IW hen at last I was taken out of the plaster, and the doctors had pulled me about to their hearts’ content, and nurseshad wheedled1 me into cautiously using my limbs, and I had been nauseated2 by their practically using baby talk to me,Marcus Kent told me I was to go and live in the country.
“Good air, quiet life, nothing to do—that’s the prescription3 for you. That sister of yours will look after you. Eat,sleep and imitate the vegetable kingdom as far as possible.”
I didn’t ask him if I’d ever be able to fly again. There are questions that you don’t ask because you’re afraid of theanswers to them. In the same way during the last five months I’d never asked if I was going to be condemned4 to lie onmy back all my life. I was afraid of a bright hypocritical reassurance5 from Sister. “Come now, what a question to ask!
We don’t let our patients go talking in that way!”
So I hadn’t asked—and it had been all right. I wasn’t to be a helpless cripple. I could move my legs, stand on them,finally walk a few steps—and if I did feel rather like an adventurous6 baby learning to toddle7, with wobbly knees andcotton wool soles to my feet—well, that was only weakness and disuse and would pass.
Marcus Kent, who is the right kind of doctor, answered what I hadn’t said.
“You’re going to recover completely,” he said. “We weren’t sure until last Tuesday when you had that finaloverhaul, but I can tell you so authoritatively9 now. But—it’s going to be a long business. A long and, if I may so, awearisome business. When it’s a question of healing nerves and muscles, the brain must help the body. Anyimpatience, any fretting10, will throw you back. And whatever you do, don’t ‘will yourself to get well quickly.’
Anything of that kind and you’ll find yourself back in a nursing home. You’ve got to take life slowly and easily, thetempo is marked Legato. Not only has your body got to recover, but your nerves have been weakened by the necessityof keeping you under drugs for so long.
“That’s why I say, go down to the country, take a house, get interested in local politics, in local scandal, in villagegossip. Take an inquisitive11 and violent interest in your neighbours. If I may make a suggestion, go to a part of theworld where you haven’t got any friends scattered12 about.”
I nodded. “I had already,” I said, “thought of that.”
I could think of nothing more insufferable than members of one’s own gang dropping in full of sympathy and theirown affairs.
“But Jerry, you’re looking marvellous—isn’t he? Absolutely. Darling, I must tell you—What do you think Busterhas done now?”
No, none of that for me. Dogs are wise. They crawl away into a quiet corner and lick their wounds and do notrejoin the world until they are whole once more.
So it came about that Joanna and I, sorting wildly through houseagents’ glowing eulogies13 of properties all over theBritish Isles14, selected Little Furze, Lymstock, as one of the “possibles” to be viewed, mainly because we had neverbeen to Lymstock, and knew no one in that neighbourhood.
And when Joanna saw Little Furze she decided15 at once that it was just the house we wanted.
It lay about half a mile out of Lymstock on the road leading up to the moors16. It was a prim17 low white house, with asloping Victorian veranda18 painted a faded green. It had a pleasant view over a slope of heather-covered land with thechurch spire19 of Lymstock down below to the left.
It had belonged to a family of maiden20 ladies, the Misses Barton, of whom only one was left, the youngest, MissEmily.
Miss Emily Barton was a charming little old lady who matched her house in an incredible way. In a soft apologeticvoice she explained to Joanna that she had never let her house before, indeed would never have thought of doing so,“but you see, my dear, things are so different nowadays—taxation, of course, and then my stocks and shares, so safe,as I always imagined, and indeed the bank manager himself recommended some of them, but they seem to be payingnothing at all these days—foreign, of course! And really it makes it all so difficult. One does not (I’m sure you willunderstand me, my dear, and not take offence, you look so kind) like the idea of letting one’s house to strangers—butsomething must be done, and really, having seen you, I shall be quite glad to think of you being here—it needs, youknow, young life. And I must confess I did shrink from the idea of having Men here!”
At this point, Joanna had to break the news of me. Miss Emily rallied well.
“Oh dear, I see. How sad! A flying accident? So brave, these young men. Still, your brother will be practically aninvalid—”
The thought seemed to soothe22 the gentle little lady. Presumably I should not be indulging in those grossermasculine activities which Emily Barton feared. She inquired diffidently if I smoked.
