘Why should it?’
‘Well, it’s so different. Don’t be cross.’
‘It’s just another jungle closing in.’
‘I know just how you feel, darling. The Georgian Society made such a fuss, but we couldn’t do anything...Did you ever get my letter about Boy?’ ‘Did I? What did it say?’
(‘Boy’ Mulcaster was her brother.)
‘About his engagement. It doesn’t matter now because it’s all off, but father and mother were terribly upset. She was an awful girl. They had to give her money in the end.’
‘No, I heard nothing of Boy.’
‘He and Johnjohn are tremendous friends, now. It’s so sweet to see them together. Whenever he comes the first thing he does is to drive straight to the Old Rectory. He just walks into the house, pays no attention to anyone else, and hollers out: “Where’s my chum Johnjohn?” and Johnjohn comes tumbling downstairs and off they go into the spinney together and play for hours. You’d think, to hear them talk to each other, they were the same age. It was really Johnjohn who made him see reason about that girl; seriously, you know, he’s frightfully sharp. He must have heard mother and me talking because next time Boy came he said: “Uncle Boy shan’t marry horrid63 girl and leave Johnjohn,” and that was the very day he settled for two thousand pounds out of court. Johnjohn admires Boy so tremendously and imitates him in everything. It’s so good for them both.’
I crossed the room and tried once more, ineffectively, to moderate the heat of the radiators64; I drank some iced water and opened the window, but, besides the sharp night air, music was borne in from the next room where they were playing the wireless65. I shut it and turned back towards my wife.
At length she began talking again, more drowsily66 ‘The garden’s come on a lot...The box hedges you planted grew five inches last year...I had some men down from London to put the tennis court right...first-class cook at the moment...’ As the city below us began to wake, we both fell asleep, but not for long; the telephone rang and a voice of hermaphroditic gaiety said: ‘Savoy-Carlton-Hotel-goodmorning. It is now a quarter of eight.’
‘I didn’t ask to be called, you know.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter.’
‘You’re welcome.’
As I was shaving, my wife from the bath said: ‘Just like old times. I’m not worrying any more, Charles.’
‘Good.’
‘I was so terribly afraid that two years might have made a difference. Now I know we can start again exactly where we left off.’
‘When?’ I asked. ‘What? When we left off what?’
When you went away, of course.’
‘You are not thinking of something else, a little time before?’ ‘Oh, Charles, that’s old history. That was nothing. It was never anything. It’s all over and forgotten.’
‘I just wanted to know,’ I said. ‘We’re back as we were the day I went abroad, is that it?’
So we started that day exactly where we left off two years before, with my wife in tears.
My wife’s softness and English reticence , her very white, small regular teeth, her neat rosy67 finger-nails, her schoolgirl air of innocent mischief68 and her schoolgirl dress, her modern jewellery, which was made at great expense to give the impression, at a distance, of having been mass produced, her ready, rewarding smile, her deference70 to me and her zeal71 in my interests, her motherly heart which made her cable daily to the nanny at home - in short, her peculiar72 charm - made her popular among the Americans, and our cabin on the day of departure was full of cellophane packages - flowers, fruit, sweets, books, toys for the children - from friends she had known for a week. Stewards74, like sisters in a nursing home, used to judge their passengers’ importance by the number and value of these trophies75; we therefore started the voyage in high esteem76. My wife’s first thought on coming aboard was of the passenger list. ‘Such a lot of friends,’ she said. ‘It’s going to be a lovely trip. Let’s have a cocktail77 party this evening.’
The companion-ways were no sooner cast off than she was busy with the telephone. ‘Julia. This is Celia - Celia Ryder. It’s lovely to find you on board. What have you been up to? Come and have a cocktail this evening and tell me all about it.’ ‘Julia who?’
‘Mottram. I haven’t seen her for years.’
Nor had I; not, in fact, since my wedding day, not to speak to for any time, since the private view of my exhibition where the four canvases of Marchmain House, lent by Brideshead, had hung together attracting much attention. Those pictures were my last contact with the Flytes; our lives, so close for a year or two, had drawn78 apart. Sebastian, I knew, was still abroad; Rex and Julia, I sometimes heard said, were unhappy together.
Rex was not prospering79 quite as well as had been predicted; he remained on the fringe of the Government, prominent but vaguely80 suspect. He lived among the very rich, and in his speeches seemed to incline to revolutionary policies, flirting81, with Communists and Fascists82. I heard the Mottrams’ names in conversation; I saw their faces now and again peeping from the Tatler, as I turned the pages impatiently waiting for someone to come, but they and I had fallen apart, as one could in England and only there, into separate worlds, little spinning planets of personal relationship; there is probably a perfect metaphor83 for the process to be found in physics, from the way in which, I dimly apprehend84, particles of energy group and regroup themselves in separate magnetic systems; a metaphor ready to hand for the man who can speak of these things with assurance; not for me, who can only say that England abounded in these small companies of intimate friends, so that, as in this case of Julia and myself, we could live in the same street in London, see at times, a few miles distant, the rural horizon, could have a liking85 one for the other, a mild curiosity about the other’s fortunes, a regret, even, that we should be separated, and the knowledge that either of us had only to pick up the telephone and speak by the other’s pillow, enjoy the intimacies86 of the levee, coming in, as it were, with the morning orange juice and the sun, yet be restrained from doing so by the centripetal87 force of our own worlds, and the cold, interstellar space between them. My wife, perched on the back of the sofa in a litter of cellophane and silk ribbons, continued telephoning, working brightly through the passenger list...’Yes, do of course bring him, I’m told he’s sweet...Yes, I’ve got Charles back from the wilds at last; isn’t it lovely...What a treat seeing your name in the list! It’s made my trip...darling, we were at the Savoy-Carlton, too; how can we have missed you?’...Sometimes she turned to me and said: ‘I have to make sure you’re still really there. I haven’t got used to it yet.’ I went up and out as we steamed slowly down the river to one of the great glass cases where the passengers stood to watch the land slip by. ‘Such a lot of friends,’ my wife had said. They looked a strange crowd to me; the emotions of leave-taking were just beginning to subside88; some of them, who had been drinking till the last moment with those who were seeing them off, were still boisterous89; others were planning where they, would have their deck chairs; the band played unnoticed - all were as restless as ants. I turned into some of the halls of the ship, which were huge without any splendour, as though they had been designed for a railway coach and preposterously90 magnified. I passed through vast bronze gates on which paper-thin Assyrian animals cavorted91; I trod carpets the colour of blotting92 paper; the painted panels of the walls were like blotting paper, too - kindergarten work in flat, drab colours - and between the walls were yards and yards of biscuit-coloured wood which no carpenter’s tool had ever touched, wood that had been bent93 round comers, invisibly joined strip to strip, steamed and squeezed and polished; all over the blotting-paper carpet were strewn tables designed perhaps by a sanitary94 engineer, square blocks of stuffing, with square holes for sitting in, and upholstered, it seemed, in blotting paper also; the light of the hall was suffused95 from scores of hollows, giving an even glow, casting no shadows - the whole place hummed from its hundred ventilators and vibrated with the turn of the great engines below. ‘Here I am,’ I thought, ‘back from the jungle, back from the ruins. Here where wealth is no longer gorgeous and power has no dignity. Quomodo sedet sola civitas’ (for I had heard that great lament96, which Cordelia once quoted to me in the drawing-room of Marchmain House, sung by a half-caste choir97 in Guatemala, nearly a year ago). A steward73 came up to me.
‘Can I get you anything, sir?’
‘A whisky and soda98, not iced.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, all the soda is iced.’
‘Is the water iced, too?’
‘Oh yes, sir.’
‘Well, it, doesn’t matter.’
He trotted99 off, puzzled, soundless in the pervading100 hum.
‘Charles.’
