‘Do you remember, said Julia, in the tranquil1, lime-scented evening, ‘do you remember the storm?’
‘The bronze doors banging.’
‘The roses in cellophane.’
‘The man who gave the “get-together” party and was never seen again.’ ‘Do you remember how the sun came out on our last evening just as it has done today?’
It had been an afternoon of low cloud and summer squalls, so overcast3 that at times I had stopped work and roused Julia from the light trance in which she sat - she had sat so often; I never tired of painting her, forever finding in her new wealth and delicacy4 - until at length we had gone early to our baths and, on coming down, dressed for dinner, in the last half-hour of the day, we found the world transformed; the sun had emerged; the wind had fallen to a soft breeze which gently stirred the blossom in the limes and carried its fragrance6, fresh from the late rains, to merge5 with the sweet breath of box and the drying stone. The shadow of the obelisk7 spanned the terrace.
I had carried two garden cushions from the shelter of the colonnade8 and put them on the rim9 of the fountain. There Julia sat, in a tight little gold tunic10 and a white gown, one hand in the water idly turning an emerald ring to catch the fire of the sunset; the carved
animals mounted over her dark head in a cumulus of green moss11 and glowing stone and dense12 shadow, and the waters round them flashed and bubbled and broke into scattered13 flames.
‘...So much to remember,’ she said. ‘How many days have there been since then, when we haven’t seen each other; a hundred, do you think?’ ‘Not so many.’
‘Two Christmases’ - those bleak14, annual excursions into propriety15. Boughton, home of my family, home of my cousin Jasper, with what glum16 memories of childhood I revisited its pitch-pine corridors and dripping walls! How querulously my father and I, seated side by side in my uncle’s Humber, approached the avenue of Wellingtonias knowing that at the end of the drive we should find my uncle, my aunt, my Aunt Phillippa, my cousin Jasper, and, of recent years, Jasper’s wife and children; and besides them, perhaps already arrived, perhaps every moment expected, my wife and my children. This annual sacrifice united us; here among the holly17 and mistletoe and the cut spruce, the parlour game’s ritually performed, the brandy-butter and the Carlsbad plums, the village choir19 in the pitch-pine minstrels’ gallery, gold twine20 and sprigged wrapping-paper, she and I were accepted, whatever ugly rumours21 had been afloat in tile past year, as man and wife. ‘We must keep it up, whatever it costs us, for the sake of the children my wife said.
‘Yes, two Christmases...And the three days, of good taste before I followed you to Capri.’
‘Our first summer.’
‘Do you remember how I hung about Naples, then followed, how we met by arrangement on the hill path and how flat it fell?’
‘I went back to the villa18 and said, “Papa, who do you think has arrived at the hotel?” and he said, “Charles Ryder, I suppose.” I said, “Why did you think of him?” and papa replied, “Cara came back from Paris with the news that you and he were inseparable. He seems to have a penchant22 for my children. However, bring him here; I think we have the room.”
‘There was the time you had jaundice and wouldn’t let me see you.’
‘And when I had flu and you were afraid to come.’
‘Countless visits to Rex’s constituency.’
‘And Coronation Week, when you ran away from London. Your goodwill24 mission to your father-in-law. The time you went to Oxford25 to paint the picture they didn’t like. Oh, yes, quite a hundred days.’
‘A hundred days wasted out of two years and a bit...not a day’s coldness or mistrust or disappointment.’
‘Never that.’
We fell silent; only the birds spoke26 in a multitude of small, clear voices in the lime-trees; only the waters spoke among their carved stones. Julia took the handkerchief from my breast pocket and dried her hand; then lit a cigarette. I feared to break the spell of memories, but for once our thoughts had not kept pace together, for when at length Julia spoke, she said sadly: ‘How many more? Another hundred?’
‘A lifetime.’
‘I want to marry you, Charles.’
‘One day; why now?’
‘War,’ she said, ‘this year, next year, sometime soon. I want a day or two with you of real peace.’
‘Isn’t this peace?’
The sun had sunk now to the line of woodland beyond the valley; all the opposing slope was already in twilight27, but the lakes below us were aflame; the light grew in strength and splendour as it neared death, drawing long shadows across the pasture, falling full on the rich stone spaces of the house, firing the panes28 in the windows, glowing on cornices and colonnade and dome29, spreading out all the stacked merchandise of colour and scent2 from earth and stone and leaf, glorifying30 the head and golden shoulders of the woman beside me.
‘What do you mean by “peace”, if not this?’
‘So much more’; and then in a chill, matter-of-fact tone she continued: ‘Marriage isn’t a thing we can take when the impulse moves us. There must be a divorce - two divorces. We must make plans.’
‘Plans, divorce, war - on an evening like this.’
‘Sometimes said Julia, ‘I feel the past and the future pressing so hard on either side that there’s no room for the present at all.’ Then Wilcox came down the steps into the sunset to tell us that dinner was ready.
Shutters31 were up, curtains drawn32, candles lit, in the Painted Parlour.
‘Hullo, it’s laid for three,’
‘Lord Brideshead arrived half an hour ago, my lady. He sent a message would you please not wait dinner for him as he may be a little late.’ ‘It seems months since he was here last,’ said Julia. ‘What does he do in London?’ It was often a matter for speculation33 between us - giving birth to many fantasies, for Bridey was a mystery; a creature from underground; a hard-snouted, burrowing34, hibernating35 animal who shunned36 the light. He had been completely without action in all his years of adult life; the talk of his going into the army and into parliament and into a monastery37, had all come to nothing. All that he was known with certainty to have done and this because in a season of scant38 news it had formed the subject of a newspaper article entitled ‘Peer’s Unusual Hobby’ - was to form a collection of match-boxes; he kept them mounted on boards, card-indexed, yearly occupying a larger and larger space in his small house in Westminster. At first he was bashful about the notoriety which the newspaper caused, but later greatly pleased, for he found it the means of his getting into touch with other collectors in all parts of the world with whom he now corresponded and swapped39 duplicates. Other than this he was not known to have any interests. He remained joint40 Master of the Marchmain and hunted with them dutifully on their two days a week when he was at home; he never hunted with the neighbouring pack, who had the better country. He had no real zest41 for sport, and had not been out a dozen times that season; he had few friends; he visited his aunts; he went to public dinners held in the Catholic interest. At Brideshead he performed all unavoidable local duties, bringing with him to platform and fête and committee room his own thin mist of clumsiness and - aloofness43.
‘There was a girl found strangled with a piece of barbed wire at Wandsworth last week,’ I said, reviving an old fantasy.
‘That must be Bridey. He is naughty.’
When we had been a quarter of an hour at the table, he joined us, coming ponderously44 into the room in the bottle-green velvet45 smoking suit which he kept at Brideshead and always wore when he was there. At thirty-eight he had grown heavy and bald, and might have been taken for forty-five.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘well, only you two; I hoped to find Rex here.’
I often wondered what he made of me and of my continual presence; he seemed to accept me, without curiosity, as one of the household. Twice in the past two years he had surprised me by what seemed to be acts of friendship; that Christmas he had sent me a photograph of himself in the robes of a Knight46 of Malta, and shortly afterwards asked me to go with him to a dining club. Both acts had an explanation: he had had more copies of his portrait printed than he knew what to do with; he was proud of his club. It was a surprising association of men quite eminent48 in their professions who met once a month for an evening of ceremonious buffoonery; each had his sobriquet49 Bridey was called ‘Brother Grandee’ - and a specially50 designed jewel worn like an order of chivalry51, symbolizing52 it; they had club buttons for their waistcoats and an elaborate ritual for the introduction of guests; after dinner a paper was read and facetious53 speeches were made. There was plainly some competition to bring guests of distinction and since Bridey had few friends, and since I was tolerably well known, I was invited. Even on that convivial54 evening I could feel my host emanating55 little magnetic waves of social uneasiness, creating, rather, a pool of general embarrassment56 about himself in which, he floated with log-like calm.