“Like a chimney,” said Joanna. “But then,” she pointed23 out, “so do I.”
“Of course, of course. So stupid of me. I’m afraid, you know, I haven’t moved with the times. My sisters were allolder than myself, and my dear mother lived to be ninety-seven—just fancy!—and was most particular. Yes, yes,everyone smokes now. The only thing is, there are no ashtrays24 in the house.”
Joanna said that we would bring lots of ashtrays, and she added with a smile, “We won’t put down cigarette endson your nice furniture, that I do promise you. Nothing makes me so mad myself as to see people do that.”
So it was settled and we took Little Furze for a period of six months, with an option of another three, and EmilyBarton explained to Joanna that she herself was going to be very comfortable because she was going into rooms keptby an old parlourmaid, “my faithful Florence,” who had married “after being with us for fifteen years. Such a nice girl,and her husband is in the building trade. They have a nice house in the High Street and two beautiful rooms on the topfloor where I shall be most comfortable, and Florence so pleased to have me.”
So everything seemed to be most satisfactory, and the agreement was signed and in due course Joanna and I arrivedand settled in, and Miss Emily Barton’s maid Partridge having consented to remain, we were well looked after withthe assistance of a “girl” who came in every morning and who seemed to be half-witted but amiable25.
Partridge, a gaunt dour26 female of middle age, cooked admirably, and though disapproving27 of late dinner (it havingbeen Miss Emily’s custom to dine lightly off a boiled egg) nevertheless accommodated herself to our ways and wentso far as to admit that she could see I needed my strength building up.
When we had settled in and been at Little Furze a week Miss Emily Barton came solemnly and left cards. Herexample was followed by Mrs. Symmington, the lawyer’s wife, Miss Griffith, the doctor’s sister, Mrs. Dane Calthrop,the vicar’s wife, and Mr. Pye of Prior’s End.
Joanna was very much impressed.
“I didn’t know,” she said in an awestruck voice, “that people really called—with cards.”
“That is because, my child,” I said, “you know nothing about the country.”
“Nonsense. I’ve stayed away for heaps of weekends with people.”
“That is not at all the same thing,” I said.
I am five years older than Joanna. I can remember as a child the big white shabby untidy house we had with thefields running down to the river. I can remember creeping under the nets of raspberry canes28 unseen by the gardener,and the smell of white dust in the stable yard and an orange cat crossing it, and the sound of horse hoofs29 kickingsomething in the stables.
But when I was seven and Joanna two, we went to live in London with an aunt, and thereafter our Christmas andEaster holidays were spent there with pantomimes and theatres and cinemas and excursions to Kensington Gardenswith boats, and later to skating rinks. In August we were taken to an hotel by the seaside somewhere.
Reflecting on this, I said thoughtfully to Joanna, and with a feeling of compunction as I realized what a selfish, self-centred invalid21 I had become:
“This is going to be pretty frightful30 for you, I’m afraid. You’ll miss everything so.”
For Joanna is very pretty and very gay, and she likes dancing and cocktails31, and love affairs and rushing about inhigh-powered cars.
Joanna laughed and said she didn’t mind at all.
“As a matter of fact, I’m glad to get away from it all. I really was fed up with the whole crowd, and although youwon’t be sympathetic, I was really very cut up about Paul. It will take me a long time to get over it.”
I was sceptical over this. Joanna’s love affairs always run the same course. She has a mad infatuation for somecompletely spineless young man who is a misunderstood genius. She listens to his endless complaints and works likeanything to get him recognition. Then, when he is ungrateful, she is deeply wounded and says her heart is broken—until the next gloomy young man comes along, which is usually about three weeks later!
So I did not take Joanna’s broken heart very seriously. But I did see that living in the country was like a new gameto my attractive sister.
“At any rate,” she said, “I look all right, don’t I?”
I studied her critically and was not able to agree.
Joanna was dressed (by Mirotin) for le Sport. That is to say she was wearing a skirt of outrageous32 and preposterouschecks. It was skintight, and on her upper half she had a ridiculous little shortsleeved jersey33 with a Tyrolean effect.
She had sheer silk stockings and some irreproachable34 but brand new brogues.