I looked behind me. Julia was sitting in a cube of blotting paper, her hands folded in her lap, so still that I had passed by without noticing her. ‘I heard you were here. Celia telephoned to me. It’s delightful101.’
‘What are you doing?’
She opened the empty hands in her lap with a little eloquent102 gesture. ‘Waiting. My maid’s unpacking104; she’s been so disagreeable ever since we left England. She’s complaining now about my cabin. I can’t think why. It seems a lap to me.’ The steward returned with whisky and two jugs105, one of iced water, the other of boiling water; I mixed them to the rig ht temperature. He watched and said: ‘I’ll remember that’s how you take it, sir.’
Most passengers had fads106; he was paid to fortify107 their self-esteem. Julia asked for a cup of hot chocolate. I sat by her in the next cube.
‘I never see you now, ‘ she said. ‘I never seem to see anyone I like. I don’t know why.’ But she spoke108 as though it were a matter of weeks rather than of years; as though, too, before our parting we had been firm friends. It was dead contrary to the common experience of such encounters, when time is found to have built its own defensive109 lines, camouflaged110 vulnerable points, and laid a field of mines across all but a few well-trodden paths, so that, more often than not, we can only signal to one another from either side of the tangle111 of wire. Here she and I, who were never friends before, met on terms of long and unbroken intimacy112.
‘What have you been doing in America?’
She looked up slowly from her chocolate and, her splendid, serious eyes in mine, said: ‘Don’t you know? I’ll tell you about it sometimes I’ve been a mug. I thought I was in love with someone, but it didn’t turn out that way.’ And my mind went back ten years to the evening at Brideshead, when that lovely, spidery child of nineteen, as though brought in for an hour from the nursery and nettled113 by lack of attention from the grown-ups, had said: ‘I’m causing anxiety, too, you know,’ and I had thought at the time, though scarcely, it now seemed to me, in long trousers myself, ‘How important these girls make themselves with their love affairs.’
Now it was different; there was nothing but humility114 and friendly candour in the way she spoke.
I wished I could respond to her confidence, give some token of acceptance, but there was nothing in my last, flat, eventful years that I could share with her. I began instead to talk of my time in the jungle, of the comic characters I had met and the lost places I had visited, but in this mood of old friendship the tale faltered115 and came to an end abruptly116.
‘I long to see the paintings,’ she said.
‘Celia wanted me to unpack103 some and stick them round the cabin for her cocktail party. I couldn’t do that.’
‘No...is Celia as pretty as ever? I always thought she had the most delicious looks of any girl of my year.’
‘She hasn’t changed.’
‘You have, Charles. So lean and grim; not at all the pretty boy Sebastian brought home with him. Harder, too.’
‘And you’re softer.’
‘Yes, I think so...and very patient now.’
She was not yet thirty, but was approaching the zenith of her loveliness, all her rich promise abundantly fulfilled. She had lost that fashionable, spidery look; the head that I used to think quattrocento, which had sat a little oddly on her, was now part of herself and not at all Florentine; not connected in any way with painting or the arts or with anything except herself, so that it would be idle to itemize and dissect117 her beauty, which was her own essence, and could only be known in her and by her authority and in the love I was soon to have for her.
Time had wrought118 another change, too; not for her the sly, complacent119 smile of la Gioconda; the years had been more than ‘the sound of lyres and flutes’, and had saddened her. She seemed to say: ‘Look at me. I have done my share. I am beautiful. It is something quite out of the ordinary, this beauty of mine. I am made for delight. But what do I get out of it? Where is my reward?’
That was the change in her from ten years ago; that, indeed, was her reward, this haunting, magical sadness which spoke straight to the heart and struck silence; it was the completion of her beauty.
‘Sadder, too,’ I said.
‘Oh yes, much sadder.’
My wife was in exuberant120 spirits when, two hours later, I returned to the cabin.
‘I’ve had to do everything. How does it look?’
We had been given, without paying more for it, a large suite121 of rooms, one so large, in fact, that it was seldom booked except by directors of the line, and on most voyages, the chief purser admitted, was given to those he wished to honour. (My wife was adept122 in achieving such small advantages, first impressing the impressionable with her chic123 and my celebrity124 and, superiority once firmly established, changing quickly to a pose of almost flirtatious125 affability.) In token of her appreciation126 the chief purser had, been asked to our party and he, in token of his appreciation, had sent before him the life-size effigy127 of a swan, moulded in ice and filled with caviar. This chilly128 piece of magnificence now dominated the room, standing129 on a table in the centre, thawing130 gently, dripping at the beak131 into its silver dish. The flowers of the morning delivery hid as much as possible of the panelling (for this room was a miniature of the monstrous132 hall above).
‘You must get dressed at once. Where have you been all this time?’
‘Talking to Julia Mottram.’
‘D’you know her? Oh, of course, you were a friend of the dipso brother. Goodness, her glamour133!’
‘She greatly admires your looks, too.’
‘She used to be a girl friend of Boy’s.’
‘Surely not?’
‘He always said so.’
‘Have you considered,’ I asked, ‘how your guests are going to eat this caviar?’ ‘I have. It’s insoluble. But there’s all this’ - she revealed some trays of glassy titbits - ‘and anyway, people always find ways of eating things at parties. D’you remember we once ate potted shrimps134 with a paper knife?’
‘Did we?’
‘Darling’ it was the night you popped the question.’
‘As I remember, you popped.’
‘Well, the night we got engaged. But you haven’t said how you like the, arrangements.’
The arrangements, apart from the swan and the flowers, consisted of a steward already inextricably trapped in the corner behind an improvised135 bar, and another steward, tray in hand, in comparative freedom.
‘A cinema actor’s dream,’ I said.
‘Cinema actors,’ said my wife; ‘that’s what I want to talk about.’ She came with me to my dressing-room and talked while I changed. It had occurred to her that, with my interest in architecture, my true métier was designing scenery for the films, and she had asked two Hollywood magnates to the party with whom she wished to ingratiate me.
We returned to the sitting-room136.
‘Darling, I believe you’ve taken against my bird. Don’t be beastly about it in front of the purser. It was sweet of him to think of it. Besides, you know, if you had read about it in the description of a sixteenth-century banquet in Venice, you would have said those were the days to live.’
‘In sixteenth-century Venice it would have been a somewhat different shape.’
‘Here is Father Christmas. We were just in raptures137 over your swan.’
The chief purser came into the room and shook hands, powerfully. ‘Dear Lady Celia,’ he said, ‘if you’ll put on your warmest clothes and come on an expedition into the cold storage with me tomorrow, I can show you a whole Noah’s Ark of such objects. The toast will be along in a minute. They’re keeping it hot.’ ‘Toast!’ said my wife, as though this was something beyond the dreams of gluttony.
‘Do you hear that Charles? Toast.’
Soon the guests began to arrive; there was nothing to delay them. ‘Celia,’ they said, ‘what a grand cabin and what a beautiful swan!’ and, for all that it was one of the largest in the ship, our room was soon painfully crowded; they began to put out their cigarettes in the little pool of ice-water which now surrounded the swan. The purser made a sensation, as sailors like to do, by predicting a storm. ‘How can you be so beastly?’ asked my wife, conveying the flattering suggestion that not only the cabin and the caviar, but the waves, too, were at his command. ‘Anyway, storms don’t affect a ship like this, do they?’
‘Might hold us back a bit.’
‘But it wouldn’t make us sick?’
‘Depends if you’re a good sailor. I’m always sick in storms, ever since I was a boy.’ ‘I don’t believe it. He’s just being sadistic138. Come over here, there’s something I want to show you.’
It was the latest photograph of her children. ‘Charles hasn’t even seen Caroline yet.
Isn’t it thrilling for him?’
