IT hat afternoon we went to tea with Mr. Pye.
Mr. Pye was an extremely ladylike plump little man, devoted1 to his petit point chairs, his Dresden shepherdessesand his collection of bric-à-brac. He lived at Prior’s Lodge2 in the grounds of which were the ruins of the old Priory.
Prior’s Lodge was certainly a very exquisite3 house and under Mr. Pye’s loving care it showed to its best advantage.
Every piece of furniture was polished and set in the exact place most suited to it. The curtains and cushions were ofexquisite tone and colour, and of the most expensive silks.
It was hardly a man’s house, and it did strike me that to live there would be rather like taking up one’s abode4 in aperiod room at a museum. Mr. Pye’s principal enjoyment5 in life was taking people round his house. Even thosecompletely insensitive to their surroundings could not escape. Even if you were so hardened as to consider theessentials of living a radio, a cocktail6 bar, a bath and a bed surrounded by the necessary walls. Mr. Pye did not despairof leading you to better things.
His small plump hands quivered with sensibility as he described his treasures, and his voice rose to a falsettosqueak as he narrated7 the exciting circumstances under which he had brought his Italian bedstead home from Verona.
Joanna and I being both fond of antiquities8 and of period furniture, met with approval.
“It is really a pleasure, a great pleasure, to have such an acquisition to our little community. The dear good peopledown here, you know, so painfully bucolic—not to say provincial9. They don’t know anything. Vandals—absolutevandals! And the inside of their houses—it would make you weep, dear lady, I assure you it would make you weep.
Perhaps it has done so?”
Joanna said that she hadn’t gone quite as far as that.
“But you see what I mean? They mix things so terribly! I’ve seen with my own eyes a most delightful10 littleSheraton piece—delicate, perfect—a collector’s piece, absolutely—and next to it a Victorian occasional table, or quitepossibly a fumed11 oak revolving12 bookcase—yes, even that—fumed oak.”
He shuddered—and murmured plaintively13:
“Why are people so blind? You agree—I’m sure you agree, that beauty is the only thing worth living for.”
Hypnotized by his earnestness, Joanna said, yes, yes, that was so.
“Then why,” demanded Mr. Pye, “do people surround themselves with ugliness?”
Joanna said it was very odd.
“Odd? It’s criminal! That’s what I call it — criminal! And the excuses they give! They say something iscomfortable. Or that it is quaint14. Quaint! Such a horrible word.”
“The house you have taken,” went on Mr. Pye, “Miss Emily Barton’s house. Now that is charming, and she hassome quite nice pieces. Quite nice. One or two of them are really first class. And she has taste, too—although I’m notquite so sure of that as I was. Sometimes, I am afraid, I think it’s really sentiment. She likes to keep things as theywere—but not for le bon motif—not because of the resultant harmony—but because it is the way her mother hadthem.”
He transferred his attention to me, and his voice changed. It altered from that of the rapt artist to that of the borngossip.
“You didn’t know the family at all? No, quite so—yes, through house agents. But, my dears, you ought to haveknown that family! When I came here the old mother was still alive. An incredible person—quite incredible! Amonster, if you know what I mean. Positively15 a monster. The old-fashioned Victorian monster, devouring16 her young.
Yes, that’s what it amounted to. She was monumental, you know, must have weighed seventeen stone, and all the fivedaughters revolved17 round her. ‘The girls’! That’s how she always spoke18 of them. The girls! And the eldest19 was wellover sixty then. ‘Those stupid girls!’ she used to call them sometimes. Black slaves, that’s all they were, fetching andcarrying and agreeing with her. Ten o’clock they had to go to bed and they weren’t allowed a fire in their bedroom,and as for asking their own friends to the house, that would have been unheard of. She despised them, you know, fornot getting married, and yet so arranged their lives that it was practically impossible for them to meet anybody. Ibelieve Emily, or perhaps it was Agnes, did have some kind of affair with a curate. But his family wasn’t good enoughand Mamma soon put a stop to that!”
“It sounds like a novel,” said Joanna.
“Oh, my dear, it was. And then the dreadful old woman died, but of course it was far too late then. They just wenton living there and talking in hushed voices about what poor Mamma would have wished. Even repapering herbedroom they felt to be quite sacrilegious. Still they did enjoy themselves in the parish in a quiet way… But none ofthem had much stamina20, and they just died off one by one. Influenza21 took off Edith, and Minnie had an operation anddidn’t recover and poor Mabel had a stroke—Emily looked after her in the most devoted manner. Really that poorwoman has done nothing but nursing for the last ten years. A charming creature, don’t you think? Like a piece ofDresden. So sad for her having financial anxieties—but of course all investments have depreciated22.”