“No,” I said, “you’re all wrong. You ought to be wearing a very old tweed skirt, preferably of dirty green or fadedbrown. You’d wear a nice cashmere jumper matching it, and perhaps a cardigan coat, and you’d have a felt hat andthick stockings and old shoes. Then, and only then, you’d sink into the background of Lymstock High Street, and notstand out as you do at present.” I added: “Your face is all wrong, too.”
“What’s wrong with that? I’ve got on my Country Tan Makeup35 No. 2.”
“Exactly,” I said. “If you lived in Lymstock, you would have on just a little powder to take the shine off your nose,and possibly a soup?on of lipstick—not very well applied—and you would almost certainly be wearing all youreyebrows instead of only a quarter of them.”
Joanna gurgled and seemed much amused.
“Do you think they’ll think I’m awful?” she said.
“No,” I said. “Just queer.”
Joanna had resumed her study of the cards left by our callers. Only the vicar’s wife had been so fortunate, orpossibly unfortunate, as to catch Joanna at home.
Joanna murmured:
“It’s rather like Happy Families, isn’t it? Mrs. Legal the lawyer’s wife, Miss Dose the doctor’s daughter, etc.” Sheadded with enthusiasm: “I do think this is a nice place, Jerry! So sweet and funny and old-world. You just can’t thinkof anything nasty happening here, can you?”
And although I knew what she said was really nonsense, I agreed with her. In a place like Lymstock nothing nastycould happen. It is odd to think that it was just a week later that we got the first letter.
II
I see that I have begun badly. I have given no description of Lymstock and without understanding what Lymstock islike, it is impossible to understand my story.
To begin with, Lymstock has its roots in the past. Somewhere about the time of the Norman Conquest, Lymstockwas a place of importance. That importance was chiefly ecclesiastical. Lymstock had a priory, and it had a longsuccession of ambitious and powerful priors. Lords and barons37 in the surrounding countryside made themselves rightwith Heaven by leaving certain of their lands to the priory. Lymstock Priory waxed rich and important and was apower in the land for many centuries. In due course, however, Henry the Eighth caused it to share the fate of itscontemporaries. From then on a castle dominated the town. It was still important. It had rights and privileges andwealth.
And then, somewhere in seventeen hundred and something, the tide of progress swept Lymstock into a backwater.
The castle crumbled38. Neither railways nor main roads came near Lymstock. It turned into a little provincial39 markettown, unimportant and forgotten, with a sweep of moorland rising behind it, and placid40 farms and fields ringing itround.
A market was held there once a week, on which day one was apt to encounter cattle in the lanes and roads. It had asmall race meeting twice a year which only the most obscure horses attended. It had a charming High Street withdignified houses set flat back, looking slightly incongruous with their ground- floor windows displaying buns orvegetables or fruit. It had a long straggling draper’s shop, a large and portentous41 ironmonger’s, a pretentious42 postoffice, and a row of straggly indeterminate shops, two rival butchers and an International Stores. It had a doctor, a firmof solicitors43, Messrs. Galbraith, Galbraith and Symmington, a beautiful and unexpectedly large church dating fromfourteen hundred and twenty, with some Saxon remains45 incorporated in it, a new and hideous46 school, and two pubs.
Such was Lymstock, and urged on by Emily Barton, anybody who was anybody came to call upon us, and in duecourse Joanna, having bought a pair of gloves and assumed a velvet47 beret rather the worse for wear, sallied forth48 toreturn them.
To us, it was all quite novel and entertaining. We were not there for life. It was, for us, an interlude. I prepared toobey my doctor’s instructions and get interested in my neighbours.
Joanna and I found it all great fun.
I remembered, I suppose, Marcus Kent’s instructions to enjoy the local scandals. I certainly didn’t suspect howthese scandals were going to be introduced to my notice.
The odd part of it was that the letter, when it came, amused us more than anything else.
It arrived, I remember, at breakfast. I turned it over, in the idle way one does when time goes slowly and everyevent must be spun49 out to its full extent. It was, I saw, a local letter with a typewritten address.
I opened it before the two with London postmarks, since one of them was a bill and the other from a rathertiresome cousin.
Inside, printed words and letters had been cut out and gummed to a sheet of paper. For a minute or two I stared atthe words without taking them in. Then I gasped50.
Joanna, who was frowning over some bills, looked up.
“Hallo,” she said, “what is it? You look quite startled.”