There were no friends of mine there, but I knew about a third of the party, and talked away civilly enough. An elderly woman said to me, ‘So you’re Charles. I feel I know you through and through, Celia’s talked so much about you.’ ‘Through and through,’ I thought. ‘Through and through is a long way, madam. Can you indeed see into those dark places where my own eyes seek in vain to guide me? Can you tell me, dear Mrs Stuyvesant Oglander - if I am correct in thinking that is how I heard my wife speak of you - why it is that at this moment, while I talk to you, here, about my forthcoming exhibition, I am thinking all the time only of when Julia will come? Why can I talk like this to you, but not to her? Why have I already set her apart from humankind, and myself with her? What is going on in those secret places of my spirit with which you make so free? What is cooking, Mrs Stuyvesant Oglander?’ Still Julia did not come, and the noise of twenty people in that tiny room, which was so large that no one hired it, was the noise of a multitude. Then I saw a curious thing. There was a little red-headed man whom no one seemed to know, a dowdy139 fellow quite unlike the general run of my wife’s guests; he had been standing by the caviar for twenty minutes eating as fast as a rabbit. Now he wiped his mouth with his handkerchief and, on the impulse apparently140, leaned forward and dabbed141 the beak of the swan, removing the drop of water that had been swelling142 there and would soon have fallen. Then he looked round furtively144 to see if he had been observed, caught my eye, and giggled145 nervously146.
‘Been wanting to do that for a long time,’ he said. ‘Bet you don’t know how many drops to the minute. I do, I counted.’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Guess. Tanner if you’re wrong; half a dollar if you’re right. That’s fair.’
‘Three,’ I said.
‘Coo, you’re a sharp one. Been counting ‘em yourself.’ But he showed no inclination147 to pay this debt. Instead he said: ‘How d’you figure this out. I’m an Englishman born and bred, but this is my first time on the Atlantic.’
‘You flew out perhaps?’
‘No, nor over it.’
‘Then I presume you went round the world and came across the Pacific.’ ‘You are a sharp one and no mistake. I’ve made quite a bit getting into arguments over that one.’
‘What was your route?’ I asked, wishing to be agreeable.
‘Ah, that’d be telling. Well, I must skedaddle. So long.’
‘Charles, said my wife, ‘this is Mr Kramm, of Interastral Films.’
‘So you are Mr Charles Ryder,’ said Mr Kramm.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, well., well,’ he paused. I waited. ‘The purser here says we’re heading for dirty weather. What d’you know about that?’
‘Far less than the purser.’
‘Pardon me, Mr Ryder, I don’t quite get you.’
‘I mean I know less than the purser.’
‘Is that so? Well, well, well. I’ve enjoyed our talk very much. I hope that it will be the first of many.’
An Englishwoman said: ‘Oh, that swan! Six weeks in America has given me an absolute phobia of ice. Do tell me, how did it feel meeting Celia again after two years? I know I should feel indecently bridal. But Celia’s never quite got the orange blossom out of her hair, has she?’
Another woman said: ‘Isn’t it heaven saying good-bye and knowing we shall meet again in half an hour and go on meeting every half-hour for days?’ Our guests began to go, and each on leaving informed me of something my wife had promised to bring me to in the near future; it was the theme of the evening that we should all be seeing a lot of each other, that we had formed one of those molecular148 systems that physicists149 can illustrate150. At last the swan was wheeled out, too, and I said to my wife, ‘Julia never came.’
‘No, she telephoned. I couldn’t hear what she said, there was such a noise going on - something about a dress. Quite lucky really, there wasn’t room for a cat. It was a lovely party, wasn’t it? Did you hate it very much? You behaved beautifully and looked so distinguished151. Who was your red-haired chum?’
‘No chum of mine.’
‘How very peculiar! Did you say anything to Mr Kramm about working in Hollywood?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Oh, Charles, you are a worry to me. It’s not enough just stand about looking distinguished and a martyr152 for Art. Let’s go to dinner. We’re at the. Captain’s table. I don’t suppose he’ll dine down tonight, but it’s polite to be fairly punctual.’ By the time that we reached the table the rest of the party had arranged themselves.
On either side of the Captain’s empty chair sat Julia and Mrs Stuyvesant Oglander;
besides them there was an English diplomat153 and his wife, Senator Stuyvesant Oglander,
and an American clergyman at present totally isolated154 between two pairs of empty
chairs. This clergyman later described himself - redundantly155 it seemed - as an
Episcopalian Bishop156. Husbands and wives sat together here. My wife was confronted
with a quick decision, and although the steward attempted to direct us otherwise, sat so that she had the senator and I the Bishop. Julia gave us both a little dismal157 signal of sympathy.
‘I’m miserable158 about the party,’ she said, ‘my beastly maid totally disappeared with every dress I have. She only turned up half an hour ago. She’d been playing ping-pong.’ ‘I’ve been telling the Senator what he missed,’ said Mrs Stuyvesant Oglander.
‘Wherever Celia is, you’ll find she knows all the significant people.’ ‘On my right,’ said the Bishop, ‘a significant couple are expected. They take all their meals in their cabin except when they have been informed in advance that the Captain will be present.’
We were a gruesome circle; even my wife’s high social spirit faltered. At moments I heard bits of her conversation.
‘...an extraordinary little red-haired man. Captain Foulenough in person.’
‘But I understood you to say, Lady Celia, that you were unacquainted with him.’
‘I meant he was like Captain Foulenough.’
‘I begin to comprehend. He impersonated this friend of yours in order to come to your party.’
‘No, no. Captain Foulenough is simply a comic character.’ ‘There seems to have been nothing very amusing about this other man. Your friend is a comedian159?’
‘No, no. Captain Foulenough is an imaginary character in an English paper. You know, like your “Popeye”.’
The senator laid down knife and fork. ‘To recapitulate160: an impostor came to your party and you admitted him because of a fancied resemblance to a fictitious161 character in a cartoon.’
‘Yes, I suppose that was it really.’
The senator looked at his wife as much as to say: ‘Significant people, huh!’ I heard Julia across the table trying to trace, for the benefit of the diplomat, the marriage-connections of her Hungarian and Italian cousins. The diamonds flashed in her hair and on her fingers, but her hands were nervously rolling little balls of crumb162, and her starry163 head drooped164 in despair.
The Bishop told me of the goodwill165 mission on which he was travelling to Barcelona...’a very, very valuable work of clearance166 has been performed, Mr Ryder. The time has now come to rebuild on broader foundations. I have made it my aim to reconcile the so-called Anarchists167 and the so-called Communists, and with that in view I and my committee have digested all the available documentation of the subject. Our conclusion, Mr Ryder, is unanimous. There is no fundamental diversity between the two ideologies168. It is a matter of personalities169, Mr Ryder, and what personalities have put asunder170 personalities can unite...’
On the other side I heard: ‘And may I make so bold as to ask what institutions sponsored your husband’s expedition?’
The diplomat’s wife bravely engaged the Bishop across the gulf171 that separated them.
‘And what language will you speak when you get to Barcelona?’ ‘The language of Reason and Brotherhood172, madam,’ and, turning back to me, ‘The speech of the coming century is in thoughts not in words. Do you not agree, Mr Ryder?’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes.’
‘What are words?’ said the Bishop.
‘What indeed?’
‘Mere173 conventional symbols, Mr Ryder, and this is an age rightly sceptical of conventional symbols.’
My mind reeled; after the parrot-house fever of my wife’s party, and unplumbed emotions of the afternoon, after all the exertions174 of my wife’s pleasures in New York, after the months of solitude175 in the steaming, green shadows of the jungle, this was too much. I felt like Lear on the heath, like the Duchess of Malfi bayed by madmen. I summoned cataracts176 and hurricanoes, and as if by conjury the call was immediately answered.