He sat down opposite me and bowed his sparse57, pink head over his plate.
‘Well, Bridey. What’s the news?’
‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘I have some news. But it can wait.’
‘Tell us now.’
He made a grimace58 which I took to mean ‘not in front of the servants’, and said, ‘How is the painting, Charles?’
‘Which painting?’
‘Whatever you have on the stocks.’
‘I began a sketch59 of Julia, but the light was tricky60 all today.’ ‘Julia? I thought you’d done her before. I suppose it’s a change from architecture, and much more difficult.’
His conversation abounded61 in long pauses during which his mind seemed to remain motionless; he always brought one back with a start to the exact point where he had stopped. Now after more than a minute he said: ‘The world is full of different subjects.’ ‘Very true, Bridey.’
‘If I were a painter,’ he said, ‘I should choose an entirely62 different subject every time; subjects with plenty of action in them like...’ Another pause. What, I wondered was coming? The Flying Scotsman? The Charge of the Light Brigade? Henley Regatta? Then surprisingly he said: ‘...like Macbeth.’ There was something supremely63 preposterous64 in the idea of Bridey as a painter of action pictures; he was usually preposterous yet somehow achieved a certain dignity by his remoteness and agelessness; he was still half-child, already half-veteran; there seemed no spark of contemporary life in him; he had a kind of massive rectitude and impermeability65, an indifference66 to the world, which compelled respect. Though we often laughed at him, he was never wholly ridiculous; at times he was even formidable. We talked of the news from central Europe until, suddenly cutting across this barren topic, Bridey asked: ‘Where are mummy’s jewels?’
‘This was hers,’ said Julia, ‘and this. Cordelia and I had all her own things. The family jewels went to the bank.’
‘It’s so long since I’ve seen them - I don’t know that I ever saw them all. What is there? Aren’t there some rather famous rubies67, someone was telling me?’ ‘Yes, a necklace. Mummy used often to wear it, don’t you remember? And there are the pearls - she always had those out. But most of it stayed in the bank year after year. There are some hideous68 diamond fenders, I remember, and a Victorian diamond collar no one could wear now. There’s a mass of good stones. Why?’ ‘I’d like to have a took at them some day.’
‘I say, papa isn’t going to pop them, is he? He hasn’t got into debt again?’
‘No, no, nothing like that.’
Bridey was a slow and copious69 eater. Julia and I watched him between the candles. Presently he said: ‘If I was Rex’ - his mind seemed full of such suppositions: ‘If I was Archbishop of Westminster’, ‘If I was head of the Great Western Railway’, ‘If I was an actress’, as though it were a mere71 trick of fate that he was none of these things, and he might awake any morning to find the matter adjusted - ‘if I was Rex I should want to live in my constituency.’
‘Rex says it saves four days’ work a week not to.’
‘I’m so he’s not here. I have a little announcement to make.’
‘Bridey, don’t be so mysterious. Out with it.’
He made the grimace which seemed to mean ‘not before the servants.’ Later when port was on the table and we three were alone Julia said: ‘I’m not going till I hear the announcement.’
‘Well,’ said Bridey, sitting back in his chair and gazing fixedly72 at his glass. ‘You have only to wait until Monday to see it in black and white in the newspapers. I am engaged to be married. I hope you are pleased.’
‘Bridey. How...how very exciting! Who to?’
‘Oh, no one you know.’
‘Is she pretty?’
‘I don’t think you would exactly call her pretty; “comely” is the word I think of in her connection. She is a big woman.’
‘Fat?’
‘No, big. She is called Mrs Muspratt; her Christian73 name is Beryl. I have known her for a long time, but until last year she had a husband; now she is a widow. Why do you laugh?’
‘I’m sorry. It isn’t the least funny. It’s just so unexpected. Is she...is she about your own age?’
‘Just about, I believe. She has three children, the eldest74 boy has just gone to Ampleforth. She is not at all well off.’
‘But, Bridey, where did you find her?’
‘Her late husband, Admiral Muspratt, collected matchboxes he said with complete gravity.
Julia trembled on the verge75 of laughter, recovered her self-possession, and asked:
‘You’re not marrying her for her matchboxes?’
‘No, no; the whole collection was left to the Falmouth Town Library. I have a great affection for her. In spite of all her difficulties she is a very cheerful woman, very fond of acting76. She is connected with the Catholic Players’ Guild77.’ ‘Does papa know?’
‘I had a letter from him this morning giving me his approval. He has been urging me to marry for some time.’
It occurred both to Julia and myself simultaneously78 that we were allowing curiosity and surprise to predominate; now we congratulated him in gentler tones from which mockery was almost excluded.
‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘thank you. I think I am very fortunate.’ ‘But when are we going to meet her? I do think you might have brought her down with you.’
He said nothing, sipped79 and gazed.
‘Bridey,’ said Julia. ‘You sly, smug old brute80, why haven’t you brought her here?’
‘Oh, I couldn’t do that, you know.’
‘Why couldn’t you? I’m dying to meet her. Let’s ring her up now and invite her. She’ll think us most peculiar81 leaving her alone at a time like this.’ ‘She has the children,’ said Brideshead. ‘Besides, you are peculiar, aren’t you?’
‘What can you mean?’
Brideshead raised his head and looked solemnly at his sister, and continued in the same simple way, as though he were saying nothing particularly different from what had gone before, ‘I couldn’t ask her here, as things are. It wouldn’t be suitable. After all, I am a lodger82 here. This is Rex’s house at the moment, so far as it’s anybody’s. What goes on here is his business. But I couldn’t bring Beryl here.’ ‘I simply don’t understand,’ said Julia rather sharply. I looked at her. All the gentle mockery had gone; she was alert, almost scared, it seemed. ‘Of course, Rex and I want her to come.’
‘Oh, yes, I don’t doubt that. The difficulty is quite otherwise.’ He finished his port, refilled his glass, and pushed the decanter towards me. ‘You must understand that Beryl is a woman of strict Catholic principle fortified83 by the prejudices of the middle class. I couldn’t possibly bring her here. It is a matter of indifference whether you choose to live in sin with Rex or Charles or both - I have always avoided inquiry84 into the details of your ménage - but in no case would Beryl consent to be your guest.’
Julia rose. ‘Why, you pompous85 ass47... ‘ she said, stopped, and turned towards the door. At first I thought she was overcome by laughter; then, as I opened the door to her, I saw with consternation86 that she was in tears. I hesitated. She slipped past me without a glance.
‘I may have given the impression that this was a marriage of convenience’ Brideshead continued placidly87. I cannot speak for Beryl; no doubt the security of my position has some influence on her. Indeed, she has said as much. But for myself, let me emphasize, I am ardently88 attracted.’
‘Bridey, what a bloody90 offensive thing to say to Julia!’ ‘There was nothing she should object to. I was merely stating a fact well known to her.’