The letter, using terms of the coarsest character, expressed the writer’s opinion that Joanna and I were not brotherand sister.
“It’s a particularly foul52 anonymous53 letter,” I said.
I was still suffering from shock. Somehow one didn’t expect that kind of thing in the placid backwater ofLymstock.
Joanna at once displayed lively interest.
“No? What does it say?”
In novels, I have noticed, anonymous letters of a foul and disgusting character are never shown, if possible, towomen. It is implied that women must at all cost be shielded from the shock it might give their delicate nervoussystems.
I am sorry to say it never occurred to me not to show the letter to Joanna. I handed it to her at once.
She vindicated54 my belief in her toughness by displaying no emotion but that of amusement.
“What an awful bit of dirt! I’ve always heard about anonymous letters, but I’ve never seen one before. Are theyalways like this?”
“I can’t tell you,” I said. “It’s my first experience, too.”
Joanna began to giggle55.
“You must have been right about my makeup, Jerry. I suppose they think I just must be an abandoned female!”
“That,” I said, “coupled with the fact that our father was a tall, dark lantern-jawed man and our mother a fair-hairedblue-eyed little creature, and that I take after him and you take after her.”
Joanna nodded thoughtfully.
“Yes, we’re not a bit alike. Nobody would take us for brother and sister.”
“Somebody certainly hasn’t,” I said with feeling.
Joanna said she thought it was frightfully funny.
She dangled56 the letter thoughtfully by one corner and asked what we were to do with it.
“The correct procedure, I believe,” I said, “is to drop it into the fire with a sharp exclamation57 of disgust.”
I suited the action to the word, and Joanna applauded.
“You did that beautifully,” she added. “You ought to have been on the stage. It’s lucky we still have fires, isn’t it?”
“The wastepaper basket would have been much less dramatic,” I agreed. “I could, of course, have set light to itwith a match and slowly watched it burn—or watched it slowly burn.”
“Things never burn when you want them to,” said Joanna. “They go out. You’d probably have had to strike matchafter match.”
She got up and went towards the window. Then, standing36 there, she turned her head sharply.
“I wonder,” she said, “who wrote it?”
“We’re never likely to know,” I said.
“No—I suppose not.” She was silent a moment, and then said: “I don’t know when I come to think of it that it is sofunny after all. You know, I thought they—they liked us down here.”
“So they do,” I said. “This is just some half-crazy brain on the borderline.”
“I suppose so. Ugh— Nasty!”
As she went out into the sunshine I thought to myself as I smoked my after-breakfast cigarette that she was quiteright. It was nasty. Someone resented our coming here—someone resented Joanna’s bright young sophisticated beauty—somebody wanted to hurt. To take it with a laugh was perhaps the best way—but deep down it wasn’t funny….
Dr. Griffith came that morning. I had fixed58 up for him to give me a weekly overhaul8. I liked Owen Griffith. He wasdark, ungainly, with awkward ways of moving and deft59, very gentle hands. He had a jerky way of talking and wasrather shy.
He reported progress to be encouraging. Then he added:
“You’re feeling all right, aren’t you. Is it my fancy, or are you a bit under the weather this morning?”
“Not really,” I said. “A particularly scurrilous60 anonymous letter arrived with the morning coffee, and it’s left rathera nasty taste in the mouth.”
He dropped his bag on the floor. His thin dark face was excited.
“Do you mean to say that you’ve had one of them?”
I was interested.
“They’ve been going about, then?”
“Yes. For some time.”
“Oh,” I said, “I see. I was under the impression that our presence as strangers was resented here.”
“No, no, it’s nothing to do with that. It’s just—” He paused and then asked, “What did it say? At least—” he turnedsuddenly red and embarrassed— “perhaps I oughtn’t to ask?”
“I’ll tell you with pleasure,” I said. “It just said that the fancy tart51 I’d brought down with me wasn’t my sister—not’alf! And that, I may say, is a Bowdlerized version.”
His dark face flushed angrily.
“How damnable! Your sister didn’t—she’s not upset, I hope?”
“Joanna,” I said, “looks a little like the angel off the top of the Christmas tree, but she’s eminently61 modern andquite tough. She found it highly entertaining. Such things haven’t come her way before.”
“I should hope not, indeed,” said Griffith warmly.