For some time now, though whether it was a mere trick of the nerves I did not then know, I had felt a recurrent and persistently177 growing motion - a heave and shudder178 of the large dining-room as of the breast of a man in deep sleep. Now my wife turned to me and said: ‘Either I am a little drunk or it’s getting rough,’ and, even as she spoke we found ourselves leaning sideways in our chairs; there was a crash and tinkle179 of falling cutlery by the wall, and on our table the wine glasses all together toppled and rolled over, while each of us steadied the plate and forks and looked at the other with expressions that varied180 between frank horror in the diplomat’s wife and relief in Julia. The gale181 which, unheard, unseen, unfelt, in our enclosed and insulated world had, for an hour, been mounting over us, had now veered182 and fallen full on our bows. Silenced followed the crash, then a high, nervous babble183 of laughter. Stewards laid napkins on the pools of spilt wine. We tried to resume the conversation, but all were waiting, as the little ginger184 man had watched the drop swell143 and fall from the swan’s beak, for the next great blow; it came, heavier than the last. ‘This is where I say good night to you all,’ said the diplomat’s wife, rising.
Her husband led her to their cabin. The dining-room was emptying fast. Soon only Julia, my wife, and I were left at the table, and, telepathically, Julia said, ‘Like King Lear.’
‘Only each of us is all three of them.’
‘What can you mean?’ asked my wife.
‘Lear, Kent, Fool.’
‘Oh dear, it’s like that agonizing185 Foulenough conversation over again. Don’t try and explain.’
‘I doubt if I could,’ I said.
Another climb, another vast drop. The stewards were at work making things fast, shutting things up, hustling186 away unstable187 ornaments188.
‘Well, we’ve finished dinner and set a fine example of British phlegm,’ said my wife.
‘Let’s go and see what’s on.’
Once, on our way to the lounge, we had all three to cling to a pillar; when we got there we found it almost deserted; the band played but no one danced; the tables were set for tombola but no one bought a card, and the ship’s officer, who made a speciality of calling the numbers with all the patter of the lower deck - ‘sweet sixteen and never been kissed - key of the door, twenty-one - clickety-click, sixty-six’ - was idly talking to his colleagues; there were a score of scattered189 novel readers, a few games of bridge, some brandy drinking in the smoking-room, but all our guests of two hours before had disappeared.
The three of us sat for a little by the empty dance floor- my wife was full of schemes by which, without impoliteness, we could move to another table in the dining-room. ‘It’s crazy to go to the restaurant,’ she said, ‘and pay extra for exactly the same dinner. Only film people go there, anyway. I don’t see why we should be made to.’ Presently she said: ‘It’s making my head ache and I’m tired, anyway. I’m going to bed.’
Julia went with her. I walked round the ship, on one of the covered decks where the wind howled and the spray leaped up from the darkness and smashed white and brown against the glass screen; men were posted to keep the passengers off the open decks.
Then I, too, went below.
In my dressing-room everything breakable had been stowed away, the door to the cabin was hooked open, and my wife called plaintively190 from within. ‘I feel terrible. I didn’t know a ship of this size could pitch like this, she said, and her eyes were full of consternation191 and resentment192, like those of a woman who, at the end of her time, at length realizes that however luxurious193 the nursing home, and however well paid the doctor, her labour is inevitable194; and the lift and fall of the ship came regularly as the pains of childbirth.
I slept next door; or, rather, I lay there between dreaming and waking. In a narrow bunk195, on a hard mattress196, there might have been rest, but here the beds were broad and buoyant; I collected what cushions I could find and tried to wedge myself firm, but through the night I turned with each swing and twist of the ship - she was rolling now as well as pitching - and my head rang with the creak and thud. Once, an hour before dawn, my wife appeared like a ghost in the doorway197, supporting herself with either hand on the jambs, saying: ‘Are you awake? Can’t you do something? Can’t you get something from the doctor?’
I rang for the night steward, who had a draught198 ready prepared, which comforted her a little.
And all night between dreaming and waking I thought of Julia; in my brief dreams she took a hundred fantastic and terrible and obscene forms, but in my waking thoughts she returned with her sad, starry head just as I had seen her at dinner.
After first light I slept for an hour or two, then awoke clearheaded, with a joyous199 sense of anticipation200.
The wind had dropped a little, the steward told me, but was still blowing hard and there was a very heavy swell; ‘which there’s nothing worse than a heavy swell’, he said, ‘for the enjoyment201 of the passengers. There’s not many breakfasts wanted this morning.’ I looked in at my wife, found her sleeping, and closed the door between us; then I ate salmon202 kedgeree and cold Bradenham ham and telephoned for a barber to come and shave me.
‘There’s a lot of stuff in the sitting-room for the lady,’ said the steward; ‘shall I leave it for the time?’
I went to see. There was a second delivery of cellophane parcels from the shops on board, some ordered by radio from friends in New York whose secretaries had failed to remind them of our departure in time, some by our guests as they left the cocktail party. It was no day for flower vases; I told him to leave them on the floor and then, struck by the thought, removed the card from Mr Kramm’s roses and sent them with my love to Julia.
She telephoned while I was being shaved.
‘W hat a deplorable thing to do, Charles! How unlike you!’
‘Don’t you like them?’
‘What can I do with roses on a day like this?’
‘Smell them.’
There was a pause and a rustle203 of unpacking. ‘They’ve absolutely no smell at all.’
‘What have you had for breakfast?’
‘Muscat grapes and cantaloupe’
‘When shall I see you?’
‘Before lunch. I’m busy till then with a masseuse.’
‘A masseuse?’
‘Yes, isn’t it peculiar? I’ve never had one before, except once when I hurt my shoulder hunting. What is it about being on a boat that makes everyone behave like a film star?’ ‘I don’t.’
‘How about these very embarrassing roses?’
‘The barber did his work with extraordinary dexterity204 indeed, with agility205, for he stood like a swordsman in a ballet sometimes on the point of one foot, sometimes on the other, lightly flicking206 the lather207 off his blade, and swooping208 back to my chin as the ship righted herself; I should not have dared use a safety razor on myself. The telephone rang again.
It was my wife.
‘How are you Charles?’
‘Tired.’
‘Aren’t you coming to see me?’
‘I came once. I’ll be in again.’
I brought her the flowers from the sitting-room; they completed the atmosphere of a maternity209 ward6 which she had managed to create in the cabin; the stewardess210 had the air of a midwife, standing by the bed, a pillar of starched211 linen212 and composure. My wife turned her head on the pillow and smiled wanly213; she stretched out a bare arm and caressed214 with the tips of her fingers the cellophane and silk ribbons of the largest bouquet215. ‘How sweet people are, ‘ she said faintly, as though the gale were a private misfortune of her own for which the world in its love was condoling216 with her. ‘I take it you’re not getting up.’
‘Oh no, Mrs Clark is being so sweet’; she was always quick to get servants’ names.
‘Don’t bother. Come in sometimes and tell me what’s going on.’
‘Now, now, dear,’ said the stewardess, ‘the less we are disturbed today the better.’
My wife seemed to make a sacred, female rite217 even of sea-sickness. Julia’s cabin, I knew, was somewhere below ours. I waited for her by the lift on the main deck; when she came we walked once round the promenade218; I held the rail; she took my other arm. It was hard going; through the streaming glass we saw a distorted world of grey sky and black water. When the ship rolled heavily I swung her round so that she could hold the rail with her other hand; the howl of the wind was subdued219, but the whole ship creaked with strain. We made the circuit once, then Julia said: ‘It’s no good. That woman beat hell out of me, and I feel limp, anyway. Let’s sit down.’ The great bronze doors of the lounge had torn away from their hooks and were swinging free with the roll of the ship; regularly and, it seemed, irresistibly220, first one, then the other, opened and shut; they paused at the completion of each half circle, began to move slowly and finished fast with a resounding221 clash. There was no real risk in passing them, except of slipping and being caught by that swift, final blow; there was ample time to walk through unhurried but there was something forbidding in the sight of that great weight of uncontrolled metal, flapping to and fro, which might have made a timid man flinch222 or skip through too quickly; I rejoiced to feel Julia’s hand perfectly steady on my arm and know, as I walked beside her, that she was wholly undismayed. ‘Bravo,’ said a man sitting nearby. ‘I confess I went round the other way. I didn’t like the look of those doors somehow. They’ve been trying to fix them all the morning.’ There were few people about that day, and that few seemed bound together by a camaraderie223 of reciprocal esteem; they did nothing except sit rather glumly224 in their armchairs, drink occasionally, and exchange congratulations on not being seasick225. ‘You’re the first lady I’ve seen,’ said the man.