She was not in the library; I mounted to her room, but she was not there. I paused by her laden91 dressing92 table wondering if she would come. Then through the open window, as the light streamed out across the terrace into the dusk, to the fountain which in that house seemed always to draw us to itself for comfort and refreshment93 I caught the glimpse of a white skirt against the stones. It was nearly night. I found her in the darkest refuge, on a wooden seat, in a bay of the clipped box which encircled the basin. I took her in my arms and she pressed her face to my heart.
‘Aren’t you cold out here?’
She did not answer, only clung closer to me, and shook with sobs94. ‘My darling, what is it? Why do you mind? What does it matter what that old booby says?’
‘I don’t; it doesn’t. It’s just the shock. Don’t laugh at me.’ In the two years of our love, which seemed a lifetime, I had not seen her so moved or felt so powerless to help. ‘How dare he speak to you like that?’ I said. ‘The cold-blooded old humbug95...’ But I was failing her in sympathy.
‘No,’ she said ‘it’s not that. He’s quite right. They know all about it, Bridey and his widow; they’ve got it in black and white; they bought it for a penny at the church door.
You can get anything there for a penny, in black and white, and nobody to see that you
pay; only an old woman with a broom at the other end, rattling96 round the confessionals,
and a young woman lighting97 a candle at the Seven Dolours. Put a penny in the box, or not, just as you like; take your tract89. There you’ve got it, in black and white. ‘All in one word, too, one little, flat, deadly word that covers a lifetime. ‘ “Living in sin”; not just doing wrong, as I did when I went to America; doing wrong, knowing it is wrong, stopping doing it, forgetting. That’s not what they mean. That’s not Bridey’s pennyworth. He means just what it says in black and white.
‘Living in sin, with sin, always the same, like an idiot child carefully nursed, guarded from the world. “Poor Julia,” they say, “she can’t go out. She’s got to take care of her sin. A pity it ever lived,”
they say, “but it’s so strong. Children like that always are.
Julia’s so good to her little, mad sin.” ‘
‘An hour ago,’ I thought, ‘under the sunset, she sat turning her ring in the water and counting the days of happiness; now under the first stars and the last grey whisper of day, all this mysterious tumult98 of sorrow! What had happened to us in the Painted Parlour? What shadow had fallen in the candlelight? Two rough sentences and a trite99 phrase.’ She was beside herself; her voice, now muffled100 in my breast, now clear and anguished101, came to me in single words and broken sentences. ‘Past and future; the years when I was trying to be a good wife, in the cigar smoke, while the counters clicked on the backgammon board, and the man who was “dummy” at the men’s table filled the glasses; when I was trying to bear his child, torn in pieces by something already dead; putting him away, forgetting him, finding you, the past two years with you, all the future with you, all the future with or without you, war coming, world ending - sin.
‘A word from so long ago, from Nanny Hawkins stitching by the hearth102 and the nightlight burning before the Sacred Heart. Cordelia and me with the catechism, in mummy’s room, before luncheon103 on Sundays. Mummy carrying my sin with her to church, bowed under it and the black lace veil, in the chapel104; slipping out with it in London before the fires were lit; taking it with her through the empty streets, where the milkman’s ponies105 stood with their forefeet on the pavement; mummy dying with my sin eating at her, more cruelly than her own deadly illness. ‘Mummy dying with it; Christ dying with it, nailed hand and foot; hanging over the bed in the night-nursery; hanging year after year in the dark little study at Farm Street with the shining oilcloth hanging in the dark church where only the old char-woman raises the dust and one candle burns; hanging at noon high among the crowds and the soldiers; no comfort except a sponge of vinegar and the kind words of a thief; hanging for ever; never the cool sepulchre and the grave clothes spread on the stone slab106, never the oil and spices in the dark cave; always the midday sun and the dice23 clicking for the seamless coat.
‘No way back; the gates barred; all the saints and angels posted along the walls. Thrown away, scrapped107, rotting down; the old man with lupus and the forked stick who limps out at nightfall to turn the rubbish, hoping for something to put in his sack, something marketable, turns away with disgust.
‘Nameless and dead, like the baby they wrapped up and took away before I had seen her.’
Between her tears she talked herself into silence. I could do nothing; I was adrift in a strange sea; my hands on the metal-spun threads of her tunic were cold and stiff, my eyes dry; I was as far from her in spirit, as she clung to me in the darkness, as when years ago I had lit her cigarette on the way from the station; as far as when she was out of mind, in the dry, empty years at the Old Rectory, and in the jungle. Tears spring from speech; presently in her silence her weeping stopped. She sat up, away from me, took my handkerchief, shivered, rose to her feet.
‘Well,’ she said, in a voice much like normal. ‘Bridey is one for bombshells, isn’t he?’
I followed her into the house and to her room; she sat at her looking-glass. ‘Considering that I’ve just recovered from a fit of hysteria,’ she said, ‘I don’t call that at all bad.’ Her eyes seemed unnaturally108 large and bright, her cheeks pale with two spots of high colour, where, as a girl, she used to put a dab42 of rouge109. ‘Most hysterical110 women look as if they had a bad cold. You’d better change your shirt before going down; it’s all tears and lipstick111.’
‘Are we going down?’
‘Of course, we mustn’t leave poor Bridey on his engagement night.’ When I went back to her she said: ‘I’m sorry for that appalling112 scene, Charles. I can’t explain.’
Brideshead was in the library, smoking his pipe, placidly reading a detective story.
‘Was it nice out? If I’d known you were going I’d have come, too.’
‘Rather cold.’
‘I hope it’s not going to be inconvenient113 for Rex moving out of here. You see, Barton Street is much too small for us and the three children. Besides, Beryl likes the country. In his letter papa proposed making over the whole estate right away.’ I remembered how Rex had greeted me on my first arrival at Brideshead as Julia’s guest. ‘A very happy arrangement,’ he had said. ‘Suits me down to the ground. The old boy keeps the place up; Bridey does all the feudal114 stuff with the tenants115; I have the run of the house rent free. All it costs me is the food and the wages of the indoor servants. Couldn’t ask fairer than that, could you?’
‘I should think he’ll be sorry to go,’ I said.
‘Oh, he’ll find another bargain somewhere, ‘ said Julia; ‘trust him.’ ‘Beryl’s got some furniture of her own she’s very attached to. I don’t know if it would go very well here. You know, oak dressers and coffin116 stools and things. I thought she could put it in mummy’s old room.
‘Yes, that would be the place.’
So brother and sister sat and talked about the arrangement of the house until bed-time. ‘An hour ago,’ I thought, ‘in the black refuge in the box hedge, she wept her heart out for the death of her God; now she is discussing whether Beryl’s children shall take the old smoking-room or the school-room for their own.’ I was all at sea. ‘Julia,’ I said later, when Brideshead had gone upstairs, ‘have you ever seen a picture of Holman Hunt’s called “The Awakened117 Conscience” ‘ ‘No.’
I had seen a copy of Pre-Raphaelitism in the library some days before; I found it again and read her Ruskin’s description. She laughed quite happily. ‘You’re perfectly118 right. That’s exactly what I did feel.’ ‘But, darling, I won’t believe that great spout119 of tears came just from a few words.of Bridey’s. You must have been thinking about it before.’ ‘Hardly at all; now and then; more, lately, with the Last Trump120 so near.’ ‘Of course it’s a thing psychologists could explain; a preconditioning from childhood; feelings of guilt121 from the nonsense you were taught in the nursery. You do know at heart that it’s all bosh, don’t you?’
‘How I wish it was!’
‘Sebastian once said almost the same thing to me.’