“We feel rather awful being in her house,” said Joanna.
“No, no, my dear young lady. You mustn’t feel that way. Her dear good Florence is devoted to her and she told meherself how happy she was to have got such nice tenants23.” Here Mr. Pye made a little bow. “She told me she thoughtshe had been most fortunate.”
“The house,” I said, “has a very soothing24 atmosphere.”
Mr. Pye darted25 a quick glance at me.
“Really? You feel that? Now, that’s very interesting. I wondered, you know. Yes, I wondered.”
“What do you mean, Mr. Pye?” asked Joanna.
My Pye spread out his plump hands.
“Nothing, nothing. One wondered, that is all. I do believe in atmosphere, you know. People’s thoughts andfeelings. They give their impression to the walls and the furniture.”
I did not speak for a moment or two. I was looking round me and wondering how I would describe the atmosphereof Prior’s Lodge. It seemed to me that the curious thing was that it hadn’t any atmosphere! That was really veryremarkable.
I reflected on this point so long that I heard nothing of the conversation going on between Joanna and her host. Iwas recalled to myself, however, by hearing Joanna uttering farewell preliminaries. I came out of my dream and addedmy quota26.
We all went out into the hall. As we came towards the front door a letter came through the box and fell on the mat.
“Afternoon post,” murmured Mr. Pye as he picked it up. “Now, my dear young people, you will come again, won’tyou? Such a pleasure to meet some broader minds, if you understand me. Someone with an appreciation27 of Art. Reallyyou know, these dear good people down here, if you mention the Ballet, it conveys to them pirouetting toes, and tulleskirts and old gentlemen with opera glasses in the Naughty Nineties. It does indeed. Fifty years behind the times—that’s what I put them down, as. A wonderful country, England. It has pockets. Lymstock is one of them. Interestingfrom a collector’s point of view—I always feel I have voluntarily put myself under a glass shade when I am here. Thepeaceful backwater where nothing ever happens.”
Shaking hands with us twice over, he helped me with exaggerated care into the car. Joanna took the wheel, shenegotiated with some care the circular sweep round a plot of unblemished grass, then with a straight drive ahead, sheraised a hand to wave goodbye to our host where he stood on the steps of the house. I leaned forward to do the same.
But our gesture of farewell went unheeded. Mr. Pye had opened his mail.
He was standing28 staring down at the open sheet in his hand.
Joanna had described him once as a plump pink cherub29. He was still plump, but he was not looking like a cherubnow. His face was a dark congested purple, contorted with rage and surprise.
And at that moment I realized that there had been something familiar about the look of that envelope. I had notrealized it at the time—indeed it had been one of those things that you note unconsciously without knowing that youdo note them.
“Goodness,” said Joanna. “What’s bitten the poor pet?”
“I rather fancy,” I said, “that it’s the Hidden Hand again.”
She turned an astonished face towards me and the car swerved30.
“Careful, wench,” I said.
Joanna refixed her attention on the road. She was frowning.
“You mean a letter like the one you got?”
“That’s my guess.”
“What is this place?” asked Joanna. “It looks the most innocent sleepy harmless little bit of England you canimagine—”
“Where to quote Mr. Pye, nothing ever happens,” I cut in. “He chose the wrong minute to say that. Something hashappened.”
“But who writes these things, Jerry?”
I shrugged31 my shoulders.
“My dear girl, how should I know? Some local nitwit with a screw loose, I suppose.”
“But why? It seems so idiotic32.”
“You must read Freud and Jung and that lot to find out. Or ask our Dr. Owen.”
Joanna tossed her head.
“Dr. Owen doesn’t like me.”
“He’s hardly seen you.”
“He’s seen quite enough, apparently33, to make him cross over if he sees me coming along the High Street.”
“A most unusual reaction,” I said sympathetically. “And one you’re not used to.”
Joanna was frowning again.
“No, but seriously, Jerry, why do people write anonymous34 letters?”
“As I say, they’ve got a screw loose. It satisfies some urge, I suppose. If you’ve been snubbed, or ignored, orfrustrated, and your life’s pretty drab and empty, I suppose you get a sense of power from stabbing in the dark atpeople who are happy and enjoying themselves.”
Joanna shivered. “Not nice.”