‘I’m very lucky.’
‘We are very lucky,’ he said, with a movement which began as a bow and ended as a lurch226 forward to his knees, as the blotting-paper floor dipped steeply between us. The roll carried us away from him, clinging together but still on our feet, and we quickly sat where our dance led us, on the further side, in isolation; a web of life-lines had been stretched across the lounge, and we seemed like boxers227, roped into the ring. The steward approached. ‘Your usual, sir? Whisky and tepid228 water, I think. And for the lady? Might I suggest a nip of champagne229?’
‘D’you know, the awful thing is I would like champagne very much,’ said Julia. ‘What a life of pleasure - roses, half an hour with a female pugilist, and now champagne!’ ‘I wish you wouldn’t go on about the roses. It wasn’t my idea in the first place.
Someone sent them to Celia.’
‘Oh, that ‘s quite different. It lets you out completely. But it makes my massage230 worse.’
‘I was shaved in bed.’
‘I’m glad about the roses,’ said Julia. ‘Frankly, they were a shock. They made me think we were starting the day on the wrong foot.’
I knew what she meant, and in that moment felt as though I had shaken off some of the dust and grit231 of ten dry years; then and always, however she spoke to me, in half sentences, single words, stock phrases of contemporary jargon232, in scarcely perceptible movements of eyes or lips or hands, however inexpressible her thought, however quick and far it had glanced from the matter in hand, however deep it had plunged234, as it often did, straight from the surface to the depths, I knew; even that day when I still stood on the extreme verge235 of love, I knew what she meant.
We drank our wine and soon our new friend came lurching towards us down the life-line.
‘Mind if I join you? Nothing like a bit of rough weather for bringing people together. This is my tenth crossing, and I’ve never seen anything like it. I can see you are an experienced sailor, young lady.’
‘No. As a matter of fact, I’ve never been at sea before except coming to New York and, of course, crossing the Channel. I don’t feel sick, thank God, but I feel tired. I thought at first it was only the massage, but I’m coming to the conclusion it’s the ship.’ ‘My wife’s in a terrible way. She’s an experienced sailor. Only shows, doesn’t it?’ He joined us at luncheon236, and I did not mind his being there; he had clearly taken a fancy to Julia, and he thought we were man and wife; this misconception and his gallantry seemed in some way to bring her and me closer together. ‘Saw you two last night at the Captain’s table,’ he said, ‘with all the nobs.’ ‘Very dull nobs.’
‘If you ask me, nobs always are. When you get a storm like this you find out what people are really made of’ ‘You have a predilection237 for good sailors?’
‘Well, put like that I don’t know that I do - what I mean is, it makes for getting together.’
‘Yes.’
‘Take us for example. But for this we might never have met. I’ve had some very romantic encounters at sea in my time. If the lady will excuse me, I’d like to tell you about a little adventure I had in the Gulf of Lions when I was younger than I am now.’
We were both weary; lack of sleep, the incessant238 din1, and the strain every movement required, wore us down. We spent that afternoon apart in our cabins. I slept and when I awoke the sea was as high as ever, inky clouds swept over us, and the glass streamed still with water, but I had grown used to the storm In my sleep, had made its rhythm mine, had become part of it, so that I arose strongly and confidently and found Julia already up and in the same temper.
‘What d’you think?’ she said. ‘That man’s giving a little “get together party” tonight in the smoking-room for all the good sailors. He asked me to bring my husband.’ ‘Are we going?’
‘Of course...I wonder if I ought to feel like the lady our friend met on the way to Barcelona. I don’t, Charles not a bit.’
There were eighteen people at the ‘get-together party’; we had nothing in common except immunity239 from seasickness240. We drank champagne, and presently our host said:
‘Tell you what, I’ve got a roulette wheel. Trouble is we can’t go to my cabin on account of the wife, and we aren’t allowed to play in public.’
So the party adjourned241 to my sitting-room and we played for low stakes until late into the night, when Julia left and our host had drunk too much wine to be surprised that she and I were not in the same quarters. When all but he had gone, he fell asleep in his chair, and I left him there. It was the last I saw of him, for later - so the steward told me when he came from returning the roulette things to the man’s cabin - he broke his thigh242, falling in the corridor, and was taken to the ship’s hospital. All next day Julia and I spent together without interruption; talking, scarcely moving, held in our chairs by the swell of the sea. After luncheon the last hardy243 passengers went to rest and we were alone as though the place had been cleared for us, as though tact58 on a titanic244 scale had sent everyone tip-toeing out to leave us to one another. The bronze doors of the lounge had been fixed245, but not before two seamen246 had been badly injured. They had tried various devices, lashing247 with ropes and, later, when these failed, with steel hawsers248, but there was nothing to which they could be made fast; finally, they drove wooden wedges under them, catching them in the brief moment of repose249 when they were full open, and these held firm.
When, before dinner, she went to her cabin to get ready (no one dressed that night) and I came with her, uninvited, unopposed, expected, and behind closed doors took her in my arms and first kissed her, there was no alteration250 from the mood of the afternoon. Later, turning it over in my mind, as I turned in my bed with the rise and fall of the ship, through the long, lonely, drowsy251 night, I recalled the courtships of the past, dead, ten years; how, knotting my tie before setting out, putting the gardenia252 in my buttonhole, I would plan my evening and think at such and such a time, at such and such an opportunity, I shall cross the start-line and open my attack for better or worse; ‘this phase of the battle has gone on long enough’, I would think; ‘a decision must be reached.’ With Julia there were no phases, no start-line, no tactics at all. But later that night when she went to bed and I followed her to her door, she stopped me.
‘No, Charles, not yet. Perhaps never. I don’t know. I don’t know if I want love.’ Then something, some surviving ghost from those dead ten years - for one cannot die, even for a little, without some loss made me say, ‘Love? I’m not asking for love.’ ‘Oh yes, Charles, you are,’ she said, and putting up her hand gently stroked my cheek; then shut her door.
And I reeled back, first on one wall, then on the other, of the long, softly lighted, empty corridor; for the storm, it appeared, had the form of a ring; all day we had been sailing through its still centre; now we were once more in the full fury of the wind and that night was to be rougher than the one before.
Ten hours of talking: what had we to say? Plain fact mostly, the record of our two lives, so long widely separate, now being knit to one. Through all that storrn-tossed night I rehearsed what she had told me; she was no longer the alternate succubus and starry, vision of the night before; she had given all that was transferable of her past into my keeping. She told me, as I have already retold, of her courtship and marriage; she told me, as though fondly turning the pages of an old nursery-book, of her childhood, and I lived long, sunny days with her in the meadows, with Nanny Hawkins on her camp stool and Cordelia asleep in the pram253, slept quiet nights under the dome with the religious pictures fading round the cot as the nightlight burned low and the embers settled in the grate. She told me of her life with Rex and of the secret, vicious, disastrous254 escapade that had taken her to New York. She, too, had had her dead years. She told me of her long struggle with Rex as to whether she should have a child; at first she wanted one, but learned after a year that an operation was needed to make it possible; by that time Rex and she were out of love, but he still wanted his child, and when at last she consented, it was born dead.