‘He’s gone back to the Church, you know. Of course, he never left it as definitely as I did. I’ve gone too far; there’s no turning back now; I know that, if that’s what you mean by thinking it all bosh. All I can hope to do is to put my life in some sort of order in a human way, before all human order comes to an end. That’s why I want to marry you. I should like to have a child. That’s one thing I can do...Let’s go out again. The moon should be up by now.’
The moon was full and high. We walked round the house; under the limes Julia paused and idly snapped off one of the long shoots, last year’s growth, that fringed their boles, and stripped it as she walked, making a switch, as children do, but with petulant122 movements that were not a child’s, snatching nervously123 at the leaves and crumbling124 them between her fingers; she began peeling the bark, scratching it with her nails. Once more we stood by the fountain.
‘It’s like the setting of a comedy,’ I said. ‘Scene: a Baroque fountain in a nobleman’s grounds. Act one, sunset; act two, dusk; act three, moonlight. The characters keep assembling at the fountain for no very clear reason.’
‘Comedy?’
‘Drama. Tragedy. Farce125. What you will. This is the reconciliation126 scene.’
‘Was there a quarrel?’
‘Estrangement and misunderstanding in act two.’
‘Oh, don’t talk in that damned bounderish way. Why must you see everything second-hand127? Why must this be a play? Why must my conscience be a Pre-Raphaelite picture?’ ‘It’s a way I have.’
‘I hate it.’
Her anger was as unexpected as every change on this evening of swift veering128 moods. Suddenly she cut me across the face with her switch, a vicious, stinging little blow as hard as she could strike.
‘Now do you see how I hate it?’
She hit me again.
‘All right,’ I said ‘go on.’
Then, though her hand was raised, she stopped and threw the half-peeled wand into the water, where it floated white and black in the moonlight. ‘Did that hurt?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did it?...Did I?’
In the instant her rage was gone; her tears, newly flowing, were on my cheek. I held her at arm’s length and she put down her head, stroking my hand on her shoulder with her face, catlike, but, unlike a cat, leaving a tear there.
‘Cat on the roof-top,’ I said.
‘Beast!’
She bit at my hand, but when I did not move it and her teeth touched me, she changed the bite to a kiss, the kiss to a lick of her tongue.
‘Cat in the moonlight.’
This was the mood I knew. We turned towards the house. When we came to the lighted hall she said: ‘Your poor face,’ touching129 the weals with her fingers. ‘Will there be a mark tomorrow?’
‘I expect so.’
‘Charles, am I going crazy? What’s happened tonight? I’m so tired.’ She yawned; a fit of yawning took her. She sat at her dressing table, head bowed, hair over her face, yawning helplessly; when she looked up I saw over her shoulder in the glass a face that was dazed with weariness like a retreating soldier’s, and beside it my own, streaked130 with two crimson131 lines.
‘So tired,’ she repeated,, taking off her gold tunic and letting it fall to the floor, ‘tired and crazy and good for nothing.’
I saw her to bed; the blue lids fell over her eyes; her pale lips moved on the pillow but whether to wish me good night or to murmur132 a prayer - a jingle133 of the nursery that came to her now in the twilight world between sorrow and sleep: some ancient pious70 rhyme that had come down to Nanny Hawkins from centuries of bedtime whispering, through all the changes of language, from the days of pack-horses on the Pilgrim’s Way - I did not know.
Next night Rex and his political associates were with us.
‘They won’t fight.’
‘They can’t fight. They haven’t the money; they haven’t the oil.’
‘They haven’t the wolfram; they haven’t the men.’
‘They’re afraid.’
‘Scared of the French; scared of the Czechs; scared of the Slovaks; scared of us.’
‘Of course it’s a bluff Where’s their tungsten? Where’s their manganese?’
‘Where’s their chrome?’
‘I’ll tell you a thing...’
‘Listen to this; it’ll be good; Rex will tell you a thing.’ Friend of mine motoring in the Black Forest only the other day, just came back and told me about it while we played a round of golf. Well, this friend driving along, turned down a lane into the high road. What should he find but a military convoy136? Couldn’t stop, drove right into it, smack137 into a tank, broadside on. Gave himself up for dead...Hold on this is the funny part.’
‘This is the funny part.’
‘Drove clean through it, didn’t scratch his paint;. What do you think? It was made of canvas - a bamboo frame and painted canvas.’
‘They haven’t the steel.’
‘They haven’t the tools. They haven’t the labour. They’re half starving. They haven’t the fats. The children have rickets138.’
‘The women are barren.’
‘The men are impotent.’
‘They haven’t the doctors.’
‘The doctors were Jewish.’
‘Now they’ve got consumption.’
‘Now they’ve got syphilis.’
‘Goering told a friend of mine...’
‘Goebbels told a friend of mine...’
‘Ribbentrop told me that the army just kept Hitler in power so long as he was able to get things for nothing. The moment anyone stands up to him, he’s finished. The army will shoot him.’
‘The Liberals will hang him.’
‘The Communists will tear him limb from limb.’
‘He’ll scupper himself.’
‘He’d do it now if it wasn’t for Chamberlain.’
‘If it wasn’t for Halifax.’
‘If it wasn’t for Sir Samuel Hoare.’
‘And the 1922Committee.’
‘Peace Pledge.’
‘Foreign Office.’
‘New York Banks.’
‘All that’s wanted is a good strong line.’
‘A line from Rex.’
‘We’ll give Europe a good strong line. Europe is waiting for a speech from Rex.’
‘And a speech from me.’
‘And a speech from me. Rally the freedom-loving peoples of the world. Germany will rise; Austria will rise. The Czechs and the Slovaks are bound to rise.’ ‘To a speech from Rex and a speech from me.’
‘What about a rubber? How about a whisky? Which of you chaps will have a big cigar? Hullo, you two going out?’
‘Yes, Rex, ‘ said Julia. ‘Charles and I are going into the moonlight.’ We shut the windows behind us and the voices ceased; the moonlight lay like hoar-frost on the terrace and the music of the fountain crept in our ears- the stone balustrade of the terrace might have been the Trojan walls, and in the silent park might have stood the Grecian tents where Cressid lay that night.
‘A few days, a few months.’
‘No time to be lost.’
‘A lifetime between the rising of the moon and its setting. Then the dark.’