“No, not nice. I should imagine the people in these country places tend to be inbred—and so you would get a fairamount of queers.”
“Somebody, I suppose, quite uneducated and inarticulate? With better education—”
Joanna did not finish her sentence, and I said nothing. I have never been able to accept the easy belief thateducation is a panacea35 for every ill.
As we drove through the town before climbing up the hill road, I looked curiously36 at the few figures abroad in theHigh Street. Was one of those sturdy countrywomen going about with a load of spite and malice37 behind her placidbrow, planning perhaps even now a further outpouring of vindictive38 spleen?
But I still did not take the thing seriously.
II
Two days later we went to a bridge party at the Symmingtons.
It was a Saturday afternoon—the Symmingtons always had their bridge parties on a Saturday, because the officewas shut then.
There were two tables. The players were the Symmingtons, ourselves, Miss Griffith, Mr. Pye, Miss Barton and aColonel Appleton whom we had not yet met and who lived at Combeacre, a village some seven miles distant. He wasa perfect specimen39 of the Blimp type, about sixty years of age, liked playing what he called a “plucky40 game” (whichusually resulted in immense sums above the line being scored by his opponents) and was so intrigued41 by Joanna thathe practically never took his eyes off her the whole afternoon.
I was forced to admit that my sister was probably the most attractive thing that had been seen in Lymstock formany a long day.
When we arrived, Elsie Holland, the children’s governess, was hunting for some extra bridge scorers in an ornatewriting desk. She glided42 across the floor with them in the same celestial43 way I had first noticed, but the spell could notbe cast a second time. Exasperating44 that it should be so—a waste of a perfectly45 lovely form and face. But I noticednow only too clearly the exceptionally large white teeth like tombstones, and the way she showed her gums when shelaughed. She was, unfortunately, one of your prattling46 girls.
“Are these the ones, Mrs. Symmington? It’s ever so stupid of me not to remember where we put them away lasttime. It’s my fault, too, I’m afraid. I had them in my hand and then Brian called out his engine had got caught, and Iran out and what with one thing and another I must have just stuffed them in somewhere stupid. These aren’t the rightones, I see now, they’re a bit yellow at the edges. Shall I tell Agnes tea at five? I’m taking the kiddies to Long Barrowso there won’t be any noise.”
A nice kind bright girl. I caught Joanna’s eye. She was laughing. I stared at her coldly. Joanna always knows whatis passing in my mind, curse her.
We settled down to bridge.
I was soon to know to a nicety the bridge status of everyone in Lymstock. Mrs. Symmington was an exceedinglygood bridge player and was quite a devotee of the game. Like many definitely unintellectual women, she was notstupid and had a considerable natural shrewdness. Her husband was a good sound player, slightly overcautious. Mr.
Pye can best be described as brilliant. He had an uncanny flair47 for psychic48 bidding. Joanna and I, since the party was inour honour, played at a table with Mrs. Symmington and Mr. Pye. It was Symmington’s task to pour oil on troubledwaters and by the exercise of tact49 to reconcile the three other players at his table. Colonel Appleton, as I have said,was wont50 to play “a plucky game.” Little Miss Barton was without exception the worst bridge player I have ever comeacross and always enjoyed herself enormously. She did manage to follow suit, but had the wildest ideas as to thestrength of her hand, never knew the score, repeatedly led out of the wrong hand and was quite unable to count trumpsand often forgot what they were. Aimée Griffith’s play can be summed up in her own words. “I like a good game ofbridge with no nonsense — and I don’t play any of these rubbishy conventions. I say what I mean. And nopostmortems! After all, it’s only a game!” It will be seen, therefore, that their host had not too easy a task.
Play proceeded fairly harmoniously52, however, with occasional forgetfulness on the part of Colonel Appleton as hestared across at Joanna.
Tea was laid in the dining room, round a big table. As we were finishing, two hot and excited little boys rushed inand were introduced, Mrs. Symmington beaming with maternal53 pride, as was their father.
Then, just as we were finishing, a shadow darkened my plate, and I turned my head to see Megan standing in theFrench window.
“Oh,” said her mother. “Here’s Megan.”
Her voice held a faintly surprised note, as though she had forgotten that Megan existed.
The girl came in and shook hands, awkwardly and without any grace.
“I’m afraid I forgot about your tea, dear,” said Mrs. Symmington. “Miss Holland and the boys took theirs out withthem, so there’s no nursery tea today. I forgot you weren’t with them.”