‘Rex has never been unkind to me intentionally,’ she said. ‘It’s just that he isn’t a real person at all; he’s just a few faculties255 of a man highly developed; the rest simply isn’t there. He couldn’t imagine why it hurt me to find two months after we came back to London from our honeymoon256, that he was still keeping up with Brenda Champion.’ ‘I was glad when I found Celia was unfaithful,’ I said. ‘I felt it was all right for me to dislike her.’
‘Is she? Do you? I’m glad. I don’t like her either. Why did you marry her?’
‘Physical attraction. Ambition. Everyone agrees she’s the ideal wife for a painter.
Loneliness, missing Sebastian.’
‘You loved him, didn’t you?’
‘Oh yes. He was the forerunner257.’
Julia understood.
The ship creaked and shuddered258, rose and fell. My wife called to me from the next room: ‘Charles, are you there?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve been asleep such a long while. What time is it?’
‘Half past three.’
‘It’s no better, is it?’
‘Worse.’
‘I feel a little better, though. D’you think they’d bring me some tea or something if I rang the bell?’
I got her some tea and biscuits from the night steward.
‘Did you have an amusing evening?’
‘Everyone’s seasick.’
‘Poor Charles. It was going to have been such a lovely trip, too. It may be better tomorrow.’
I turned out the light and shut the door between us.
Waking and dreaming, through the strain and creak and heave of the long night, firm on my back with my arms and legs spread wide to check the roll, and my eyes open to the darkness, I lay thinking of Julia.
‘...We thought papa might come back to England after mummy died, or that he might marry again, but he lives just as he did. Rex and I often go to see him now. I’ve grown fond-of him... Sebastian’s disappeared completely...Cordelia’s in Spain with anambulance...Bridey leads his own extraordinary life. He wanted to shut Brideshead after mummy died, but papa wouldn’t have it for some reason, so Rex and I live there now, and Bridey has two rooms up in the dome, next to Nanny Hawkins, part of the old nurseries. He’s like a character from Chekhov. One meets him sometimes coming out of the library or on the stairs - I never know when he’s at home - and now and then he suddenly comes in to dinner like a ghost quite unexpectedly. ‘...Rex’s parties! Politics and money. They can’t do anything except for money; if they walk round the lake they have to make bets about how many swans they see...sitting up till two, amusing Rex’s girls, hearing them gossip, rattling259 away endlessly on the backgammon board while the men play cards and smoke cigars. The cigar smoke. I can smell it in my hair when I wake up in the morning; it’s in my clothes when I dress at night. Do I smell of it now? D’you think that woman who rubbed me, felt it in my skin?
‘...At first I used to stay away with Rex in his friends’ houses. He doesn’t make me any more. He was ashamed of me when he found I didn’t cut the kind of figure he wanted, ashamed of himself for having been taken in. I wasn’t at all the article he’d bargained for. He can’t see the point of me, but whenever he’s made up his mind there isn’t a point and he’s begun to feel comfortable, he gets a surprise - some man, or even woman, he respects, takes a fancy to me and he suddenly sees that there is i whole world of things we understand and he doesn’t ... he was upset when I went away. He’ll be delighted to have me back. I was faithful to’ him until this last thing came along. There’s nothing like a good upbringing. Do you know last year, when I thought I was going to have a child, I’d decided260 to have it brought up a Catholic? I hadn’t thought about religion before; I haven’t since; but just at that time, when I was waiting for the birth, I thought, “That’s one thing I can give her. It doesn’t seem to have done me much good, but my child shall have it.” It was odd, wanting to give something one had - lost oneself. Then, in the end, I couldn’t even give that: I couldn’t even give her life. I never saw her; I was too ill to know what was going on, and afterwards, for a long time, until now, I didn’t want to speak about her - she was a daughter, so Rex didn’t so much mind her being dead.
‘I’ve been punished a little for marrying Rex. You see, I can’t get all that sort of thing out of my mind, quite - Death, Judgement, Heaven, Hell, Nanny Hawkins, and the catechism. It becomes part of oneself, if they give it one early enough. And yet I wanted my child to have it...now I suppose I shall be punished for what I’ve just done. Perhaps that is why you and I are here together like this...part of a plan.’ That was almost the last thing she said to me -‘part of a plan’ - before we went below and I left her at the cabin door.
Next day the wind had again dropped, and again we were wallowing in the swell. The talk was less of seasickness now than of broken bones; people had been thrown about in the night, and there had been many nasty accidents on bathroom floors. That day, because we had talked so much the day before and because what we had to say needed few words, we spoke little. We had books; Julia found a game she liked. When after long silences we spoke, our thoughts, we found, had kept pace together side by side.
Once I said, ‘You are standing guard over your sadness.’
‘It’s all I have earned. You said yesterday. My wages.’
‘An I.O.U. from life. A promise to pay on demand.’
Rain ceased at midday; at evening the clouds dispersed261 and the sun, astern of us, suddenly broke into the lounge where we sat, putting all the lights to shame. ‘Sunset, ‘ said Julia, ‘the end of our day.’
She rose And, though the roll and pitch of the ship seemed unabated, led me up to the boat-deck. She put her arm through mine and her hand into mine, in my great-coat pocket. The deck was dry and empty, swept only by the wind of the ship’s speed. As we made our halting, laborious262 way forward, away from the flying smuts of the smokestack, we were alternately jostled together, then strained, nearly sundered263, arms and fingers interlocked as I held the rail and Julia clung to me, thrust together again, drawn apart; then, in a plunge233 deeper than the rest, I found myself flung across her, pressing her against the rail, warding69 myself off her with the arms that held her prisoner on either side, and as the ship paused at the end of its drop as though gathering264 strength for the ascent265, we stood thus embraced, in the open, cheek against cheek, her hair blowing across my eyes; the dark horizon of tumbling water, flashing now with gold, stood still above us, then came sweeping266 down till I was staring through Julia’s dark hair into a wide and golden sky, and she was thrown forward on my heart, held up by my hands on the rail, her face still pressed to mine.
In that minute, with her lips to my ear and her breath warm in the salt wind, Julia said, though. I had not spoken, ‘Yes, now,’ and as the ship righted herself and for the moment ran into calmer waters, Julia led me below.
It was no time for the sweets of luxury; they would come, in their season, with the swallow and the lime flowers. Now on the rough water there was a formality to be observed, no more. It was as though a deed of conveyance267 of her narrow loins had been drawn and sealed. I was making my first entry as the freeholder of a property I would enjoy and develop at leisure.
We dined that night high up in the ship, in the restaurant, and saw through the bow windows the stars come out and sweep across the sky as once, I remembered, I had seen them sweep across the sky as once, I remembered, I had seen them sweep above the towers and gables of Oxford268. The stewards promised that tomorrow night the band would play again and the place be full. We had better book now, they said, if we wanted a good table’.
‘Oh dear,’ said Julia, ‘where can we hide in fair weather, we orphans269 of the storm?’ I could not leave her that night, but early next morning, as once again I made my way back along the corridor, I found I could walk without difficulty; the ship rode easily on a smooth sea, and I knew that our solitude was broken.
My wife called joyously270 from her cabin: ‘Charles, Charles, I feel so well. What do you think I am having for breakfast?’
I went to see. She was eating a beef-steak.
‘I’ve fixed up for a visit to the hairdresser - do you know they couldn’t take me till four o’clock this afternoon, they’re so busy suddenly? So I shan’t appear till the evening, but lots of people are coming in to see us this morning, and I’ve asked Miles and Janet to lunch with us in our sitting-room. I’m afraid I’ve been a worthless wife to you the last two days. What have you been up to?’
‘One gay evening,’ I said, ‘we played roulette till two o’clock, next door in the sitting-room, and our host passed out.’
‘Goodness. It sounds very disreputable. Have you been behaving, Charles? You haven’t been picking up sirens?’