“你还记得吗，”朱莉娅在一个静谧的散发着橙花香味的夜晚说，“还记得那次暴风雨吗？”
“青铜大门乒乒乓乓地响。”
“玻璃纸包的玫瑰花。”
“举办那次聚会，后来再没有看见过的那个人。”
“你还记得吗，最后一天的傍晚，太阳不正像今天下午一样露出来？”
那是个乌云低垂的下午，刮着夏天伴有雨雹的暴风，天色晦暗，因此我有时不得不停下工作，把坐在那里昏昏欲睡的朱莉娅唤醒——她常常这样坐着。给她画像我从来不感到厌倦，在她身上永远能够发现新的富丽而优美的姿态——我们终于早早地去洗了澡，下楼的时候，又换上了吃晚饭的礼服，在白天的最后半个小时里，我们发现世界变了样：太阳露出来了，狂风减弱了，变成了轻柔的微风，吹拂着橙树盛开的花朵，带来了橙花的芳香，由于最近下的几场雨显得香气格外清新，并且和黄杨树以及逐渐干起来的石头的甜丝丝的气息混杂在一起。方尖塔的影子落在平台上。
我从柱廊的掩蔽处拿来了两个露天用的靠垫，安放在喷泉边上。朱莉娅坐在那儿，她穿着一件金黄色紧身短上衣，又穿了一件白色长衣，在水里悠闲地转动着手上戴着的绿宝石戒指，来反射落日的余辉；在她的乌黑的头顶上，矗立着石头雕刻的各种动物，上面是一堆堆绿色的台藓，闪着光的石头，和浓重的阴影，动物四周的泉水闪着光，喷涌着，散落成一片片疏疏落落的光芒。
“……有那么多可回忆的啊，”她说，“从那时以后，我们彼此就没见过。有多少天了，有一百天了吧，你说有吗？”
“没有那么多。”
“两个圣诞节”——两次一年一度的、在萧瑟季节里的短途旅行成了一种礼节。波顿，我们家族的家，我堂兄贾斯珀的家，怀着童年时代愁闷的回忆，重访家里的油松回廊和湿淋淋的墙壁！我和父亲是怒气冲冲地并排坐在伯父的亨伯牌小汽车里，快到韦林顿尼亚斯林阴道的时候，我们知道沿着这条路开到头就可以看到我的伯父、伯母、菲利帕姑姑、堂兄贾斯珀，以及这几年才有的贾斯珀的妻子和孩子们；除了这些人，就是那些也许已经到了、也许随时可能来到的人，就是我的妻子和我的孩子们。这一年一度的感恩圣餐把我们联系在一起；在冬青树、檞寄生和雕刻的云杉下面，按照仪式举行的客厅游戏，还有带白兰地味的黄油，卡尔斯巴德地方的葡萄干，还有在那间油松门廊里扮成黑人演唱歌曲的乡村唱诗班，还有金绳和有枝叶花纹的包装纸，等等，我和她作为夫妇受到了接待，尽管这一年来流言蜚语不胫而走。“为了我们的孩子，我们必须维持现状，不管我们要付出多大的代价，”我的妻子说。
“是的，两个圣诞节……还有在我跟随你去卡普里岛以前那令人陶醉的三天。”
“我们的第一个夏天。”
“你还记得吧，当时我如何在那波利港市流连，后来又去找你，我们约好在山坡小路上会见，又是怎么出了岔子吗？”
“当时我回到了别墅，说道：‘爸爸，你知道谁到了旅馆吗？’他说：‘是查尔斯·赖德，我猜。’我说：‘为什么你想起他呢？’爸爸回答道：‘卡拉从巴黎回来带来了你和他来往很密的消息。他似乎很喜欢我的孩子们。不管怎样，把他带到这儿来吧；我想我们有空房间。’”
“你一度患了黄疸，不让我见你。”
“而当我得了流行性感冒的时候，你也不敢来了。”
“去雷克斯的选区就不计其数了。”
“举行加冕典礼那个星期，你从伦敦逃出去了。你肩负着友好的使命去见岳父大人。那次你去牛津画了那幅他们并不喜欢的画。哟，不错，足足有一百天呢。”
“两年多的时间里浪费了一百天……没有一天感到冷淡、猜疑和失望。”
“从来没有过。”
我们陷入了沉默；只有鸟儿在橙树上用细小清脆的歌喉重迭地啁啾鸣叫；只有泉水在石雕动物中间潺潺低语。
朱莉娅从我的上衣口袋里掏出手帕，把手揩干了；然后点燃了一支烟卷。我唯恐打破了回忆的魅力，可是我们的思想这一次并没有想到一块去，朱莉娅最后开口时，她哀伤地说道：“还要多少天？又是一个一百天？”
“是一辈子。”
“查尔斯，我想和你结婚。”
“将来有一天吧；为什么要现在？”
“因为战争，”她说道，“今年，明年，战争说不定不久就会发生。我希望和你过一两天真正和平的日子。”
“这样就不和平吗？”
这时太阳已经落进山谷那边那排树林后面了；对面整个山坡已经笼罩在暮色里，下面的几泓湖水染成一片火红，光线把长长的影子拖在牧草地上，变得更浓、更辉煌，仿佛是回光返照，光线全部照射在这所房屋的石墙上，它照亮了窗户玻璃，辉映在檐口、柱廊和穹顶上，将堆积起来的泥土、石头、叶子的色彩和芳香扩散开来，把我身边这个女人的头部和双肩照得光彩夺目。
“你说的‘和平’是什么意思，如果不是眼前的情景？”
“比这复杂多了，”她又用一种冷冰冰干巴巴的腔调继续说道，“结婚并不是我们一时冲动就可以办成的事。首先要办一个离婚手续——是两个离婚手续。我们得好好筹划。”
“筹划、离婚、战争——都在这样的一个黄昏办。”
“有时候，”朱莉娅说，“我觉得过去和将来在两头挤得如此紧，根本就没有现在的地方。”
这时威尔科克斯走下台阶，进到落日余辉里，他告诉我们晚饭已经准备好了。
在“彩绘客厅”里，百叶窗关上，窗帘拉上了，蜡烛点燃了。
“喂，这儿摆了三个人的餐具。”
“半个小时以前布赖兹赫德回来了，夫人。他留下话：他要回来稍晚一些，请你不要等他吃晚饭。”
“从他上次在这里算起，似乎已经有好几个月了，”朱莉娅说道，“他在伦敦究竟干些什么呢？”
这是我们两人之间常常推测的一件事情——于是就产生了许多奇想，因为布赖德是个神秘人物；一个从地底下出来的人；一只躲避阳光、长鼻硬嘴的、掘洞的冬眠动物。在他成年的一生中他完全无所事事，什么进入军界啦，进议院啦，去修道院啦，这些统统成了空话。而外界确实知道他做过的一切就是收藏火柴盒——这是因为在缺乏消息的淡季里，这件事成了某家报纸的一条新闻，标题为“贵族的不凡癖好”——就是收藏火柴盒；他把火柴盒摞在几个架子上保存，并且编了索引卡片，在他那个不算宽敞的威斯敏斯特的住所里，年复一年地火柴盒要占据着愈来愈大的空间。最初他对报纸给他引起的狼藉名声感到很狼狈，可是后来他却非常高兴，因为他发现这件新闻成了他同世界各地的火柴收藏家发生接触的手段了，现在他和那些人互通信件，互相交换复制品。除此之外，人们就不知道他还有别的什么爱好了。他仍然保持着马奇梅因家联合猎狐专家的地位，当他在家的时候，一个星期内就要恪尽厥职和人们去打两天猎；他从不和附近的领地更好一些的猎狐者一块去打猎。他对打猎也没有真正的热情，他在打猎的季节里出外围猎也不到十来次；他几乎没有什么朋友；他倒是去看望婶婶和姨妈；他参加为天主教募捐而举行的聚餐会。在布赖兹赫德庄园，他履行当地一切不可推卸的责任，他给讲台、宴会和委员会的会议室随身带来他自己的迟钝和冷漠的薄雾。
“上个星期在旺茨沃思人们发现有一个女孩子被人用一段有倒刺的铁丝勒死了，”我说道，并回想起一个古老的奇想。
“那肯定是布赖德。他可不正经。”
我们已经在餐桌边坐了一刻钟的时候，他才来和我们一起吃饭，他穿着一件深绿丝绒的吸烟服闷闷不乐地走进房间，这套衣服他放在布赖兹赫德庄园，他每逢回来就穿上。在三十八岁的时候，他已经变得迟钝了，秃顶了，可能被误认为他有四十五岁了。
“哦，”他说，“哦，就你们两个；我原来还指望在这儿看到雷克斯呢。”
我经常纳闷他怎么看待我，怎么看待我一直住在这里；他似乎把我当作家庭成员接受了，不感到奇怪。过去两年里有两次他似乎以友好的举动而使我感到诧异；一次是这个圣诞节他寄给我一张他穿着马尔他爵士官服的照片，不久又邀请我同他一起去一家晚餐俱乐部。这两次举动有一个解释；一是他的照片印得太多，不知道该如何处理；二是他很以他的俱乐部为荣。这是各行各业的名流的奇怪的联谊会，他们每个月聚会一次，度过一个繁文缛礼滑稽可笑的夜晚；每个人都有自己的绰号——布赖德叫做“大公兄弟”——而且每个人都有一枚专门设计的、戴起来象征各自等级的宝石，就像骑士的勋章一样；他们的背心上都缀着俱乐部的纽扣，并且有一套讲究的引见客人的仪式；吃完了晚饭就读报纸，发表一通滑稽演说。显然他们争着要带来名流，由于布赖德朋友寥寥无几，又由于我还算有些名气，因此我就接到邀请。即使在这个吃喝交际的夜晚，我都能觉察出来我的主人散发出使联欢会不安的一股小小的磁波，却在自己周围创造出让大家感到尴尬的一池死水，他像死木头疙瘩一样冷静地漂浮在水上。
他坐在我的对面，垂着他那头发稀疏、粉红色的脑袋，俯在他的盘子上。
“喂，布赖德，有什么消息？”
“事实上，”他说道，“我有些消息。不过不必着急。”
“现在就跟我们说吧。”
他做了一个怪相，我认为这是表示“不能当着仆人们的面说”的意思，他接着说：“查尔斯，你的画怎么样了？”
“哪张画？”
“凡是你计划中的。”
“我开始画一张朱莉娅的素描，可是今天一整天光线都很难处理。”
“给朱莉娅画？我还以为你以前给她画过了呢。我想这是从画建筑变成画人物吧，这可困难多了。”
他说起话来常常要停顿很长时间，停顿时间里他的思想仿佛停滞了似的；而且总要别人提醒他刚才他说到什么地方了。这时大约过了一分多钟，他又说道：“世界上充满了各种各样的主题。”
“很对，布赖德。”
“如果我是个画家的话，”他说，“我每次都要选择一个完全不同的主题；具有丰富的行动的主题，就像……”又一次停顿。我不知道会谈到什么？从伦敦到爱丁堡的快车？轻骑兵队的冲锋？抑或亨莱塞船会？接着他又出人意外的说道：“……就像麦克白。”把布赖德想象成为一个行动派画家那是极荒谬的；布赖德自己倒常常是很荒谬的，然而他以他表现出来的冷漠和无情赢得了一定的尊重。他既年事已长，又稚气未消；当代生活的气息他身上似乎一点也没有；他有些拘谨，难与人交往，对世事漠不关心，这些态度倒使人不得不尊敬他；尽管我们经常取笑他，不过他并非是完全可笑的，他有时甚至是令人生畏的。
我们一直在谈论中欧的消息，直到布赖德突然打断了枯燥的话题，他问道：“妈妈的首饰在什么地方了？”
“这就是她的，”朱莉娅说，“还有这个。她本人的东西都在我和科迪莉娅手里。属于家庭的首饰都送到银行去了。”
“我很久没有看见这些东西了——我不知道我是不是全部首饰都看见过。有些什么东西？有人跟我说，是不是有些很名贵的红宝石？”
“有的，是一串项链。妈妈过去常常戴，你不记得吗？还有些珍珠——她总是戴了出去的。不过这些东西大部分都是年年放在银行里。我记得还有一些难看的宝石垫座，还有一个维多利亚时代的宝石项圈，现在没人戴得了啦。还有大量的一般宝石。你问这个干什么？”
“我想哪天看看这些东西。”
“喂，爸爸不是要把这些东西典当了吧？他没有再欠债吧？”
“不，不，没有这类的事情。”
布赖德吃得很慢，很多。我和朱莉娅都注视着坐在蜡烛中间的他。过了会儿他说：“如果我是雷克斯的话”——似乎他满脑子都是这类假设：“假如我是威斯敏斯特大主教的话”，“假如我是大西方铁路公司的老板的话”，“假如我是个女演员的话”，等等，仿佛仅仅由于命运捉弄人，他才没有成为这样的一个人物，也许哪天早晨醒来他会发现事情已经改正过来——“如果我是雷克斯的话，我就会住在我的选区。”
“雷克斯说不住在那里，每周可以免掉四天的工作。”
“很遗憾他不在这儿。我要宣布一件小事情。”
“布赖德，别那么神秘。说出来吧。”
他又做了一个怪相，似乎意味着“不能当着仆人们的面说”。
后来当葡萄酒放到了桌子上，只剩下我们三人的时候，朱莉娅说道：“直到我听到你宣布了我才走。”
“好吧。”布赖德说，他靠在椅子上，眼睛死死地盯住他的酒杯，“你只要等到星期一就可以看到报纸上刊登出来。我已经定好要结婚了。我希望你们会高兴的。”
“布赖德，太……太惊人啦！和谁啊？”
“噢，和你不认识的一位。”
“她漂亮吗？”
“我想你倒未必会说她很漂亮。我认为‘标致’这个词儿倒和她有关系。她是个大个子女人。”
“胖吗？”
“不，是高大。她名叫马斯普拉特夫人。她的教名是贝里尔。我认识她很久了，而且直到去年她还有丈夫；现在她成了寡妇。你们笑什么？”
“很抱歉。倒是一点儿也不可笑。只是太出人意料了。她……她的年龄和你差不多吧？”
“我想差不多。她有三个孩子，最大的孩子刚刚去了安普尔福思。她的境况不太好。”
“不过，布赖德，你是在哪儿找到她的？”
“她已故的丈夫，海军上将马斯普拉特，也收集火柴盒。”他十分严肃地说。
朱莉娅颤抖了一下，差点没笑出声来，随后克制住自己。她又问道：“你不是因为她的那些火柴盒才要她的吧？”
“不是，不是，全部收藏品都已经遗赠给法尔默思市图书馆了。我对她极为爱慕。尽管她生活拮据，她还是个快乐的女人，非常喜欢演戏。她和天主教演员协会有联系。”
“爸爸知道吗？”
“今天早晨我收到他的一封来信表示同意。他一直催我择日结婚。”
这时我和朱莉娅同时想到，我们不能一味听任好奇和惊诧支配；因此我们用一种几乎不带嘲笑的、尽量柔和的口吻向他表示祝贺。
“谢谢你们，”他说道，“谢谢你们。我觉得我非常幸运。”
“可是我们什么时候会见到她呢？我的确觉得你应该把她带到这里来。”
他什么也没说，一边小口喝着葡萄酒，一边凝视着。
“布赖德，”朱莉娅说，“你这个狡猾的、得意洋洋、没有心肝的家伙，为什么不把她带来呢？”
“哦，我不能这么做，你知道的。”
“为什么不能？我非常想见她。现在就给她打电话请她来吧。这时候撇下她一个人在家，她会认为我们太古怪了。”
“她还有孩子们呢，”布赖兹赫德说，“再说，你不就是挺古怪的吗？”
“你这话是什么意思？”
布赖兹赫德扬起头来，严肃地望着他的妹妹，继续用同样单调的口吻说道，好像他现在说的事同前边说的完全没有两样。“照现在这个情形，我不能请她到这儿来。这是不合适的。毕竟，我在这里只是个房客。就这儿是谁的来说，眼下还是雷克斯的家。这里发生什么事，是他自己的事。不过我不能把贝里尔带到这儿来。”
“我简直不理解。”朱莉娅相当严厉地说。我望着她。一切温和的嘲笑都不见了；看起来她警觉了，差不多大吃一惊。“当然，我和雷克斯都希望她来。”
“噢，不错，这一点我并不怀疑。问题完全不在这里。”他喝干了葡萄酒，又斟满了，把酒瓶推到我面前。“你们应该理解，贝里尔是一位具有严格天主教原则的女人，这种原则由于中产阶级的偏见更加牢不可破。我不可能把她带到这儿来。你愿意和雷克斯姘居，还是和查尔斯，或者跟两个人姘居，这种事无关紧要——我也一向总是避免探究你们的私生活——可是无论如何贝里尔是不会同意做你的客人的。”
朱莉娅站起来。“呸，你这个自以为了不起的蠢货……”她说到这儿住口了，转身朝门口走去。
起初我以为她会忍俊不住笑起来；当我随后打开门到她那里时，却惊恐地看到她泪流满面。我犹疑起来。她从我身边溜过去，看也没有看一眼。