Megan nodded.
“That’s all right. I’ll go to the kitchen.”
She slouched out of the room. She was untidily dressed as usual and there were potatoes in both heels.
Mrs. Symmington said with a little apologetic laugh:
“My poor Megan. She’s just at that awkward age, you know. Girls are always shy and awkward when they’ve justleft school before they’re properly grown up.”
I saw Joanna’s fair head jerk backwards54 in what I knew to be a warlike gesture.
“But Megan’s twenty, isn’t she?” she said.
“Oh, yes, yes. She is. But of course she’s very young for her age. Quite a child still. It’s so nice, I think, when girlsdon’t grow up too quickly.” She laughed again. “I expect all mothers want their children to remain babies.”
“I can’t think why,” said Joanna. “After all, it would be a bit awkward if one had a child who remained mentallysix while his body grew up.”
“Oh, you mustn’t take things so literally55, Miss Burton,” said Mrs. Symmington.
It occurred to me at that moment that I did not much care for Mrs. Symmington. That anaemic, slighted, fadedprettiness concealed56, I thought, a selfish and grasping nature. She said, and I disliked her a little more still:
“My poor Megan. She’s rather a difficult child, I’m afraid. I’ve been trying to find something for her to do—Ibelieve there are several things one can learn by correspondence. Designing and dressmaking—or she might try andlearn shorthand and typing.”
The red glint was still in Joanna’s eye. She said as we sat down again at the bridge table:
“I suppose she’ll be going to parties and all that sort of thing. Are you going to give a dance for her?”
“A dance?” Mrs. Symmington seemed surprised and amused. “Oh, no, we don’t do things like that down here.”
“I see. Just tennis parties and things like that.”
“Our tennis court has not been played on for years. Neither Richard nor I play. I suppose, later, when the boysgrow up—Oh, Megan will find plenty to do. She’s quite happy just pottering about, you know. Let me see, did I deal?
Two No Trumps51.”
As we drove home, Joanna said with a vicious pressure on the accelerator pedal that made the car leap forward:
“I feel awfully57 sorry for that girl.”
“Megan?”
“Yes. Her mother doesn’t like her.”
“Oh, come now, Joanna, it’s not as bad as that.”
“Yes, it is. Lots of mothers don’t like their children. Megan, I should imagine, is an awkward sort of creature tohave about the house. She disturbs the pattern—the Symmington pattern. It’s a complete unit without her—and that’sa most unhappy feeling for a sensitive creature to have—and she is sensitive.”
“Yes,” I said, “I think she is.”
I was silent a moment.
Joanna suddenly laughed mischievously58.
“Bad luck for you about the governess.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said with dignity.
“Nonsense. Masculine chagrin59 was written on your face every time you looked at her. I agree with you. It is awaste.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“But I’m delighted, all the same. It’s the first sign of reviving life. I was quite worried about you at the nursinghome. You never even looked at that remarkably60 pretty nurse you had. An attractive minx, too—absolutely God’s giftto a sick man.”
“Your conversation, Joanna, I find definitely low.”
My sister continued without paying the least attention to my remarks.
“So I was much relieved to see you’d still got an eye for a nice bit of skirt. She is a good looker. Funny that theS.A. should have been left out completely. It is odd, you know, Jerry. What is the thing that some women have andothers haven’t? What is it makes one woman, even if she only says ‘Foul weather’ so attractive that every man withinrange wants to come over and talk about the weather with her? I suppose Providence61 makes a mistake every now andthen when sending out the parcel. One Aphrodite face and form, one temperament62 ditto. And something goes astrayand the Aphrodite temperament goes to some little plain-faced creature, and then all the other women go simply madand say, ‘I can’t think what the men see in her. She isn’t even good-looking!’”
“Have you quite finished, Joanna?”
“Well, you do agree, don’t you?”
I grinned. “I’ll admit to disappointment.”
“And I don’t see who else there is here for you. You’ll have to fall back upon Aimée Griffith.”
“God forbid,” I said.
“She’s quite good-looking, you know.”
“Too much of an Amazon for me.”
“She seems to enjoy her life, all right,” said Joanna. “Absolutely disgustingly hearty63, isn’t she? I shouldn’t be at allsurprised if she had a cold bath every morning.”
“And what are you going to do for yourself?” I asked.
“Me?”
“Yes. You’ll need a little distraction64 down here if I know you.”
“Who’s being low now? Besides, you forget Paul.” Joanna heaved up a not very convincing sigh.