‘There was scarcely a woman about. I spent most of the time with Julia.’ ‘Oh, good. I always wanted to bring you together. She’s one of my friends I knew you’d like. I expect you were a godsend to her. She’s had rather a gloomy time lately. I don’t expect she mentioned it, but...’ my wife proceeded to relate a current version of Julia’s journey to New York. ‘I’ll ask her to cocktails271 this morning,’ she concluded. Julia came among the others, and it was happiness enough, now merely to be near her.
‘I hear you’ve been looking after my husband for me,’ my wife said.
‘Yes, we’ve become very matey. He and I and a man whose name we don’t know.’
‘Mr Kramm, what have you done to your arm?’
‘It was the bathroom floor, ‘ said Mr Kramm, and explained at length how he had fallen.
That night the captain dined at his table and the circle was complete, for claimants came to the chairs on the Bishop’s right, two Japanese who expressed deep interest in his projects for world-brotherhood. The captain was full of chaff272 at Julia’s endurance in the storm, offering to engage her as a seaman273; years of sea-going had given him jokes for every occasion. My wife, fresh from the beauty parlour, was unmarked by her three days of distress274, and in the eyes of many seemed to outshine Julia, whose sadness had gone and been replaced by an incommunicable content and tranquillity275; incommunicable save to me; she and I, separated by the crowd, sat alone together close enwrapped, as we had lain in each other’s arms the night before. ‘There was a gala spirit in the ship that night. Though it meant rising at dawn to pack, everyone was determined276 that for this one night he would enjoy the luxury the storm had denied him. There was no solitude. Every corner of the ship was thronged277; dance music and high, excited chatter278, stewards darting279 everywhere with trays of glasses, the voice of the officer in charge of tombola - ‘Kelly’s eye - number one; legs, eleven; and we’ll Shake the Bag’ - Mrs Stuyvesant Oglander in a paper cap, Mr Kramm and his bandages, the two Japanese decorously throwing paper streamers and hissing280 like geese. I did not speak to Julia, alone, all that evening.
We met for a minute next day on the starboard side of the ship while everyone else crowded to port to see the officials come aboard and to gaze at the green coastline of Devon.
‘What are your plans?’
‘London for a bit, ‘ she said.
‘Celia’s going straight home. She wants to see the children.’
‘You too?’
‘No.’
‘In London then.’
‘Charles, the little red-haired man Foulenough. Did you see? Two plain clothes police have taken him off.’
‘I missed it. There was such a crowd on that side of the ship.’ ‘I found out the trains and sent a telegram. We shall be home by dinner. The children will be asleep. Perhaps we might wake Johnjohn up, just for once.’ ‘You go down,’ I said. ‘I shall have to stay in London.’
‘Oh, but Charles, you must come. You haven’t seen Caroline.’
‘Will she change much in a week or two?’
‘Darling, she changes every day.’
‘Then what’s the point of seeing her now? I’m sorry, my dear, but I must get the pictures unpacked281 and see how they’ve travelled. I must fix up for the exhibition right away.’
‘Must you?’ she said, but I knew that her resistance ended when I appealed to the mysteries of my trade. ‘It’s very disappointing. Besides, I don’t know if Andrew and Cynthia will be out of the flat. They took it till the end of the month.’ ‘I can go to an hotel.’
‘But that’s so grim. I can’t bear you to be alone your first night home. I’ll stay and go down tomorrow.’
‘You mustn’t disappoint the children.’
‘No.’ Her children, my art, the two mysteries of our trades.
‘Will you come for the week-end?’
‘If I can.’
‘All British passports to the smoking-room, please,’ said a steward. ‘I’ve arranged with that sweet Foreign Office man at our table to get us off early with him,’ said my wife.
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1
din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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strutting
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| 加固，支撑物 | |
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winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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curbed
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| v.限制，克制，抑制( curb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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13
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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slump
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| n.暴跌，意气消沉，（土地）下沉；vi.猛然掉落，坍塌，大幅度下跌 | |
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15
mirage
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| n.海市蜃楼，幻景 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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presage
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| n.预感，不祥感；v.预示 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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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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apparatus
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| n.装置，器械；器具，设备 | |
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refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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24
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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25
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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26
gutted
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| adj.容易消化的v.毁坏（建筑物等）的内部( gut的过去式和过去分词 )；取出…的内脏 | |
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27
cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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recuperated
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| v.恢复（健康、体力等），复原( recuperate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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transcribed
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| （用不同的录音手段）转录( transcribe的过去式和过去分词 )； 改编（乐曲）（以适应他种乐器或声部）； 抄写； 用音标标出（声音） | |
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31
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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retinue
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| n.侍从；随员 | |
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itinerary
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| n.行程表，旅行路线；旅行计划 | |
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screeching
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的现在分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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35
veranda
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| n.走廊；阳台 | |
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hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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ranch
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| n.大牧场，大农场 | |
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dice
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| n.骰子；vt.把（食物）切成小方块，冒险 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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40
sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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41
kit
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| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
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acclaimed
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| adj.受人欢迎的 | |
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trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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facet
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| n.(问题等的)一个方面；(多面体的)面 | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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elegance
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| n.优雅；优美，雅致；精致，巧妙 | |
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48
maelstrom
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| n.大乱动；大漩涡 | |
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49
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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50
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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51
sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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52
jaunty
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| adj．愉快的，满足的；adv.心满意足地，洋洋得意地；n.心满意足；洋洋得意 | |
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53
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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54
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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56
pier
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| n.码头；桥墩，桥柱；[建]窗间壁，支柱 | |
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57
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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58
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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stark
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| adj.荒凉的；严酷的；完全的；adv.完全地 | |
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60
squatting
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的现在分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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61
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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62
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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63
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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64
radiators
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| n.（暖气设备的）散热器( radiator的名词复数 )；汽车引擎的冷却器，散热器 | |
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65
wireless
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| adj.无线的；n.无线电 | |
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66
drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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68
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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69
warding
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| 监护，守护（ward的现在分词形式） | |
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deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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71
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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72
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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73
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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74
stewards
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| （轮船、飞机等的）乘务员( steward的名词复数 )； （俱乐部、旅馆、工会等的）管理员； （大型活动的）组织者； （私人家中的）管家 | |
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75
trophies
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| n.（为竞赛获胜者颁发的）奖品( trophy的名词复数 )；奖杯；（尤指狩猎或战争中获得的）纪念品；（用于比赛或赛跑名称）奖 | |
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76
esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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77
cocktail
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| n.鸡尾酒；餐前开胃小吃；混合物 | |
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78
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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prospering
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的现在分词 ) | |
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80
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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81
flirting
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的现在分词 ) | |
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82
fascists
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| n.法西斯主义的支持者( fascist的名词复数 ) | |
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83
metaphor
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| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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84
apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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85
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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86
intimacies
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| 亲密( intimacy的名词复数 )； 密切； 亲昵的言行； 性行为 | |
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centripetal
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| adj.向心的 | |
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88
subside
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| vi.平静，平息；下沉，塌陷，沉降 | |
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89
boisterous
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| adj.喧闹的，欢闹的 | |
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90
preposterously
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| adv.反常地；荒谬地；荒谬可笑地；不合理地 | |
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91
cavorted
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| v.跳跃( cavort的过去式 ) | |
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92
blotting
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| 吸墨水纸 | |
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93
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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94
sanitary
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| adj.卫生方面的，卫生的，清洁的，卫生的 | |
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95
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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97
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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98
soda
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| n.苏打水；汽水 | |
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99
trotted
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| 小跑，急走( trot的过去分词 )； 匆匆忙忙地走 | |
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100
pervading
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的现在分词 ) | |
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101
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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102
eloquent
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| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
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103
unpack
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| vt.打开包裹（或行李），卸货 | |
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104
unpacking
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| n.取出货物，拆包[箱]v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的现在分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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105
jugs
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| （有柄及小口的）水壶( jug的名词复数 ) | |
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106
fads
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| n.一时的流行，一时的风尚( fad的名词复数 ) | |
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107
fortify
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| v.强化防御，为…设防；加强，强化 | |
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108
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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109
defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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110
camouflaged
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| v.隐蔽( camouflage的过去式和过去分词 )；掩盖；伪装，掩饰 | |
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111
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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112
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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113
nettled
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| v.拿荨麻打，拿荨麻刺（nettle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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114
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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115
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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116
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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117
dissect
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| v.分割；解剖 | |
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118
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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119
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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120
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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121
suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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122
adept
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| adj.老练的，精通的 | |
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123
chic
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| n./adj.别致(的)，时髦(的)，讲究的 | |
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124
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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125
flirtatious
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| adj.爱调情的，调情的，卖俏的 | |
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126
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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127
effigy
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| n.肖像 | |
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128
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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129
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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130
thawing
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| n.熔化，融化v.（气候）解冻( thaw的现在分词 )；（态度、感情等）缓和；（冰、雪及冷冻食物）溶化；软化 | |
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131
beak
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| n.鸟嘴，茶壶嘴，钩形鼻 | |
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132