“大概我给别人这么一种印象，仿佛这是一次有利可图的婚姻，”布赖兹赫德继续若无其事地说道，“我不能为贝里尔辩护；毫无疑问，我的牢固地位对她是有影响的。的确她自己也这么说过。不过就我自己来说，请允许我着重指出来，我对她可是很倾心啊。”
“布赖德，你对朱莉娅说了多么过分的无礼的话！”
“并没有什么会引起她反感的话。我只不过说了一件她知道得很清楚的事实。”
她不在图书室里；我上楼到她的房间，她也不在那里。我在她那摆满了东西的梳妆台旁站了一会儿，不知道她是否会回来。通过敞开的窗户，房子里的灯光经过阳台流泻出去，和暮色交融在一起，照到喷泉那儿，这个喷泉总是吸引我们去休憩养神，我瞥见了靠在石头上的白裙子。时近夜晚了。我发现她躲在最漆黑的隐蔽处，坐在木椅子上，在环绕着水池的修剪过的黄杨树的凹处。我把她搂在怀里，她把脸贴到我的心上。
“你在外面不冷吗？”
她没有回答，只是依偎得更紧了，接着就啜泣得颤抖起来。
“亲爱的，怎么啦？你干吗在乎呢？那个老呆子说什么，又有什么关系呢？”
“我不在乎；没什么关系。只是让人感到震惊。别笑话我。”
在我们仿佛是一辈子的两年恋爱时间里，我还没有看到她像现在这样激动过，这样毫无办法。
“他怎么敢跟你像这样讲话？”我说，“这个冷血的老骗子……”可是我的同情并没有得到她的反应。
“不，”她说，“不是这样。他完全对，他们，布赖德和他那个寡妇全都知道了；白纸黑字他们看得清楚。他们在教堂门口花上一便士，就可以买到印刷传单了。你要是花上一便士，什么事情都可以知道，白纸黑字印得清楚，谁也不知道你花了钱；只有一个老妇女拿把笤帚在忏悔室那头哗哗地扫着，一个年轻的女人在七悲圣母像前点亮一支蜡烛。往盒子里放进一个便士，不放也行，随你的便；然后取走你的传单。用白纸黑字印出来，这你就明白了。
“归结为一个字眼，也就是归结为一个简短的、平凡的、致命的并且影响你一生的字眼。
“这就是‘姘居’。不仅仅是做了错事，像我当初去美国做的错事。做了错事，知道错了，不再做了，就忘记它。他们指的可不是这个。这可丝毫也不是布赖德的意思。他的意思就像用白纸黑字表明的一样。
“姘居，或者有罪的生活，总之都一样，就像一个受到小心照料和保护他不受人世影响的白痴儿童一样。‘可怜的朱莉娅，’人们说，‘她可不能再抛头露面了。她得清楚她的罪孽。这种事仍然存在，多么遗憾。’他们会说，‘可是这罪孽又是那么深重。像这样的孩子总是这样的。朱莉娅舍不得抛弃她的小小的、疯狂的罪孽。’”
“就在一个小时前，”我想，“在夕阳下她坐着在水里转动她的戒指，数着幸福的日子；而现在星星初现，白天阴暗的飒飒声刚刚结束，竟全是不可名状的哀伤！我们在彩绘客厅里发生了什么事情？烛光里落下什么阴影？两句粗言，一句陈词滥调而已。”她发狂了；她的声音，一会儿在我胸前闷响，一会儿清晰而充满了痛苦，以零落的词和断断续续的句子传到我耳中。
“过去和将来；那些年我还试着想做一个好妻子，在雪茄烟的烟雾中，筹码在十五子棋棋盘上噼啪作响，在男人们桌旁斟酒的那个”笨蛋“般的男人；当我打算给他生个孩子的时候，死胎折磨得我死去活来；抛开他，忘掉他，找到了你，和你在一起的两年，和你在一起的将来，或者不和你在一起的将来，战争来临，世界毁灭了——罪孽。
“很早以前从坐在圣心像前，坐在壁炉旁，伴着摇曳的烛光在编织的霍金斯保姆那里听到罪孽这个字眼。每个星期日午餐以后，在妈妈房间里，我和科迪莉娅都带着《教义问答》。妈妈带着我的罪恶去教堂，在伦敦点燃灯火之前偷偷溜出来；带着我的罪恶走过空荡荡的大街，大街上送奶的人的马前蹄踏在人行道上。妈妈是由于我那使她苦恼万分的罪恶死的，这罪恶比她自己致命的病还要残酷。
“妈妈是由于我的罪孽死的；基督是由于世人的罪孽死的，手和脚都钉在十字架上；罪孽笼罩在夜间育婴室的床边；年复一年地笼罩在法姆大街那间狭小的、铺着闪光油布的书房里；笼罩在那座只有一个年老的打杂女工扬起灰尘、只有一支蜡烛在燃烧的阴暗的教堂里；在正午、高高地笼罩在人群和士兵头上；除了蘸满醋的海绒和一个强盗的宽心话以外，没有得到什么安慰；永远笼罩着；永远没有冰冷的石墓，石板上也没有展开的尸衣，黑洞洞的墓穴里也没有香油和香料；总是正午的太阳和掷骰子分一件无缝衣服的喀嗒声。
“没有退路；大门上了栓；圣徒们和天使们都沿墙排列着。被抛弃了，给丢弃了，颓毁了；那个患狼疮的老头带着根有叉的手杖，在黄昏的时候一瘸一拐地出去翻弄垃圾，希望找到什么东西装进麻袋里，找到可以出卖的东西，可是厌恶地走开了。
“没有名字，死了，就像那个死婴。我还没有看到她，就被他们包起来拿走了。”
她在哭泣中间讲着讲着就陷入了沉寂。我毫无办法；我漂流在一个陌生的海上；我的手放在她那件紧身短外衣的金缕线上，又冷又僵，我的眼睛干涩；现在当她在黑暗中紧紧地抱住我的时候我的精神却离开她很远，正像许多年以前从火车站回家路上我给她点燃纸烟的时候一样远；也像当年她在教区长旧宅精神错乱的那些冷寞、空虚的岁月一样远，像我在密林丛莽中时一样远。
眼泪随着絮语涌出来；过了一会儿她默默地停止哭泣。她坐起来，离开我，拿着我的手帕，颤抖着，站起来。
“好啦，”她用一种听起来正常多了的声音说道，“布赖德总是干这种出人意料的事情，是不是？”
我跟她走进屋，到她的房间。她坐在镜子前面。“我认为我已经摆脱歇斯底里恢复正常了，”她说道，“我认为并不算坏。”她的眼睛显得不正常地很大很亮，她那苍白的双颊上有两块红晕，那是她做姑娘时常常搽胭脂的地方。“大部分歇斯底里的女人看上去都好像得了重伤风似的。你最好先换掉这件衬衫再下楼；上面全是泪水和口红。”
“我们还要下去吗？”
“当然啦，我们不能在可怜的布赖德订婚的晚上丢下他。”
当我回到她房里的时候，她说：“查尔斯，我很抱歉刚才出现了那样可怕的情形。我解释不清。”
布赖兹赫德正在图书室里，抽着烟斗，平静地读着一本侦探小说。
“外面天气好吗？如果我知道你们要去的话，我就会来了。”
“外面相当冷。”
“我希望雷克斯从这儿搬出去不会感到不方便。你知道，巴顿大街的房子对于我们和三个孩子来说地方太小了。而且贝里尔喜欢乡村。爸爸在来信中还建议把这里所有的地产立刻都转让出去呢。”
我记得我作为朱莉娅的客人初到布赖兹赫德时雷克斯曾多么热烈地欢迎我。“非常令人高兴的安排啊，”他曾经这么说过，“对我简直太合适了。老家伙一直照料这个地方，而布赖德和那些承租人搞那些封建地租的玩艺儿，我则免费管理房子。我开销的只是伙食费和宅子里仆人的工资。你不能要求比这更公平的待遇，是不是？”
“我觉得要他走，他会很伤心的。”我说道。
“喏，他会在别处找到便宜的地方，”朱莉娅说道，“相信他吧。”
“贝里尔还有几件她自己十分喜爱的家具。我不知道那些家具在这儿是不是适用。你知道，是些栎木的食具柜，几条架棺材的凳子一类的东西。我想她可以把这些东西放在妈妈原来那间屋子里。”
“不错，那儿正好。”
就这样兄妹二人坐在一起讨论如何安排这栋住宅，一直谈到睡觉的时候。“就在一个小时以前，”我思忖着，“在那黄杨树篱的黑洞洞的隐蔽地方她还为
收听单词发音 |
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tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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overcast
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| adj.阴天的，阴暗的，愁闷的；v.遮盖，（使）变暗，包边缝；n.覆盖，阴天 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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merge
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| v.(使)结合，(使)合并，(使)合为一体 | |
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fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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obelisk
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| n.方尖塔 | |
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colonnade
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| n.柱廊 | |
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rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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glum
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| adj.闷闷不乐的，阴郁的 | |
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holly
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| n.[植]冬青属灌木 | |
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villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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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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twine
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| v.搓，织，编饰；（使）缠绕 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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penchant
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| n.爱好，嗜好；（强烈的）倾向 | |
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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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goodwill
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| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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panes
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| 窗玻璃( pane的名词复数 ) | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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glorifying
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| 赞美( glorify的现在分词 )； 颂扬； 美化； 使光荣 | |
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shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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burrowing
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| v.挖掘（洞穴），挖洞( burrow的现在分词 )；翻寻 | |
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hibernating
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| （某些动物）冬眠，蛰伏( hibernate的现在分词 ) | |
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shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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monastery
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| n.修道院，僧院，寺院 | |