“And anyway,” I said firmly. “That’s the best way to take it, I think. As something utterly62 ridiculous.”
“Yes,” said Owen Griffith. “Only—”
“Quite so,” I said. “Only is the word!”
“The trouble is,” he said, “that this sort of thing, once it starts, grows.”
“So I should imagine.”
“It’s pathological, of course.”
I nodded. “Any idea who’s behind it?” I asked.
“No, I wish I had. You see, the anonymous letter pest arises from one of two causes. Either it’s particular—directed at one particular person or set of people, that is to say it’s motivated, it’s someone who’s got a definite grudge(or thinks they have) and who chooses a particularly nasty and underhand way of working it off. It’s mean anddisgusting but it’s not necessarily crazy, and it’s usually fairly easy to trace the writer—a discharged servant, a jealouswoman—and so on. But if it’s general, and not particular, then it’s more serious. The letters are sent indiscriminatelyand serve the purpose of working off some frustration63 in the writer’s mind. As I say, it’s definitely pathological. Andthe craze grows. In the end, of course, you track down the person in question—it’s often someone extremely unlikely,and that’s that. There was a bad outburst of the kind over the other side of the county last year—turned out to be thehead of the millinery department in a big draper’s establishment. Quiet, refined woman—had been there for years. Iremember something of the same kind in my last practice up north—but that turned out to be purely64 personal spite.
Still, as I say, I’ve seen something of this kind of thing, and, quite frankly65, it frightens me!”
“Has it been going on long?” I asked.
“I don’t think so. Hard to say, of course, because people who get these letters don’t go round advertising66 the fact.
They put them in the fire.”
He paused.
“I’ve had one myself. Symmington, the solicitor44, he’s had one. And one or two of my poorer patients have told meabout them.”
“All much the same sort of thing?”
“Oh yes. A definite harping67 on the sex theme. That’s always a feature.” He grinned. “Symmington was accused ofillicit relations with his lady clerk—poor old Miss Ginch, who’s forty at least, with pince-nez and teeth like a rabbit.
Symmington took it straight to the police. My letters accused me of violating professional decorum with my ladypatients, stressing the details. They’re all quite childish and absurd, but horribly venomous.” His face changed, grewgrave. “But all the same, I’m afraid. These things can be dangerous, you know.”
“I suppose they can.”
“You see,” he said, “crude, childish spite though it is, sooner or later one of these letters will hit the mark. Andthen, God knows what may happen! I’m afraid, too, of the effect upon the slow, suspicious uneducated mind. If theysee a thing written, they believe it’s true. All sorts of complications may arise.”
“It was an illiterate68 sort of letter,” I said thoughtfully, “written by somebody practically illiterate, I should say.”
“Was it?” said Owen, and went away.
Thinking it over afterwards, I found that “Was it?” rather disturbing.
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wheedled
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nauseated
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prescription
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condemned
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reassurance
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adventurous
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toddle
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overhaul
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authoritatively
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fretting
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inquisitive
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scattered
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eulogies
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isles
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decided
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moors
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prim
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veranda
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spire
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maiden
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invalid
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soothe
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pointed
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ashtrays
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amiable
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dour
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canes
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hoofs
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frightful
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cocktails
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outrageous
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jersey
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irreproachable
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makeup
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standing
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barons
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| 男爵( baron的名词复数 )； 巨头； 大王； 大亨 | |
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crumbled
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| （把…）弄碎， （使）碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 衰落； 坍塌； 损坏 | |
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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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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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portentous
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| adj.不祥的，可怕的，装腔作势的 | |
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pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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solicitors
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| 初级律师( solicitor的名词复数 ) | |
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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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45
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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50
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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51
tart
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| adj.酸的；尖酸的，刻薄的；n.果馅饼；淫妇 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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vindicated
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| v.澄清（某人/某事物）受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的过去式和过去分词 )；表明或证明（所争辩的事物）属实、正当、有效等；维护 | |
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giggle
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| n.痴笑，咯咯地笑；v.咯咯地笑着说 | |
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dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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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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deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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scurrilous
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| adj.下流的，恶意诽谤的 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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frustration
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| n.挫折，失败，失效，落空 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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66
advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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harping
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| n.反复述说 | |
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illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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