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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133
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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134
shrimps
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| n.虾，小虾( shrimp的名词复数 )；矮小的人 | |
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135
improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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136
sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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137
raptures
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| 极度欢喜( rapture的名词复数 ) | |
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138
sadistic
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| adj.虐待狂的 | |
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139
dowdy
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| adj.不整洁的；过旧的 | |
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140
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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141
dabbed
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| （用某物）轻触( dab的过去式和过去分词 )； 轻而快地擦掉（或抹掉）； 快速擦拭； （用某物）轻而快地涂上（或点上）… | |
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142
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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143
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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144
furtively
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| adv. 偷偷地, 暗中地 | |
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145
giggled
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| v.咯咯地笑( giggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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146
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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147
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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148
molecular
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| adj.分子的；克分子的 | |
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149
physicists
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| 物理学家( physicist的名词复数 ) | |
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150
illustrate
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| v.举例说明，阐明；图解，加插图 | |
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151
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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152
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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153
diplomat
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| n.外交官，外交家；能交际的人，圆滑的人 | |
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154
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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155
redundantly
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| 多余地，冗余地 | |
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156
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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157
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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158
miserable
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|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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159
comedian
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| n.喜剧演员；滑稽演员 | |
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160
recapitulate
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| v.节述要旨，择要说明 | |
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161
fictitious
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|
| adj.虚构的，假设的；空头的 | |
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162
crumb
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| n.饼屑，面包屑，小量 | |
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163
starry
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| adj.星光照耀的, 闪亮的 | |
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164
drooped
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| 弯曲或下垂，发蔫( droop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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165
goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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166
clearance
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| n.净空；许可(证)；清算；清除，清理 | |
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167
anarchists
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| 无政府主义者( anarchist的名词复数 ) | |
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168
ideologies
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| n.思想（体系）( ideology的名词复数 )；思想意识；意识形态；观念形态 | |
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169
personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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170
asunder
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| adj.分离的，化为碎片 | |
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171
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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172
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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173
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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174
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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175
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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176
cataracts
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| n.大瀑布( cataract的名词复数 )；白内障 | |
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177
persistently
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| ad.坚持地；固执地 | |
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178
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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179
tinkle
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| vi.叮当作响；n.叮当声 | |
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180
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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181
gale
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| n.大风，强风，一阵闹声（尤指笑声等） | |
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182
veered
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| v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的过去式和过去分词 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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183
babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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184
ginger
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| n.姜，精力，淡赤黄色；adj.淡赤黄色的；vt.使活泼，使有生气 | |
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185
agonizing
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| adj.痛苦难忍的；使人苦恼的v.使极度痛苦；折磨(agonize的ing形式) | |
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186
hustling
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| 催促（hustle的现在分词形式） | |
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187
unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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188
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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189
scattered
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|
| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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190
plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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191
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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192
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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193
luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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194
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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195
bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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196
mattress
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| n.床垫，床褥 | |
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197
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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198
draught
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| n.拉，牵引，拖；一网（饮，吸，阵)；顿服药量，通风；v.起草，设计 | |
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199
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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200
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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201
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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202
salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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203
rustle
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| v.沙沙作响；偷盗(牛、马等)；n.沙沙声声 | |
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204
dexterity
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| n.(手的)灵巧，灵活 | |
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205
agility
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| n.敏捷，活泼 | |
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206
flicking
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的现在分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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207
lather
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| n.(肥皂水的)泡沫，激动 | |
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208
swooping
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| 俯冲，猛冲( swoop的现在分词 ) | |
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209
maternity
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| n.母性，母道，妇产科病房；adj.孕妇的，母性的 | |
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210
stewardess
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| n.空中小姐，女乘务员 | |
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211
starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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212
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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213
wanly
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| adv.虚弱地；苍白地，无血色地 | |
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214
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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215
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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216
condoling
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| v.表示同情，吊唁( condole的现在分词 ) | |
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217
rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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218
promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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219
subdued
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| adj. 屈服的，柔和的，减弱的 动词subdue的过去式和过去分词 | |
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220
irresistibly
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| adv.无法抵抗地，不能自持地；极为诱惑人地 | |
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221
resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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222
flinch
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| v.畏缩，退缩 | |
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223
camaraderie
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| n.同志之爱，友情 | |
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224
glumly
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| adv.忧郁地，闷闷不乐地；阴郁地 | |
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seasick
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| adj.晕船的 | |
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226
lurch
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| n.突然向前或旁边倒；v.蹒跚而行 | |
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227
boxers
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| n.拳击短裤；（尤指职业）拳击手( boxer的名词复数 )；拳师狗 | |
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228
tepid
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| adj.微温的，温热的，不太热心的 | |
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229
champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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230
massage
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| n.按摩，揉；vt.按摩，揉，美化，奉承，篡改数据 | |
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231
grit
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| n.沙粒，决心，勇气；v.下定决心，咬紧牙关 | |
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232
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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233
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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234
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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235
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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236
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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237
predilection
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| n.偏好 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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immunity
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| n.优惠；免除；豁免，豁免权 | |
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240
seasickness
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| n.晕船 | |
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241
adjourned
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| （使）休会， （使）休庭( adjourn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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242
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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243
hardy
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| adj.勇敢的，果断的，吃苦的；耐寒的 | |
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titanic
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| adj.巨人的，庞大的，强大的 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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seamen
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| n.海员 | |
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247
lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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hawsers
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| n.（供系船或下锚用的）缆索，锚链( hawser的名词复数 ) | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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250
alteration
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| n.变更，改变；蚀变 | |
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251
drowsy
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| adj.昏昏欲睡的，令人发困的 | |
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252
gardenia
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| n.栀子花 | |
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253
pram
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| n.婴儿车，童车 | |
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254
disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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256
honeymoon
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| n.蜜月（假期）；vi.度蜜月 | |
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257
forerunner
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| n.前身，先驱（者），预兆，祖先 | |
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258
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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259
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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261
dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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263
sundered
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| v.隔开，分开( sunder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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264
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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265
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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266
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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267
conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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268
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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269
orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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270
joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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271
cocktails
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| n.鸡尾酒( cocktail的名词复数 )；餐前开胃菜；混合物 | |
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272
chaff
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| v.取笑，嘲笑；n.谷壳 | |
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273
seaman
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| n.海员，水手，水兵 | |
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274
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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276
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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277
thronged
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| v.成群，挤满( throng的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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278
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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279
darting
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的现在分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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280
hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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281
unpacked
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| v.从（包裹等）中取出（所装的东西），打开行李取出( unpack的过去式和过去分词 )；拆包；解除…的负担；吐露（心事等） | |
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