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scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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swapped
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| 交换（工作）( swap的过去式和过去分词 )； 用…替换，把…换成，掉换（过来） | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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dab
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| v.轻触，轻拍，轻涂；n.(颜料等的)轻涂 | |
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aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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ponderously
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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sobriquet
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| n.绰号 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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symbolizing
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| v.象征，作为…的象征( symbolize的现在分词 ) | |
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facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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convivial
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| adj.狂欢的，欢乐的 | |
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55
emanating
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的现在分词 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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56
embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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57
sparse
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| adj.稀疏的，稀稀落落的，薄的 | |
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58
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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59
sketch
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| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
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60
tricky
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| adj.狡猾的，奸诈的；(工作等)棘手的，微妙的 | |
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61
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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62
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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63
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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64
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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65
impermeability
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| n.不能渗透的性质或状态,不渗透性,不透过性 | |
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66
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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67
rubies
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| 红宝石( ruby的名词复数 )； 红宝石色，深红色 | |
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68
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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69
copious
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| adj.丰富的，大量的 | |
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70
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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71
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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72
fixedly
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| adv.固定地；不屈地，坚定不移地 | |
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73
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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74
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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75
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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76
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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77
guild
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| n.行会，同业公会，协会 | |
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78
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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79
sipped
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| v.小口喝，呷，抿( sip的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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80
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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81
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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82
lodger
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| n.寄宿人，房客 | |
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83
fortified
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| adj. 加强的 | |
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84
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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85
pompous
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的；夸大的；豪华的 | |
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86
consternation
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| n.大为吃惊，惊骇 | |
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87
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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88
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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89
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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90
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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91
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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92
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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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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94