“I shan’t forget him nearly as quickly as you will. In about ten days you’ll be saying, ‘Paul? Paul Who? I neverknew a Paul.’”
“You think I’m completely fickle,” said Joanna.
“When people like Paul are in question, I’m only too glad that you should be.”
“You never did like him. But he really was a bit of a genius.”
“Possibly, though I doubt it. Anyway, from all I’ve heard, geniuses are people to be heartily65 disliked. One thing,you won’t find any geniuses down here.”
Joanna considered for a moment, her head on one side.
“I’m afraid not,” she said regretfully.
“You’ll have to fall back upon Owen Griffith,” I said. “He’s the only unattached male in the place. Unless youcount old Colonel Appleton. He was looking at you like a hungry bloodhound most of the afternoon.”
Joanna laughed.
“He was, wasn’t he? It was quite embarrassing.”
“Don’t pretend. You’re never embarrassed.”
Joanna drove in silence through the gate and round to the garage.
She said then:
“There may be something in that idea of yours.”
“What idea?”
Joanna replied:
“I don’t see why any man should deliberately66 cross the street to avoid me. It’s rude, apart from anything else.”
“I see,” I said. “You’re going to hunt the man down in cold blood.”
“Well, I don’t like being avoided.”
I got slowly and carefully out of the car, and balanced my sticks. Then I offered my sister a piece of advice.
“Let me tell you this, my girl. Owen Griffith isn’t any of your tame whining67 artistic68 young men. Unless you’recareful you’ll stir up a hornet’s nest about your ears. That man could be dangerous.”
“Oo, do you think so?” demanded Joanna with every symptom of pleasure at the prospect69.
“Leave the poor devil alone,” I said sternly.
“How dare he cross the street when he saw me coming?”
“All you women are alike. You harp70 on one theme. You’ll have Sister Aimée gunning you, too, if I’m notmistaken.”
“She dislikes me already,” said Joanna. She spoke meditatively71, but with a certain satisfaction.
“We have come down here,” I said sternly, “for peace and quiet, and I mean to see we get it.”
But peace and quiet were the last things we were to have.
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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cocktail
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| n.鸡尾酒；餐前开胃小吃；混合物 | |
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narrated
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| v.故事( narrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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antiquities
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| n.古老( antiquity的名词复数 )；古迹；古人们；古代的风俗习惯 | |
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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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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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fumed
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| 愤怒( fume的过去式和过去分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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revolving
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| adj.旋转的，轮转式的；循环的v.（使）旋转( revolve的现在分词 )；细想 | |
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plaintively
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| adv.悲哀地，哀怨地 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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devouring
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| 吞没( devour的现在分词 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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revolved
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| v.（使）旋转( revolve的过去式和过去分词 )；细想 | |
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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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eldest
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stamina
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influenza
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| n.流行性感冒，流感 | |
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depreciated
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| v.贬值，跌价，减价( depreciate的过去式和过去分词 )；贬低，蔑视，轻视 | |
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tenants
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soothing
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darted
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quota
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| n.（生产、进出口等的）配额，（移民的）限额 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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standing
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cherub
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| n.小天使，胖娃娃 | |
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swerved
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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idiotic
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| adj.白痴的 | |
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apparently
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anonymous
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panacea
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curiously
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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plucky
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| adj.勇敢的 | |
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intrigued
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| adj.好奇的，被迷住了的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的过去式)；激起…的兴趣或好奇心；“intrigue”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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prattling
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| v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话( prattle的现在分词 )；发出连续而无意义的声音；闲扯；东拉西扯 | |
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flair
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| n.天赋，本领，才华；洞察力 | |
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psychic
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| n.对超自然力敏感的人；adj.有超自然力的 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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trumps
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| abbr.trumpets 喇叭；小号；喇叭形状的东西；喇叭筒v.（牌戏）出王牌赢（一牌或一墩）( trump的过去式 )；吹号公告，吹号庆祝；吹喇叭；捏造 | |
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harmoniously
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| 和谐地，调和地 | |
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maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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backwards
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| adv.往回地，向原处，倒，相反，前后倒置地 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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mischievously
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| adv.有害地；淘气地 | |
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chagrin
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| n.懊恼；气愤；委屈 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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whining
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| n. 抱怨，牢骚 v. 哭诉，发牢骚 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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harp
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| n.竖琴；天琴座 | |
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meditatively
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| adv.冥想地 | |
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