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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95
humbug
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| n.花招，谎话，欺骗 | |
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96
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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97
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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98
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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99
trite
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| adj.陈腐的 | |
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100
muffled
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| adj.（声音）被隔的；听不太清的；（衣服）裹严的；蒙住的v.压抑，捂住( muffle的过去式和过去分词 )；用厚厚的衣帽包着（自己） | |
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101
anguished
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| adj.极其痛苦的v.使极度痛苦(anguish的过去式) | |
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102
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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103
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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104
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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105
ponies
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| 矮种马，小型马( pony的名词复数 )； ￡25 25 英镑 | |
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106
slab
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| n.平板，厚的切片；v.切成厚板，以平板盖上 | |
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107
scrapped
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| 废弃(scrap的过去式与过去分词)； 打架 | |
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108
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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109
rouge
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| n.胭脂，口红唇膏；v.(在…上)擦口红 | |
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110
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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111
lipstick
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| n.口红，唇膏 | |
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112
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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113
inconvenient
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| adj.不方便的，令人感到麻烦的 | |
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114
feudal
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| adj.封建的，封地的，领地的 | |
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115
tenants
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| n.房客( tenant的名词复数 )；佃户；占用者；占有者 | |
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116
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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117
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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118
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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119
spout
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| v.喷出，涌出；滔滔不绝地讲；n.喷管；水柱 | |
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120
trump
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| n.王牌，法宝；v.打出王牌，吹喇叭 | |
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121
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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122
petulant
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| adj.性急的，暴躁的 | |
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123
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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124
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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125
farce
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| n.闹剧，笑剧，滑稽戏；胡闹 | |
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126
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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127
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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128
veering
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| n.改变的；犹豫的；顺时针方向转向；特指使船尾转向上风来改变航向v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的现在分词 )；（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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129
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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130
streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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131
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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132
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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133
jingle
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| n.叮当声，韵律简单的诗句；v.使叮当作响，叮当响，押韵 | |
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134
guts
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| v.狼吞虎咽，贪婪地吃，飞碟游戏（比赛双方每组5人，相距15码，互相掷接飞碟）；毁坏（建筑物等）的内部( gut的第三人称单数 )；取出…的内脏n.勇气( gut的名词复数 )；内脏；消化道的下段；肠 | |
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135
bluff
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| v.虚张声势，用假象骗人；n.虚张声势，欺骗 | |
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136
convoy
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| vt.护送，护卫，护航；n.护送；护送队 | |
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137
smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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138
rickets
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| n.软骨病，佝偻病，驼背 | |
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